Edge of Darkness (13 page)

She wondered what her father would do in her shoes, knowing as she did exactly where that animal lived. Knowing there was a substantial reward for his capture, or the capture of any of his kind.

One million euro might have tempted someone of greater greed, but to Ember the money meant only one thing: Christian had a very, very big target on his back.

And he had not contacted her since that night.

Feigning illness, Ember had taken the week off, which forced Marguerite to work behind the counter of Antiquarian Books, an undertaking she loathed and would undoubtedly take revenge on Ember for, one way or another. She’d hidden in her apartment with the door locked and the shades drawn, terrified Christian would call or come over. She was strangely disappointed when he didn’t, wracked with the desire to see him and the desire to run for the hills.

The irony that the one person who’d made her feel alive in years was the one person who was more dangerous to her than any other person on Earth—and who wasn’t even a
person
, per se—made her wish for the first time in her life that she drank.

And speaking of drinking, she wasn’t even seeing Asher, which was worrying him sick.

“Ember,” he’d said sternly into her voicemail this morning, his tone just short of angry, “you can’t keep avoiding me like this. What’s happened? Are you sick? Are you dead? Actually I know you’re not dead because I went into the store and that hemorrhoidal stepmother of yours told me you had the flu. Not that I believe her; she’s probably poisoned you. If you don’t call me back, I’m coming over. Do
not
make me use my key.”

She’d texted him back, a mere six words:

Not dead. Don’t worry. Everything OK.

Even in type, it looked like a lie.

But she wasn’t ready to see him yet. She wasn’t ready to see anyone, if truth be told. Because how could she pretend everything was normal and life was just as it had been before, when everything had been turned upside down?

When everything she had believed about the “real” world had turned out to be false?

She hadn’t even gone to the animal shelter to volunteer as she usually did on Sundays. When she called in, the man who ran the place—a grizzled, dour, bear of a man by the name of Parker—told her she’d be missed, as they were full to overflowing.

People were abandoning their cats—beloved house pets turned suspected killers—by the hundreds.

Especially the black ones.

It was worse on the news; cats were being burned, tortured, thrown from buildings. Since Christmas, when an
Ikati
had murdered the head of the Catholic church along with dozens of innocent bystanders, zoos all over the world had closed due to fear of retribution on their big cat enclosures from an angry, frightened public. The panic was widespread, and showed no signs of slowing.

Not only black panthers but cats of all kinds were now at the top of the public enemy list.

And what, Ember wondered, was Christian’s place in all of this? Was he a murderer, too?

The first clue to an eventual answer came one night in the form of a note slipped under her front door. In Christian’s lilting, perfect handwriting, it read,
Why haven’t you shared my secret with the world? What are you waiting for?

You
, she decided, the note gripped so tightly between her fingers it began to tear on one side.
I’ve been waiting for you.

She burned the note, rinsed the ashes down the kitchen sink, showered, and got dressed for the first time in days. As she locked her apartment door behind her and headed down the stairs, she gripped the gold rings that hung on her necklace with one hand.

In the other hand, hidden inside the pocket of her coat, she gripped the slender metal handle of a switchblade.

“Give me fifteen minutes. If I don’t come back by then, you can leave.”

The taxi driver looked at her dubiously, then looked out the windshield. It was pitch dark, a cloudy, starless night, threatening rain, and the temperature was dropping rapidly.

“
Estas seguro?
” he asked. He didn’t want to leave her alone in the forest in the middle of the night, that much was clear.

She replied in Spanish, “Yes, I’m sure. Fifteen minutes, okay?”

He shrugged—
suit yourself
—and Ember paid him and climbed out of the cab.

The gate to Christian’s house was just around a bend in the road; as she began to walk, the sky overhead opened and it began to rain.

She started to run.

By the time she reached the massive iron gates, she was soaked through, her shoes squeaking, her jeans sopping, her hair plastered to her cheeks. Panting from the run, shivering with cold and the adrenaline mercilessly lashing through her veins, Ember lifted a shaking hand to the little electronic box beside the gate.

Before she could push the speaker button, the gates creaked open with a metallic, bone-jarring screech of metal against metal. Ember looked into the small black camera mounted high on the stone column beside the gate and stared into its unblinking red eye for a long moment, then turned and made her way toward the mansion. Silent and unlit, it appeared like a slumbering giant among the trees, the rain-slicked windows black as hollowed eyes.

She wondered if the moat that surrounded it was stocked with crocodiles.

Her “Hello?” was barely a whisper, spoken as she pushed open the massive front door which stood slightly ajar.

Silence answered her.

There was no Corbin to greet her, no lights in the foyer. Most of the house was plunged in darkness as far as she could tell. But from down the corridor she saw the wavering orange glow of a fire reflecting off the polished floor, and heard the spare crackle of burning wood.

Someone was in the library.

Her heart like a wild thing in her chest, Ember eased the door closed and made her way down the hall toward the library. She paused just outside the door, looking in.

Standing with his arms braced against the stone hearth of the massive fireplace, staring down into the flames, Christian didn’t acknowledge her presence, or turn to look at her as she slowly entered the room.

Though the light in the room was low, the only illumination the glow of the fire and the tapered candles in a silver candelabra on the desk, everything felt too bright and sharp, the edges of things hurting her eyes. The urge to turn and run away was powerful, and so was the urge to cross to Christian and touch him. He wore loose clothing, ivory linen drawstring pants and a matching, untucked shirt rolled up to his elbows. Against the glossy parquet floor, his feet were tanned and bare.

Now that she was here, ambivalence was a noose around her neck, a noose tightening in degrees with every second Christian stayed silent.

What could she say? What could he? Why, in fact, had she even come?

Finally, he said into the hush in a tone devoid of emotion, “Are you here to kill me?”

That startled her. A little breathlessly, she asked, “What kind of question is that?”

Without turning away from the fire, he lifted his head and turned it slightly so she saw him in profile: tight jaw and stern mouth, the perfect line of his nose, the serious, black slash of his brows. “A logical one. Unless you’re planning on playing darts with that blade in your pocket.”

Her fingers tightened around the switchblade. Her heart jumped into her throat. “How could you possibly know that?”

Now he did turn, slowly, straightening and lowering his arms to his sides. With the firelight behind him flared into nimbus around his head, his features were cast in shadow. His eyes, however, those preternatural green eyes, flashed silver against the light, like a cat’s.

“I can smell it,” he said very softly, his gaze locked onto hers. “Just like I can smell the metal in your arm, the fear you have of me now, your ambivalence, and your confusion. I could smell you as soon as you got out of that cab, Ember, which incidentally I also could hear coming, all the way up the mountain.” He stepped forward slowly, soundlessly, his gaze still trained on hers. “Why are you soaking wet?”

“Stay where you are,” she insisted. The cold and her wet hair and clothes were beginning to have their way with her, and she was shivering uncontrollably. The hand she held out—in vain, she knew—to stop him from advancing, shook.

He’d stopped in place when he saw her outstretched hand, but this little concession did nothing to quell her sudden anxiety. What a fool she’d been, coming here to confront him. Alone. Alone in a house with a supernatural creature who had a predilection for chewing things to shreds. And not a soul on earth knew where she was right now.

Screw it
, she thought, straightening her shoulders.
I’m not going to be intimidated by a
…
by a—

“And when you’re angry or irritated,” Christian said softly, “it feels like fingernails scraped over my skin.”

“Stop that,” Ember hissed, a flush of heat rising in her face.

He examined her expression, her flaming cheeks, her stiff back, and shaking hands, and exhaled a slow, controlled breath. Watching her face carefully, he said, “I thought I might never see you again.”

Ember’s teeth began to chatter. She had to clench her jaws together to keep them from clattering right out of her skull. “I know…I know what you are.”

His left brow lifted, but that was all.

“You’re not human?” She’d meant it as a statement but it was still so unbelievable to her, standing with him so close, looking so normal, that it came out with a lift at the end like a question.

It brought a grim smile to his face. “I assume you already know the answer to that, or you wouldn’t have brought a knife. Not that it will help you.” He took another step toward her.

She blurted, “So you are dangerous…to me.”

“You already know the answer to that, too. Yes to the first part, no to the second. And I’m not answering any more questions unless you answer some of mine in return. Quid pro quo, September.”

His eyes were fierce and intent, burning with some unknown emotion that had her nerves singing. The term “quid pro quo” always reminded her of Hannibal Lecter and Agent Starling sharing information in
Silence of the Lambs
, something she really didn’t want to think about at the moment. Next he’d be telling her about eating someone’s fried liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Hysteria began to take hold of her body, sinking sharp teeth into her throbbing heart.

“Did you kill those—those men? In the alley?”

He nodded, and it took her breath away. She’d seen the pictures on the Internet, she’d read all about the mangled bodies, but it was still stunning. This beautiful man was a murderer.

A murderer. He’d
eaten out
someone’s heart.

She managed a horrified, “Why?” but he shook his head.

“My turn. What are those?” His gaze dropped to the chain around her neck and the two gold rings that hung from it.

She whispered, “My parents’ wedding rings. Why did you kill those men…people…creatures?”

He lifted his gaze to hers. Very composed, he said, “Because if I hadn’t, they would have killed us both.”

Ember opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
They would have killed us both
.

Christian asked, “Why did you come to Spain?” and took another careful step toward her.

She realized dimly that she was dripping rainwater in a widening pool onto the floor around her feet. “To forget,” she whispered, feeling her legs solidify to something like cement as he eased ever nearer, very carefully, watching her for any sign she was going to bolt.

“To forget what?” he insisted, but Ember shook her head; her turn.

“Is that what you do for a living? You kill things? That’s what your ‘work’ is?” Her voice was faint, tinged with disbelief and horror, until she had another chilling realization and her voice actually cracked. “Is that what you were doing that night—when you were late for our date?”

“That’s four questions. And the answer to all of them is no. Now, answer me this and I’ll answer all the rest of your questions, as many as you want: why did you come to Spain? And don’t tell me ‘to forget.’ I want a real answer, Ember. Tell me the truth.”

He was close now, within reaching distance, but he’d stopped an arm’s length away and wasn’t making any moves to come closer. Ember’s entire body was shaking now, her knees and hands and even her lower lip were trembling. The bravado she’d felt moments before had drained away, leaving only the cold, cold residue of fear. Water dripped into her eyes but she was too frozen to wipe it away.

“I-I came to Spain to forget…to forget…” she stopped abruptly when he stepped closer.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Christian said gently. “You should know that by now. Hurting you would only be hurting myself, September.”

Hearing him say her full name reminded her of something. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and asked, “How did you know my real name that first day we met?”

“I saw it.” When her brow furrowed in confusion, he explained, “There’s a framed newspaper article on the wall behind the register, with a picture of your father and you. ‘American artist opens rare bookstore in Gothic quarter.’ Both your names were beneath.”

For some reason, this was the little fact that finally embedded itself into her consciousness as incontrovertible evidence of his un-humanness. The wall behind the register was ten feet back from the counter; the framed newspaper article printed in—as newspaper articles are—tiny, six-point type. Her father had complained when the article came out that he could barely even read it with his glasses on, the paper held close to his nose.

Unnatural speed, immense strength and heightened senses, combined with the ability to turn into some other, animal form…Elsething.

But God, this Elsething was exquisite. Was that another of his gifts? Symmetry of features so perfect it would stun his prey into submission, like cobra hypnosis? He was so painfully beautiful it was next to impossible to believe this man standing before her had wreaked the kind of havoc she’d seen in the crime scene photos on the internet, the kind of things only a monster would do. The blood—so much
blood
.

And how could she ever trust he wouldn’t do the same thing to her, even by accident? Maybe his bloodlust was affected by the tide or the weather or even the full moon—

In one swift motion, Christian tore open his shirt, exposing his bare, muscular chest. Buttons popped and went flying, clattering and bouncing against the floor. Suddenly imposing and large and angry, he closed the final space between them and growled, “Do it then! If you really think I would ever lift a finger to hurt you, you might as well go ahead and kill me! I won’t try to stop you.”

The hysteria rose to a peak inside her, burning bright, razor sharp. She sucked in a breath, every nerve and muscle poised to flee—

Then he reached out and gripped her arm. Ember twisted away with a high-pitched shriek that sounded like a mouse when it sees the cat in mid-pounce.

But he was too fast and too strong, and she was too human. She was no match for him.

His arms came around her in a crushing tight band. She struggled against him to absolutely no avail, twisting and bucking, trying to gain release, but he only held her as she struggled, silently, patiently, until she wore herself out and sagged to the floor, her legs folding beneath her. Christian slid down behind her and continued to hold her as she gulped in lungfuls of cedar-scented air, her body wracked with tremors, her ragged breaths echoing throughout the quiet room.

“Breathe for me, little firecracker. Just breathe,” he whispered near her ear.

And she did. Shaking and hyperventilating in his arms, she did.

After a few minutes, Christian tentatively loosened his arms. Seeing she wasn’t going to make a move—she couldn’t, her muscles were frozen stiff—he peeled her soggy coat off her back and tossed it to a nearby chair. On his knees, he slid around in front of her and brushed her wet hair off her face.

“Look at me,” he said, when she didn’t lift her gaze to his. Childishly, she squeezed her eyes shut tight. “Look at me or I’m going to kiss you,” he warned.

Her lids flew open and she stared at him, wide-eyed and shivering with shock.

“You told me you wanted all of me,” he murmured, stroking a finger along her cheek. “Tell me that hasn’t changed.”

She groaned, hid her face in her hands. He pried her hands apart and forced her to look at him. “We’ll let that one go for the moment. But tell me this: why didn’t you turn me in to the police? Why didn’t you collect that big reward and end all your money troubles? You know where I live; you could have led them straight to me. But you didn’t. Why?”

His eyes searched hers, searing, haunted. She couldn’t have lied to him even if she’d wanted to. “The money?” she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head. “Christian, how could you think the
money
would mean anything to me? It’s
you
. But you didn’t even call me! All this week I had no idea what happened to you—”