Edge Of Darkness

48

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 s***h 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?”