Edge of Darkness (9 page)

Love?
Ember’s face reddened. With a sour glance at Asher, she said sarcastically, “It really is, isn’t it? Love is like oxygen. Love is a many splendored thing. Love lifts us up where we belong—”

“Dante, your English is getting so good,” Asher interrupted smoothly, ignoring her. “Ember’s lessons have been working!”

“
Muchas gracias!
” Dante made a low, sweeping bow that would have done the king proud, and when he rose someone stood in the open door behind him. A girl of about ten, pale and willowy, with dark hair and eyes the exact color of the summer sky in Taos—a deep, fathomless blue.

“Hi! I’m Clare. What’s your name?” The girl skipped forward to stand near Ember. She looked up at her with an open, curious expression, very direct for such a young person. At her age, Ember had avoided adults like the plague.

“My granddaughter,” explained Dante, turning to the girl with an expression of such obvious pride and tenderness Ember had to look away.

“I’m Ember.”

Clare stuck out her hand and Ember, bemused, took it. They shook hands as if they’d just sealed a very important deal and Clare began to chatter in perfect English.

“Cool name! What does it mean? I was named after my grandma who died. You’re pale like me. Roberto says I need to get out in the sun more, but I like to read and watch TV and play with Bieber and he doesn’t like to go outside very much so neither do I. Do you like video games?”

Clare was looking at her expectantly. Some kind of reply was obviously in order but she wasn’t sure where to start after that dizzying intro.

“Who’s Roberto? And Bieber?”

“Roberto is my son, her father,” Dante said, ruffling Clare’s hair affectionately. “And this little monkey knows she’s not supposed to call her father by his first name, but ‘not supposed to’ never stopped her from anything, did it, Clare?”

Clare beamed. “Nope.” She turned back to Ember. “Bieber’s my dog. He’s a Yorkie. I named him after my favorite singer. Do you like Justin Bieber? Roberto says little dogs are for gays but I love him.” Now she turned her direct gaze to Asher and smiled at him. After looking him up and down—taking in his gym-perfect physique, skinny jeans, the designer glasses, and the fuchsia socks that peeked out above the patent leather Pradas—she said with innocent curiosity, “Do you have a little dog?”

Asher answered with great sincerity, “No. But according to Roberto, I definitely should.”

“Cool!” Clare beamed again, glad that was settled.

“Go back inside,
gordita
, it’s too cold out here for you and you’re not wearing your jacket,” Dante scolded gently.

Though there was a slight chill in the air, the sun was shining brightly, and neither Ember nor Asher had bothered with jackets today. She wondered if Clare caught cold easily, if that was the reason for her pale skin, those faint purple bruises beneath her eyes. And she was so
thin
. Maybe she was recovering from the flu that was going around?

Looking up at him, Clare smiled at her grandfather and patted him on the arm with motherly fondness, as if she were the adult and Dante the child. “Don’t worry so much,
abuelito
. It’s bad for your old man heart.”

“Old man! Ah, I’ll give you that spanking, little monkey!”

Dante was obviously teasing, trying to suppress a smile and failing. This seemed an old threat between them, a game they played, because when Dante made a menacing move for her, Clare squealed with delight and skipped away. She darted inside the apartment, swift as a hare, then popped her head back around the door a second later.

“ ’Bye Ember! ’Bye Ember’s friend!”

Ember and Asher waved goodbye, and Clare disappeared for good.

“How old is she?” Ember asked, and Dante’s smile began slowly to fade.

“
Diez
.” Ten. “But only outside. In here,” he pointed to his chest, indicating the heart, “she’s older than those mountains.” He lifted his gaze to the jutting dark line of the Collserola range rising above the city, and closed his eyes just longer than a blink.

Sensing more to this than simple metaphor, Ember asked, “Is she okay?”

Dante, with a quick glance inside to make sure Clare wasn’t standing near the door to the apartment, slowly drew it closed. He sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “For now, yes. She’s been out of the hospital for three months, which, for my little
gordita
, is good. Usually the good times don’t last this long.”

Asher said, “What’s wrong with her?”

“Cystic fibrosis.” Dante spat the words as if it burned his tongue to say them. “God’s curse on innocent little children. Their lungs fill up with mucous, their bodies don’t grow, they can’t digest food or sleep without pain or run without gasping for breath.” He put a hand to his forehead and Ember noticed it was, very slightly, trembling.

Ember knew nothing about cystic fibrosis, except it was bad. Exactly how bad, she had no idea. “Is there a cure? Can they do surgery? I mean, don’t they have drugs for that now?”

Dante looked at her, his eyes suddenly fierce with unshed tears. “There is nothing to be done. When it gets bad, she goes to the hospital and they can make her a little more comfortable. They have some things they can do to help, some medicine to reduce infection, oxygen to help her breathe. But there is no cure. Children with this disease usually don’t live to become adults.”

His voice grew bitter with grief. “In her case, the doctors don’t think she’ll make it another few years.”

Horrified, Ember and Asher gasped in unison.

“That’s awful, Dante! That must be so hard for you and her parents!”

Asher’s words were met with a surprising reaction. At the mention of the word
parents
, Dante practically growled. “Ah, my good-for-nothing son drops her off here when he can’t take the pressure of caring for his own child anymore. And that woman who is her mother”—he spat a curse in Spanish, a terrible word for any woman to be called—“I hope she rots in hell! She’s a junkie and a worthless waste of human life. She deserted her daughter and my son, left them both when Clare was just a baby. My poor
gordita
, God tests her courage every day.”

Tears threatening, Ember covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Dante. I’m so, so sorry.”

He suddenly looked older. His toupee drooped, his skin was sallow, the light that normally shone from his merry dark eyes grew dim. He shook his head slowly back and forth. When he spoke again, his voice had lost all the anger it held when he spoke of her parents, and now had only sadness, and a quiet sort of wonder.

“Clare has faced death every day since she was a baby. Nothing scares her anymore, not people, not dying. She is kind and happy and open, she is fully present in every moment, every hour for her is big and round. Death is just another door that will soon open for her. Because that’s how she sees it: the start of a new adventure. With rainbows and unicorns and the cat she had when she was five that got hit by a car.” His voice grew even quieter. “I have raged against God for the unfairness of this, I have prayed and cursed and cried. But now…now I believe there is a reason behind her suffering. She is teaching me and everyone who comes in contact with her something priceless, I think. Something holy.”

“What’s that?” Asher asked in a hushed whisper when Dante faltered.

He lifted his gaze straight to Ember’s. “She is teaching us all how to live.”

The three of them stood there in silence for a moment, a silence that seemed almost reverent in its depth. Ember felt a little shell-shocked, a little unsteady on her feet. With new appreciation, she remembered what Asher had said to her only hours before.

How alive do you want to be?

Dante, recovering his smile and looking as if it cost him to straighten and throw back his shoulders, said, “Enough of this sad talk! Don’t let me keep you two! Enjoy the rest of your day!” He turned and was just about to close his door before Ember—now overwhelmed with guilt that she’d been hiding from her obligation—stopped him.

“Dante, about the rent—”

“No worry, no worry,
hermosa!
We’ll talk about that some other time. Go on and enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”

Just like that, he disappeared into his apartment and closed his door, leaving Ember and Asher staring at one another on the stairs.

“That just happened, right?”

Asher looked from her to Dante’s door, then back again. “I think so. Did we have any hallucinogens with lunch? Or maybe Dante was taken by a body snatcher. Because for him to not care about the rent is very…”

“Strange,” Ember finished quietly. Of course it had to do with Clare; the poor man didn’t want to waste any time with Ember discussing what a delinquent she was when he had so little time left to spend with his dying granddaughter. Another wave of guilt hit her, and Ember couldn’t remember feeling so ashamed in a long, long time.

Asher said, “Well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as my mother says. If he’s not worried about it, at least you’re off the hook until you can get it together. And look on the bright side; you don’t have to sneak into your own apartment anymore! C’mon, let’s get you ready for tonight. I only have a few hours to work on you and I’m going to need every minute.” He turned and began the four-story climb up the stairs.

Ember followed him silently, thinking about love and loss, thinking about courage and suffering, thinking about a pale little girl with a wide open spirit, and eyes like the desert sky.

Thinking about another pair of eyes, burning green and endless, eyes she would be gazing into in less than four hours’ time.

By the time the knock came on her front door at precisely seven o’clock, Ember had been pacing the living room floor so long she thought she must have worn visible grooves in it.

She’d been painted and polished and buffed to a shine by a deadly serious Asher who wouldn’t even let her speak during the process, such was his concentration. And when it was all over and he’d gone and she stood admiring his handiwork in the full-length mirror in her bedroom, she had to admit he’d done an amazing job.

In a pretty dress the color of apricots, high-heeled strappy sandals, and a thick, decadent cashmere wrap wound around her shoulders, with her hair washed and curled, and an expert makeup application that included smoky eyes and lips stained berry, she looked—well, pretty good.

In other words, she looked nothing like herself.

At the sound of the knock she froze, looked at the door, and released the thumb she’d been chewing from her mouth. Asher had painted her nails a delicate shell pink and he’d be horrified to see she’d already eaten a chip out of one of them.

“Maintain,” she whispered to herself, still staring at the door. “Maintain, maintain, maintain.”

The knock came again, a little louder, and propelled Ember out of her state of suspended animation. With sweating palms and a pounding heart, she crossed the room, turned the door handle, and swung the door open. She looked up with breathless anticipation—

Into the stern, unsmiling face of Christian’s driver.

“Good evening, miss.” He tipped his hat with one gloved
hand. “Lord McLoughlin has been detained, but he desires
for you to accompany me to the restaurant where you will await
his arrival.”

For a split second there was confusion—
Lord
McLoughlin?—
but then Ember’s fraught anticipation morphed to crackling
anger. He sent his driver! He couldn’t be bothered to get here
on time! She’d wasted her entire day getting beautified for this jerk and he was basically standing her up! And he actually expected her to sit alone in a restaurant waiting for him like some idiotic Disney heroine, pining for her hero to show up so her life could begin?

No. Not going to happen. Damn you, Fancypants!

Ember moved Christian from the category of Alpha where Asher had so erroneously placed him, straight into another category, the other one that began with the letter A.

“
No
, I will
not
accompany you, and I will not wait anywhere for his arrival! If he’s too busy to come himself, that’s all I really need to know!”

Because she was so mad, this was said a lot louder than Ember anticipated. The driver’s face paled. His eyes—vivid green like Christian’s, strange she hadn’t noticed that sooner—popped wide.

“Miss! Please, you don’t understand! If I don’t take you to the restaurant I’ll be in serious trouble! You must come with me, I implore you!”

He was so obviously taken aback at her reaction, and even more obviously terrified of what would happen if she refused him, it gave her a moment’s pause. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him, unblinking, the heat in her face matching the ire in her heart.

“What exactly is he doing that is so important he has to send someone else on his date?”

His face grew another shade paler. His voice trembled when he spoke, and had dropped an octave, sounding suspiciously near fear. “Working, miss.”

“Working.” Ember repeated it acidly. “He’s working.”

When the driver offered nothing more, Ember said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What kind of work does he do?”

Now the driver began to sweat. Light beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip, and he removed his hat and began to twist it around and around in his hands. “I’m so sorry, miss, I don’t believe I’m allowed to disclose that.”

She pursed her lips. The man really seemed afraid. Curiosity got the better of her and she asked, “And what exactly will he do to you if I don’t come with you?”

The driver swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. Unbelievably, his face went white. But no answer was forthcoming.

“Oh, forget it!” Ember threw her hands in the air. “Listen, I feel sorry for you that you work for such a dick, I really do, but I am not going to sit alone in some restaurant waiting on some rude, arrogant, inconsiderate man. You can tell Christian for me that I’d rather eat a hundred pounds of
chupitos
than ever lay eyes on him again!”

His brow twisted. He stared at her, utterly confused, the hat now clutched so hard between his fingers it had crumpled in the middle.

“
Chupitos
are fried octopus.”

His blank look told her she wasn’t making any progress.

“They’re disgusting. I
hate
them. Understand? Oh, never mind.” When he didn’t show any sign of comprehension, Ember began to close the door and the driver began to plead with her as it swung shut.

“Please, miss! Please, you don’t understand, you
must
come—”

But then she spied the copy of
Casino Royale
on the console table and had an idea. She held the door open again.

“On second thought, I’ll make you a deal…” She was going to say his name, but realized she didn’t know it. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Corbin, miss.”

“Well, Corbin, I really need to sell this book.
Some of us
can’t afford chauffeurs. Also there’s a few choice things I’d like to say to your employer. And apparently you really need to drive me somewhere, or you’ll get into trouble. So I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go with you…”

His face instantly brightened. When she finished her sentence, however, it fell again.

“If you take me to wherever Christian is right now so I can tell him off to his face.”

Corbin gaped at her like a suffocating fish. “That is not possible miss! If I were to disobey a direct order from Lord McLoughlin—”

“Take it or leave it, Corbin. And if it’s any help, you can tell him I forced you.”

There was a moment’s silence as Corbin, twisting the hat to death in his hands and chewing the inside of his cheek, debated with himself. Finally he muttered, “As you will, miss. After you.” He stepped away from the door and held a gloved hand out toward the staircase.

Feeling vindicated, imagining every vile thing she would say to Christian after they’d agreed on a price for the stupid book, Ember picked up said stupid book, locked her apartment and followed Corbin down the stairs to the waiting car.

Fifteen minutes later Ember had forgotten her anger because she was too awed by the view.

“I’ve never been up here,” she said to Corbin from the back seat of the Audi, watching through the windows as the first of the rolling foothills gave way to the steeper, more densely forested slopes of the Collserola mountain range. A full moon blazed white fire in the night sky above, crowning the trees in opal and pearl, and the stars were clearly visible without all the city lights to muffle them. They sparkled in the deep sapphire bowl of the sky like newly minted coins at the bottom of a wishing well. The winding road snaked away in front of the car, disappearing beyond the reach of the headlights, and the trees crowded closer and closer to the road as they drove, thick and dark and towering, their gnarled roots wreathed in ghostly gray coils of fog.

“Yes, it’s beautiful.”

Corbin’s less-than-enthusiastic response prompted Ember to ask, “What did Christian say when you told him I was coming?”

There had been a discreet phone conversation when they’d first set out. Corbin called Christian to report the change of plans, then replied with hushed, monotone answers to whatever Christian was saying on the other end of the line. She would’ve given anything to know the particulars of that conversation, but unfortunately hadn’t been able to hear anything beyond Corbin’s tense “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and “I understand, sir.”

“After his initial surprise, he…laughed, miss.”

Laughed? That son of a—

“Why would he
laugh
? What’s so funny about this situation?” she demanded, getting angry again. The nerve of this man!

“If you knew Lord McLoughlin better, miss, you would know what an uncommon thing it is for him to laugh.” Corbin looked at her in the rearview mirror. “I believe it to be a true compliment.”

A compliment. That he was laughing at her. The British were very strange.

“So you’re not in trouble then?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Corbin’s face. “He, ah, he didn’t seem to think it quite out of character for you, miss, that you waylaid me. The word ‘firecracker’ may have been used.”

Firecracker
. She hated herself for being so pleased by that. The word filled her with satisfaction, buttery and thick, and she felt like a cat who’d just gorged itself on cream.

“Here we are,” Corbin said. Ember looked through the windshield just as they pulled to a stop in front of a massive scrolled iron gate. Corbin rolled down the window, pushed a code into a security box on a pedestal, and the gates began slowly to swing open.

That’s when the real adventure began.

Ember expected a house—this definitely wasn’t the industrial side of town—but what she saw instead in the distance was a mansion, massive and sprawling, nestled in the hollow of a low hill surrounded by dense forest. It was dark and brooding, this place, with an elaborate French roof, iron finials on arches, and lightless windows over three stories that reflected back the moonlight like row after row of sightless eyes. It looked more like a fortress than a country home. Ember felt the fortress metaphor even more apt when she spied the low stone bridge that they would have to cross in order to arrive at the circular drive in front of the house.

There was a bridge because there was a
moat
.

It was beautiful in a forbidding sort of way, and for some reason Ember felt an odd sort of recognition, almost déjà vu, as if she’d been here before, or somehow knew this place.

“It looks very…secure.”

Corbin’s only response was a noncommittal noise of agreement.

Once over the bridge and parked in the lamp lined circular drive, Corbin helped her from the car and accompanied her silently over the groomed gravel to the massive front doors that swung open on silent hinges. He ushered her through and bid her to wait in a room just off the main hall, a room with a fire crackling merrily in the hearth, a huge mahogany desk with two high-backed crimson leather chairs in front of it, and three walls lined to the ceiling with books.

After a deep bow in her direction, Corbin retreated, and Ember was left alone in the library.

And what a library it was. There were more first edition classics than Antiquarian Books had ever owned, books the value of which she could not even guess. Henry James and Virginia Woolf and Samuel Johnson, a section of works in beveled glass cases that included a sheaf of stained vellum from the Elizabethan era. It was an original hand written manuscript by Christopher Marlowe that was, by itself, worth a fortune.

Because there
were
no surviving original works by Christopher Marlowe.

Ember drew close to the case, mesmerized, staring in open-mouthed awe at the papers. Staring at the inkblots and ragged edges, at the irregular brown stain in one corner she imagined was a centuries-old drop of spilled wine.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” came the low voice from right behind her. With a startled yelp, Ember jumped and turned to find Christian standing not two feet away, gazing down at her with hooded eyes and a faint smile on his lips.

Her first instinct was simply to stare at him, because in his own home, surrounded by all this finery, he was somehow even better-looking than ever before. He was dressed in a suit, as he’d been the first time she’d seen him, this one a deep, midnight blue with a pewter pocket square and a matching pewter dress shirt, open at the throat. No tie. Skin, face, hair: perfect. Square jaw, full lips, straight nose: check.

Beautiful. Why did he have to be so beautiful?

The faint smile grew wider as she took him in, and her mouth went dry.

“I think you’re rude,” she pronounced, to manage the heat he conjured in her blood.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, holding her gaze. “I believe the word ‘dick’ was mentioned?”

Oh, you traitor, Corbin!

“Hey, if the shoe fits…” Ember shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest, a small sort of safety measure, because suddenly it seemed he was standing much too close.

He ignored that. His gaze leisurely travelled over her hair, her dress, the dainty sandals, and her painted toes. When he looked back into her eyes there was an edge to his own, a dark burn that made her want to take a step back. She didn’t.

“You look edible,” he murmured, staring straight into her eyes.

If she hadn’t already been so angry with him, that would have really pissed her off.

“I came here to tell you to your face that I think you’re an egotistical, entitled, spoiled, bad-mannered, inconsiderate—”