Find Me in Darkness: Mal and Christina's Story, Part 1 Page 5

  “But you rescued her.”

  “It didn’t matter.” Liam stood and moved to Mal’s side. “She couldn’t contain it. The power, the intensity. It was too much of a shock to her system. She started to lose control.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Mal said. “My own powers weren’t honed yet, and even if I had been able to absorb her energy, it was too far gone. And she was like us—I thought that the phoenix fire would regenerate her,” he added, referring to the particular method by which the brotherhood was immortal. Death could take them, but it could not keep them, and they were rendered to ash in the phoenix flame, and then made mortal once again. “I thought that I could stop the weapon by stopping her,” he explained. “I thought that she would come back to me.”

  He tried to shut out the memories. Him consoling her. Him promising to keep her safe, to keep the world safe.

  And then that final, agonizing moment when he’d thrust his fire sword through her heart, and watched as life and blood spilled from her. He’d waited. Waited for the fire. Waited for her to come back to him so that they could start over. Soothing. Calming. Keeping her steady. Keeping her safe.

  Except there was no fire. She didn’t burn. She didn’t regenerate.

  She simply died.

  And he was the one who had killed her.

  He told Callie that, his stomach twisting as a single tear snaked down her cheek.

  “We still don’t understand why. The weapon, its energy. Somehow it kept her from being immortal. And I lost her. It was a long time before I found her again.”

  “Three-sixty-five AD,” Liam said. “We were back in Egypt. And Mal sensed her presence.”

  “I didn’t understand it,” he said. “I’d believed she was lost for good. But I knew it was her. And I hoped. God help me, I hoped.”

  “She was reincarnated?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “What happened?” Callie’s words were a whisper.

  “How well do you know Egyptian history?” Liam asked.

  She shook her head.

  “In the year 365, an earthquake leveled the Port of Alexandria. More than fifty-thousand people lost their lives.”

  Callie swallowed, then licked her lips. “Christina?”

  “She didn’t know me,” Mal said. “Didn’t know herself.” He drew in a breath with the memory. “I recognized her only by her essence. It was pure—undiluted—but she was in a new body, beautiful and yet unfamiliar. I went to her, and I hoped beyond reason.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize how far gone she was—how fucking impotent I was—until it was too late.”

  “It would have been worse if you hadn’t acted when you did,” Raine said quietly.

  “Believe me,” Mal said. “It was worse. And it just keeps happening over and over again. Her returning. Me killing.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” Callie said, then frowned.

  “What?” Raine asked.

  “Nothing. I was just wondering about before. I mean, she’s an adult. So why didn’t Mal become aware of her when she was a child?”

  Mal shook his head. “I think that she is growing up in a new body, making a new life and new memories, and the weapon is growing along with her. I don’t become aware until it has reached the point of being operational.”

  Callie nodded. “And we know it is operational,” she said. “Because of what you felt tonight. And because of Egypt.”

  “Exactly. I wasn’t as strong in Egypt,” Mal said. “And she didn’t remember. Things have changed. Everything has changed.” He looked at Liam as he spoke, watched his friend shake his head slowly. “Dammit, Liam. I can help her fight it down. And if she remembers, she’s going to be fighting, too. She’s going to have something now to fight for.”

  “Like you do.”

  “Hell, yes,” Mal said.

  Liam scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “It’s not just a question of control, Mal, and you damn well know it. The fuerie want her. They want to use her, and they will do whatever they can to reacquire her.”

  “Why do you think I have her under surveillance?”

  “It’s too dangerous and you know it. Our mission has always been to reacquire the weapon and either render it inert or get it the hell out of this dimension. And in case you’ve forgotten, we’re stranded here. Until we find the final piece of the amulet, we have no power to bind the weapon or to get back across the void.”

  “The last time she manifested, we had only three of the seven amulets. Now we have six.” He glanced at Callie and Raine. “We know the seventh exists—hell, we’ve touched it—and we are too close to end this now and send her back to death and waiting. Christ, Liam, it could be another century before I find her again.”

  “What is a century to us but a blink of an eye?” Liam asked.

  “It’s torture without your mate beside you,” Mal said harshly. “But you wouldn’t know that.”

  Liam dragged his fingers through his hair, his eyes dark and tortured. “Do you think I don’t understand? I do. And even though it’s horrific, the truth is that a world without Christina is safe. We need the amulet first. Otherwise, with her alive, it’s a catastrophe waiting to happen. Either because the fuerie grabs her and uses her, or because she’s not strong enough to keep it down.”

  “She is. I’ll make sure she is.”

  “Dammit, Mal—”

  “No. You listen to me. She is strong, damn strong. Even after all these years, her essence hasn’t dissipated. It’s still her in there, fully and completely. Generation after generation, she has kept the core of Christina together. Even Livia couldn’t manage that,” he added, nodding toward Callie, who nodded.

  “It’s true,” Raine said. “I can feel Livia within Cal, but some of her essence is in Oliver,” he said, referring to Callie’s father. “Some probably in other ancestors, some perhaps lost to the wind.”

  “That’s the way it works in this dimension,” Mal said to Liam, “and we both know it. Unless the essence is locked into form, it dissipates over time. And yet centuries have gone by without Christina having a form. Maybe she was able to keep herself together because of the weapon. Who knows? But what I do know is that she was able to fight her way back. To find her consciousness again. To draw on memories. And as far as I’m concerned, that makes her a hell of a lot stronger than you or me.”

  Liam exhaled. “Tell me exactly what you’re suggesting.”

  “We bring her in. We protect her. I’m with her twenty-four/seven. She starts to lose control, I’m there to absorb it.” His shoulders sagged. “Her stage name is Christina. She picked it without even knowing why. We’ve been on a hamster wheel for millennia,” Mal pressed. “We owe her this, Liam. You know we do.”

  Slowly, Liam nodded. “If anything goes wrong, it will be my blade that strikes her down—and you, too, if you stand in the way. Whatever the risk. Whatever the cost.”

  “I should hope so,” Mal said. “You’ve always had my back, Liam. I expect nothing less from you now.”

  Chapter 7

  ‡

  As far as I’m concerned, Saturday mornings mean sleeping late, drinking coffee with too much cream, tuning the television to cartoons, and kicking back with the newspaper and a bit of Bugs Bunny nostalgia.

  Brayden, however, sees Saturdays slightly differently.

  He’s fine with the coffee and newspaper part of the equation, but as far as my best friend is concerned, Saturday morning cartoons do not mean stories filled with animated critters, Disney-fied cuteness, or Looney Tunes absurdity.

  No, Brayden’s idea of Saturday silliness is the “ridiculous cartoon-like bullshit you see on all those reality shows. I mean seriously,” he says to me as he navigates through all the shows that he has recorded off cable, “this is prime mindless entertainment.”

  How right he is.

  We veg on the couch and channel-hop through what has to be the most extensive collection of reality television known
to man.

  “Do you watch nothing else?” I ask at one point, after we’ve bounced from a Real Housewives of God Only Knows Where to some new show about buying property in Alaska. Which looks pretty cool, actually, although I would never move that far north. Already I’m dreading the New York winter, and it’s barely May.

  “I am a connoisseur of television that requires neither thought nor commitment. I decided to see what all the fuss was about and rented Game of Thrones my first semester and got so addicted it’s a wonder I didn’t get booted out of med school. Now I watch only mindless fluff that I don’t have to keep up with week to week.”

  “And there you go,” I say. “The reason you’re smart enough to be a doctor and I’m not.” I bat my eyelashes at him. “I would have just given up television all together.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, obviously not certain if I’m praising him or insulting him. Finally, he settles for an affectionate “bitch” and hooks his arm around me as he kicks his feet up onto the coffee table.

  As far as I can tell, the plan is to eat our way through the day. At least that’s what it looks like to me, because Brayden went out earlier and returned with a bag of bagels, some cheese danish, a half-dozen blueberry muffins, and a tub full of whipped cream cheese that is approximately the size of a shoebox.

  I’d given him grief at the time, but I’m now enthusiastically into the idea of carbohydrate overload. I’ve already finished a bagel, and am now picking at what is arguably the best blueberry muffin in the history of the universe. In fact, I’m about to suggest that we put in a call to Guinness World Records and have them investigate the muffin when I’m waylaid by the ring of the doorbell.

  Since this is a security building, it has to be a resident or someone on staff, and I figure the least I can do to earn my keep around here is answer the door.

  It’s Clive who works part time at the security desk in the lobby. His sister’s an aspiring actress, so we’ve spoken a few times since I’ve moved in. Now he hands me a fancy envelope made out of thick paper in a color that I figure would be called ‘buff’ in a stationery store. It’s addressed to both Ms. Hart and Mr. Kline and the envelope is so fine and the calligraphy so precise that my first thought is that we’ve been invited to someone’s wedding.

  “What’s that?” Brayden asks, as I take it back to the couch and start to slide my finger under the flap.

  “Not sure, but it looks fancy. Which means I already know I have nothing to wear.”

  He holds out his hand just as I’m pulling a thick card out of the envelope. I pass it to him, then move in close so that I can look over his shoulder.

  The owners and staff of Dark Pleasures invite you to visit us for drinks, appetizers, and conversation.

  “Dark Pleasures?”

  “It’s a private club,” Brayden says. “My dad’s a member, but I don’t think he ever goes, but that must be how they got my name.”

  “But how did they get mine?” It’s weird, frankly. I’m not even officially a tenant yet, as Brayden hasn’t gotten around to having the condo management add me to the mailbox or do any of the official new-roommate stuff.

  “The invitation’s for tonight at eight. We should go,” he says.

  “I thought you had your study group tonight,” I counter. I swore to myself when I moved in with him that I wasn’t going to let the fact of my proximity mess with his studying. And that includes keeping him from doing stupid things like going to fancy clubs when he’s supposed to be studying gross anatomy or brains or dissecting a cadaver or something equally doctorish.

  “All the more reason to go tonight. We get to scope it out, but the commitment is limited. So if they try to get us to join up and fork over some exorbitant membership fee, we can honestly say that we have another engagement and will have to get back to them. Come on,” he presses. “The timing couldn’t be more perfect. And if nothing else, I bet the drinks are first rate.”

  I flop back down on his sofa and pull my knees up to my chest. “I don’t know.” I’m feeling oddly reticent, which is weird because going to a private club is about as New York as it gets, and didn’t I come here wanting the full Manhattan experience?

  Brayden aims narrowed eyes at me. “What’s with you?”

  “Nothing.” My voice comes out just a little too earnest. “I just figured it was a day to laze about in pajamas. And aren’t you supposed to be studying?”

  “I studied so much this week my eyes are going to fall out,” he says. “I studied so much I could perform brain surgery right now.”

  “Ewww,” I say, as he leans over me and mimes sawing my skull open. “Don’t test your newly acquired knowledge out on me.”

  “Seriously, not only do I have a dedicated study date tonight, but I’m doing pretty good in the learning department. We have the entire day left to veg, so you won’t miss out on the lazy Saturday experience, and I still owe you drinks from Thursday.”

  “It’s just a scam,” I say. “They want to lure you in, treat you nice, and try to convince you that you really need to join. That belonging to Dark Pleasures is the secret handshake that will make your medical career.”

  “When you put it like that, maybe I should join. If there’s even an off chance that I’ll learn the secret handshake…”

  He trails off with a grin. I just roll my eyes.

  “Oh, come on. Who cares if it’s a sales pitch. One night of free drinks and appetizers? Besides, the building’s awesome. It’s been around since the mid-nineteenth century and I’ve always wanted to go inside. It’s just a few blocks away on 63rd Street.”

  I open my mouth to protest again, but I feel stupid putting my foot down like this, especially since I can’t explain—not even to myself—why I’m so damn hesitant. “Fine,” I say. “But in that case, we’re not lazing around today. If you’re going to drag me to some hoity-toity private club, I’m going to drag you shopping.”

  For a minute, I think that may be enough to make him back off the plan. Brayden has a rich boy’s fashion sense, but he’d rather take a bullet than brave a department store. But then he cocks his head. “Lunch while we’re out?”

  “Indian food?”

  He thrusts his hand out. “Deal.”

  And as I put my hand in his, I can’t shake the weird sensation that I have just taken a giant step. But toward what, I have no idea.

  *

  “Not bad,” Brayden says as we stand on the sidewalk in front of 36 East 63rd Street.

  I turn my attention from the five story building and focus on my friend. “Understatement much?” I’d thought that Brayden’s building was amazing, and it is. Sleek and modern, it reaches majestically to the heavens, the walls of glass providing residents with exceptional views of the city.

  But compared to Number 36, Brayden’s building is cold and austere. A snooty bitch rather than a welcoming friend. Because despite being accessible only to members, there is no denying that the entrance to Dark Pleasures is as inviting as it is elegant, as if it is reaching out from a different age when the business of society was, in fact, to be social.

  The building is only five stories tall, and though it is shaped mostly like a box, the first two floors are convex, making it look a bit like a building with the tower at the base instead of the top. The mix of red brick and off-white plaster adds to the impression that the building is an elegant antique trapped in a modern city.

  But what I find most interesting is that the building is actually set away from the sidewalk in a way that manages to be inviting even while making clear to passers-by that it is an exclusive venue not meant for the general public.

  I have my hand on the black iron fence that surrounds the property. Five steps lead down to a courtyard and then to the heavy wooden door that marks the building’s entrance. I glance at Brayden, then start down the stairs. “Here goes nothing.”

  He paces me, and we reach the courtyard together. As I’d expected, it really is like entering another world. Even the
air seems cleaner and more fragrant, probably courtesy of the flowers and plants placed decoratively around the enclosed area.

  The focal point of the polished, wooden door is a gold knocker in the shape of a bird. It is mounted at eye level and its trailing tail feathers act as a handle. I look to Brayden, then shrug as I reach for it.

  Before I actually knock, Brayden says, “Look.” He’s nodding toward a brass plaque that is mounted just to the right of the door. I lean over and read it:

  Dark Pleasures

  Est. 1895

  Members Only

  “Guess we’re in the right place,” I say, then use the metal tail feathers to rap soundly on the door.

  After a moment, the door opens to reveal an elderly man. With his neatly combed white hair, perfectly pressed livery, and don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, I assume he is the butler.

  “Um.” I’m about to expand upon that auspicious conversational opener when he sniffs lightly.

  “Ms. Hart. Mr. Kline.”

  I look to Brayden, who shrugs. Apparently the staff at really exclusive private clubs are expected to identify potential members on sight.

  I’m trying to decide if that’s really great customer service or just a little creepy when the butler inclines his head. “Welcome to Dark Pleasures. If you’d please follow me…”

  Since there is no rational reason for me to feel so jittery, I resist the urge to take Brayden’s hand. Instead, I make do with meeting his eyes as we step over the threshold and into a dark wood-paneled foyer. Like the exterior suggested, the walls of this room are curved. Other than that architectural feature, though, there is nothing about the room itself that is particularly extraordinary. That honor is reserved to the contents of the room. Specifically, to an enormous glass bowl filled with what appears to be living, breathing fire.

  I gasp and move toward it, compelled to take a closer look. The bowl sits atop a marble pedestal in the center of the foyer. Now that I am beside it—close enough that I could reach my hand into the flames—I see that the bowl is filled not with wood or some other fuel, but with red and blue glass pebbles.