Nikolai: A Dark Light Novella (Dark Light #2.5)

by S. L. Jennings

  Amelie turns to me, her face blank and devoid of emotion. “That was the first night I saw your face in my dreams. The first time I ever saw pure evil.”

  I know that this is my chance. This is the time to cradle her delicate neck and squeeze it so hard that it shatters like glass underneath my fingertips. This girl is dangerous - more dangerous than I ever could imagine. If I don’t kill her soon, she is sure to destroy me.

  “And the woman?” I hear myself ask, ignoring the niggling voice in my head, telling me to put an end to this conversation, along with her life. “Do you know what she was?”

  The rims of Amelie’s irises spark with golden flames for a mere nanosecond, both taunting and answering me. “She was goodness. Warmth. Mercy. She was the complete opposite of everything that is you.”

  “Light,” we both whisper in unison.

  Words go unspoken, the strained silence so blaringly shrill and thick that it’s hard to breathe or think. I know what I should do. What I should have done already. This girl has been spelled by our mortal enemy and that makes her my enemy. It’s in my nature to hate her, to want to slaughter her. To crave the magic inside her so badly that it aches.

  It aches, alright. Fuck, it aches.

  “We’re taught that magic has a price, and to save a life, you must take a life,” she says, kicking down the walls we’ve built between us to shield our true selves. There’s no hiding now. Truth has ripped us both wide open, exposing the scary, grotesque parts of our pasts that no one else wants to see.

  “That’s true,” I manage to croak. Why am I telling her this? Why am I even entertaining this conversation?

  “I know. Because my mother died a week later.”

  My eyes focus on the anguish etched underneath her perfectly guarded mask. “What?”

  “Her family knew what had happened to me. They didn’t approve of an … outsider meddling in our affairs. I believe they murdered her. I know what your kind thinks of us. I know that you see Voodoo as unnatural and a crime against nature.”

  “That’s because it is. True magic comes only from the one real power, the Divine. Your gods are nothing more than false prophets. Frauds. That is why your mother died. A life for a life. The balance had to be restored.”

  She nods, those topaz eyes shining with crystalline tears. “So now you know how I know you. Why I hate you. My mother traded her life just so I could live long enough to meet my own death at the hands of pure, unrelenting evil. How’s that for a trade off?” she laughs sardonically. “Growing up piss poor with a drunk for a father that never got over his wife’s death. He looked at me with accusation everyday, knowing that it should have been me. All so I could one day be captured and forced into prostitution.”

  I don’t correct her. I don’t tell her that I won’t force her into anything, and that her virtue is safe with me. I don’t say that her hatred is misplaced, that I am just as confused about the meaning of her dreams and by her significance in my life. And I don’t tell her that I won’t kill her. That maybe the legends of the Dark being the first true evil are false, and that maybe I am more than just a soulless monster.

  No. I don’t say any of those things. I don’t want to lie.

  “Get up.”

  I watch her as she blinks to consciousness, awareness settling into the tiny frown lines on her forehead. She sits up and stretches, then visibly flinches when she notices me sitting just feet away. “Holy shit, when’d you get here? What time is it?”

  “Almost noon. Thought you might be hungry.”

  Amelie looks at the tray of covered dishes I’ve placed on the bed, and for the first time since I laid eyes on her, she almost … smiles. The aroma of tomato, onion and saffron waft from the heated plates and her stomach grumbles, causing her cheeks to blush scarlet.

  “Looks like I was right,” I chuckle, uncovering the dishes. I hand one to her and she digs in, barely pausing to breathe. She looks up at me with a mouthful when she feels my eyes on her.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles around rice and seafood.

  I shake my head. “No, I should be apologizing. You’ve been a guest here, and I have been a less than gracious host. I should have fed you. Forgive me.”

  She stops mid chew, exposing the half eaten mush in her mouth. “You’re shitting me, right? A guest? I was brought here under the intention of becoming a prostitute! This is hardly the Ramada.”

  “Yeah. About that … I have a proposition.”

  Amelie dabs her mouth with a napkin before narrowing her eyes at me. “A proposition? Like what? I’m not into any kinky bondage shit, you know. I mean, I’m not into anything, really.”

  I nod, stifling a grin at her choice of words. Kinky bondage shit? Yes, please. “I know. And I don’t intend to force you, either. You will help out with some of the more domestic needs around here. The cooking, laundry…like a housekeeper of sorts. And when the debt has been fulfilled, you’ll be free to go.”

  She raises a brow, the sour taste of skepticism puckering her full lips. “Free to go? Just like that?” Scraping the remnants of food on her plate, she shakes her head. “So what’s in it for you? I’m not stupid. Your kind doesn’t seem like the type to show mercy.”

  “I have questions that need answers. I believe that you are unaware that you were purposely sent, but this is no coincidence. I need to know why that is. If you are compliant, I will set you free.”

  “Ok,” she shrugs. “Ask away. What do you want to know?”

  I take a bite from my own plate, watching her as she assesses the movement of my mouth. She licks her own lips and a familiar heat floods my groin, causing my pants to go snug. Maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe she wants this. Wants me. Maybe, just maybe…

  Her stomach growls, and my ego takes another blow. Awesome.

  Without even acknowledging my wounded pride, I push the plate towards her, and am met with a small, appreciative, yet embarrassed smile. I’ll take it.

  “You sure?” she asks, already picking up the fork.

  I nod once. “Sure. I’m not hungry anyway.” Not for food, at least.

  Amelie shovels a helping into her mouth, closing her eyes to savor the fusion of exotic, Spanish flavors. With anyone else, I’d be thoroughly repulsed, ready to shove their ill-mannered ass out of my sight. But with her, all I feel is … guilt? Or sympathy? Is that what I’m feeling?

  No. Hell no.

  “So,” I begin, forcing myself to bury the unnamed emotion caught on the tip of my tongue. “Does anyone else know what you are? About your lineage?”

  She shakes her head. “No. No one. I was taught to never tell anyone - that it could be dangerous.”

  “Yes, it is. You mustn’t disclose that information. Understand?”

  She nods, chewing slowly. I launch into my next question. “When you got sick, how old were you?”

  Grabbing a bottled water from the tray, she takes a swig before answering. “I was eight.”

  “So that would make you…”

  “Eighteen. The day your men came for my father - the day they brought me here - was my birthday.”

  I mentally summarize the last forty eight hours. Hard to believe that, in the span of two days, my life has been completely tipped off its axis by this mysterious, captivating, utterly infuriating creature. Seems like so long ago. The women I’ve had in this very bed have been long forgotten, their lives only a mere whisper of a memory. When you’ve lived as long as I have, fucked and killed through nearly two centuries, it all becomes a blur. Faces begin to blend together. Even sex feels the same - almost choreographed. I’ve done it all, I’ve seen it all. Nothing surprises me.

  Except Amelie.

  Her scent, her soul, those uncanny eyes tainted with Light magic … it’s a dangerous concoction that draws me to her, pulling me deeper into the unknown. Maybe it’s the thrill of chasing death. Of diving into my inevitable demise and ending the monotony of this life. Because when you have it all, there’s nothing else to live for. Nothing
to strive to achieve. Your story has already been told, over and over again.

  “That was your birthday?” I can’t even hide the scowl painted on my face. Fuck it.

  “Yeah,” she shrugs. “But it’s ok. Not like my father remembered or anything.”

  I shake my head in disgust. “The Light have a thing for significant dates. Pretentious assholes,” I mutter. “My apologies.”

  Amelie frowns, and I feel the sudden urge to wrap her in my arms and kiss the little lines in her forehead. “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “Your father. The Light imposing on your eighteenth birthday. Me being a fucking prick and not feeding you. Take your pick.”

  “Not all of those things were your fault.” She fingers a wayward dark brown curl. “I’m sorry, too. For saying those things about you. You obviously had no idea that I was cursed. And honestly … not everything I saw in those dreams was bad.”

  My eyebrows reach for the crown of my head, and I swear, my voice goes up an octave. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I mean, the sex and stuff was pretty gross, especially when I was a kid, but sometimes you seemed…nice. Normal. And a little bit lonely.”

  I bite back a snort of protest. Me? Lonely? How the hell can you be lonely when you’re constantly surrounded by people that need you? Want you? Crave to be near you just for a tiny slice of the royal pie? I roll my eyes and give her a playful smirk.

  “Except … except when you were with this one guy,” Amelie continues. “He cared for you, looked after you. You always seemed happy when he was around. Maybe even a bit relieved, if that makes sense. He looks like you, a little older. Like maybe a brother or cousin. And he’s, uh, really, really good looking.”

  That empty, hollow ache returns, attacking my chest with the frigid chill of remembrance. Amelie may have shared my memories, but she will never understand the pain of abandonment that haunted me for decades after Dorian left. He could have taken me with him - shit, I practically fucking begged him to - but he was too far-gone to even think about what he was leaving me with. The weight of our father’s expectations now rested solely on my shoulders. He was determined to create the perfect heir with or without my brother. And he wouldn’t stop until he accomplished just that … or until I broke.

  A soft, delicate hand grazes my arm, kindling the surface of my skin, before swiftly pulling away. Amelie looks at me with an embarrassed gleam in her eyes. “Who is he?” she whispers.

  “My brother.” The words are out of my mouth before I think to stop them. “Dorian. But he’s gone now.”

  “I’m sorry,” she replies, regret painting her face. “When did he die?”

  I shrug and shake my head simultaneously, unable to come up with a logical explanation. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if he is dead. I just know that a long time ago, he left and never looked back.”

  “And you miss him.” It’s not a question. The answer is already written on my face.

  “Everyday.”

  “You’ll see him again,” Amelie states with certainty as if she knows the first thing about me or my family, or the curse of being birthed into this life. I want to tell her that she’s wrong, that she’s no more than a stupid girl who doesn’t know a goddamn thing about the Dark. But the hope that shines so bright in those peculiar eyes keeps me from refuting her blind faith. It’s what keeps me hanging onto that beautiful lie, in hopes that her ignorance will not be in vain.

  Her dreams brought her to me. Maybe they’ll bring Dorian back home. Hell, maybe they’ll even give purpose to the shallow carcass of a man that is me. Either way, this girl was sent for a reason - sent to me for a reason. I just don’t know if it’s to kill her or fuck her. Hurt her or heal her. Hate her or lo…

  Never mind.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” I blurt out, quickly changing course, tugging at the long layers of my hair in frustration. “I don’t think your illness was spontaneous. It seems very meditated … deliberate.”

  Amelie frowns. “What? You think someone purposely made me sick?”

  “Definitely. It wasn’t random. Choosing you - the descendant of Marie Laveau - was no accident. They knew what they were doing.”

  Amelie fondles the bottle cap of her water, chewing her cherry red lips in deliberation. “And by they you mean the Light, right? But that doesn’t make sense. Aren’t they known for healing and goodness? And why sicken an innocent child just to heal her?”

  I stifle the sardonic chuckle building in my chest. “Isn’t it obvious? So you’d be in their debt. The Light aren’t the righteous fuckers they’d like everyone to believe they are. They’re no different from the Dark. We’re just more honest.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she says shaking her head. But the doubt is already written on her face. She knows there is some truth to my explanation.

  “Tell me, pretty girl, what do your Voodoo ancestors believe they know about the Light? What is their theory on your mysterious illness?”

  “They believe I was cursed,” she shrugs, rolling her eyes. “My mother refused to fully accept what they stood for and my sickness was the result of her betrayal. All bullshit if you ask me. Marie Laveau was known as a saint. Why would someone that stood for good be ok with hurting a child? They worshipped her memory, yet they had strayed so far beyond her teachings that she’s probably rolling in her grave.”

  I raise a cocky brow and lean forward. “You do know that’s a crock of shit, right?”

  “What?”

  "Oh dear, sweet, naive Amelie." I realize it's the first time I've uttered her name aloud, and the impulse to do it again is undeniable. I can’t fight it- I don’t want to. It’s stronger than me, penetrating skin and bone and guiding my tongue like a marionette. "Amelie."

  "Oui, Oui, Monsieur Nikolai," she jibes in perfect French, a ghost of a smile on her lips. Suddenly, I can't even remember what I was saying. All I can see, all I can even focus on are those lips. How they curve as they wrap around my name. How they feel, how they taste. How badly I want to feel them against my skin, burning straight to my soul.

  “Did you dream about me? Before I woke you?” My voice is low and raspy, and I can’t help but move in closer to her. My eyes tingle with cold, but every other part of my body is warm with expectation.

  “Yes,” she utters, her own voice a mere husky whisper.

  I move closer still. “And what did you see?”

  Amelie chews her lip, those magnificent eyes lowered in apprehension. She looks so innocent. Girlish and pure.

  “You, here in this room, in this bed … with me.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Amelie says, holding up the black and white frilly frock. “I’m not wearing this.”

  I recline on the king sized bed, trying not to laugh as Amelie assesses the French Maid outfit. It’s mid morning, three days after she was brought to me. Three days after my very existence was altered.

  Yesterday, we spent almost the entire day talking. She told me about the life she left behind, her family, her friends. I gave her vague explanations of Light and Dark magic as she listened intently, her eyes bright with curiosity. She didn’t seem afraid, nor even one bit repulsed. Even as I explained how we survive, she simply nodded, taking it all in. It was … odd. Different. And exhilarating. I had never spoken to another human for more than a few moments, and usually only to command them to do what I wanted. Get on your knees and suck. Bend over. Spread your legs.

  I had never had that with … anyone, I realized. I only consorted with my own kind so I didn’t have the need to explain shit to them. And I wouldn’t dream of even hinting at my true nature to a human. But Amelie was different. I felt at ease with her. Hell, I felt safe with her, yet I knew I could destroy her without even trying. And in the back of my mind, buried under denial and secrets, I knew that was still a real possibility.

  I watch as Amelie turns the racy garb from front to back, searching for the rest of the fabric, and I can’t help but chu
ckle. “Standard uniform, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes grow wide with disbelief. “Are you serious? Why? Who in their right mind would think this is appropriate to wash clothes and mop the floor in?”

  I look around the room with raised brows. “Um, you do remember where you are, right? This is a place of fantasy and illusions. A depraved charade. Everyone has a part to play, and we always stay in character.”

  “Bu-but … this is just so … wrong,” she pouts.

  “Hey, the other girls wear much less. Shall I grab one of their getups for you?”

  “No! No, that won’t be necessary,” she huffs. “And I suppose the high heeled Mary Janes are all part of the fantasy too.”

  “Obviously,” I reply, running a hand through my hair. Amelie tips her head to one side and appraises the movement through narrowed eyes.

  “You’d look better if you cut your hair.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask in mock offense.

  “I mean, you, uh, I … never mind. Forget I said anything.” She goes back to fiddling with the costume in her hands, yet her rosy cheeks tell me that she’s far from over the comment.

  “No. I want to hear it.” Without thinking, I gently graze her chin, guiding her head up to meet my gaze. The burn is there, yet it pales in comparison to the other parts of me that are on fire. “Tell me, please.”

  She shrugs but makes no move to remove herself from my touch. Instead, she takes it a step further, and reaches her hand up to my head to softly run her fingers through my hair. “It’s just, you have great hair and all, but it’s always in your face. And it ages you. You should trim it a bit or brush it back. Let people see you.”

  See me? Why the hell would I ever want that?

  “I’m not so sure people would like what they see,” I reply quietly, instantly regretting it. It’s too personal, too … honest.

  A genuine smile graces her lips, making those ethereal eyes sparkle against the backdrop of her dark, lush waves. “I find that hard to believe, Nikolai.”