A BLADE BETWEEN OUR HEARTBEATS

Chapter 4

The freight elevator ride to the second floor smelled like industrial floor wax, hot dust, and Lilian’s stress sweat.

Kai stood in the back corner of the metal box. She was aggressively picking at a hangnail on her thumb, her shoulders hunched up by her ears. She couldn't get her heart rate to slow down. The phantom sensation of something wet and hot slipping between her fingers in the sub-basement hadn't fully faded. She kept wiping her palms flat against the rough, worn denim of her jeans, trying to scrub away a mess that wasn't there.

"Stop doing that, you're going to make yourself bleed," Lilian said, not looking at her.

Lilian was staring up at the digital floor indicator, repeatedly smoothing the lapels of her navy blazer. She hadn't asked Kai if she was okay since they left the loading bay. She had just marched toward the elevators, muttering about schedules.

"Lil," Kai started, her voice raspy. She cleared her throat, swallowing against the dryness. "Lil, I’m telling you, it wasn't a panic attack. I felt it. That knife—"

"You touched dirty, un-sanitized metal in a room with zero ventilation," Lilian cut in. Her voice was tight and a little too high. "You had a vasovagal response. It happens. Drink some water when we get upstairs."

"You're not listening."

"I am listening to the fact that Director Higgins is currently entertaining the broker for the Vantane Estate." Lilian finally turned around, her eyes wide, glassy with a frantic kind of panic. "If this loan falls through, my department gets its budget slashed by forty percent. Kai, please. I need you to just hold a clipboard and be normal for ten minutes. Can you do that?"

Kai opened her mouth to argue, but the heavy elevator doors shuddered and slid apart with a loud, metallic groan.

The second floor was a massive, open-concept gallery. Stark white walls, polished concrete, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the flat, gray October light. Usually, Kai liked the quiet up here. Today, the sheer amount of empty space just made her feel horribly exposed.

At the far end of the room, Director Higgins was talking. He was practically vibrating, gesturing wildly with a rolled-up exhibition floor plan.

The man he was talking to had his back to the elevators.

"Okay," Lilian whispered, grabbing Kai’s elbow. Her grip was tight enough to bruise. "Head down. Answer his questions. Let Higgins do the talking."

Kai yanked her arm away, annoyed, but she kept her mouth shut as they walked across the concrete floor. Her boots squeaked. The sound echoed loudly off the high ceilings, a harsh, rubbery noise.

The man standing with Higgins didn't turn around. He didn't even shift his weight at the noise. He just stood there, looking out the massive windows at the traffic on 5th Avenue.

He was wearing a charcoal suit. The tailoring was precise, heavy wool that hung perfectly. But it wasn't the clothes that made the hair on the back of Kai’s arms stand up.

It was how intensely, unnaturally still he was.

People always moved. Even when standing in one place, they shifted their weight, rolled their shoulders, tapped a foot, breathed. Their bodies generated a constant, low-level hum of ambient motion. This man was motionless. Completely, terrifyingly static. Like a predator that had just caught a scent on the wind and froze to pinpoint the prey.

"Ah, the rest of the team!" Higgins called out. He wiped his sweaty forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. "Mr. Nyx, this is Lilian Ashford, our head of PR. And this is Kai. She handles our archival intakes."

Damien Nyx turned around.

Kai’s breath physically caught in her throat. It wasn't a gasp; it was a sharp, painful hitch, like someone had just driven a cold fist into her diaphragm.

His face was too sharp, the angles of his jaw and cheekbones harsh and unforgiving. His skin was pale and completely matte, lacking the normal, oily sheen of a living person.

But it was his eyes that made the bottom drop out of Kai’s stomach. They were pitch black. Flat and dead as river stones, completely swallowing the light from the gallery windows.

Those eyes bypassed Lilian. They completely ignored Higgins. They locked directly onto Kai, hitting her with the physical force of a shoved door.

"Miss Ashford," Damien said.

His voice didn't make sense. It was low, a dark, resonant baritone that didn't bounce off the hard gallery walls. Instead, it vibrated straight through the air, rattling directly against Kai’s sternum.

Kai tried to say hello, but her throat was completely locked. She ended up giving a jerky, awkward nod, hugging her metal clipboard tightly against her chest to hide the sudden, violent tremor in her hands.

"Lilian has been managing the press release for the exhibit," Higgins babbled, stepping slightly between them, completely oblivious to the sudden, suffocating drop in air pressure. "We are projecting record attendance for the opening gala. The board is absolutely—"

"I don't care about the board," Damien interrupted. He didn't raise his voice, but Higgins snapped his mouth shut instantly. Damien didn't look at the director. "I care about the artifacts. My family has spent generations keeping these items out of the light. I need absolute assurance they will be handled correctly."

"Of course, of course," Higgins sweated, dabbing his neck again. "We have a full team of professional art handlers downstairs—"

"No." Damien finally blinked, a slow, lazy drag of his dark lashes. "Just her."

He pointed a long, pale finger at Kai.

Kai flinched, taking a fast step backward, her boot squeaking loudly. "Wait. No. I’m paper restoration. I glue bindings together. I don't uncrate heavy metal."

"I prefer a small footprint," Damien stated. It wasn't a request. "Just you. We will catalog the remainder in the staging room."

"But Mr. Nyx," Lilian stepped in. Her voice was tight, a forced, brittle customer-service smile plastered on her face. "Museum protocol requires at least two trained handlers for items weighing over fifty pounds—"

Damien slowly turned his head to look at Lilian.

Lilian’s mouth snapped shut. All the color drained from her face in an instant, leaving her sickly and gray. She actually took a step backward, bumping hard into Higgins’ shoulder.

"Protocol," Damien said, the word sounding remarkably like a threat, "is dictated by the owner of the collection. The archivist and I will work alone. The rest of you can leave the floor."

Higgins didn't even try to argue. He grabbed Lilian’s arm and practically dragged her toward the elevators, leaving Kai stranded in the middle of the echoing gallery.

Damien turned his dead, black eyes back to Kai.

"The staging room," he said, gesturing toward the heavy double doors at the back of the gallery. "After you."