“Would you like to take a look at the menu?” Maria offers it to me, but I shake my head.
“No, thanks. I'm not at all hungry today. But something to drink would be good. Can I have a Hemingway Daiquiri?”
“Of course.” The young lady smiles and then turns to my host. “Would you like to see the menu, Mr. Daniels?”
“Maybe later. First bring me a dry red wine. Make it a Pinot Noir,” he answers and then casts me another of his charming smiles.
“Unusual color combinations, motifs and sophisticated brushwork set your style of painting apart from the crowd. Delicate, yet powerful and dramatic. I'm very taken with your art.” He watches me calmly and I can't decide whether he's simply self-assured or almost a little arrogant. Whatever the case, I realize his compliment has fallen on fertile ground and I'm feeling flattered.
“Thanks, I'm glad you like my work.” The smile I give him this time comes from the heart.
“It's nothing but the truth. I've been working as a freelance art dealer for more than seven years and I can rightly say I know talent when I see it. And that's definitely the case with you.”
The waitress returns to our table and brings us the drinks we ordered.
For me it's a good chance to take a closer look at him. In spite of his very pronounced cheekbones and a latent hardness to the corners of his mouth, the young man sitting opposite me looks a little androgynous thanks to his fine features. His dark-blond hair is cropped very short on the sides, but up on his head it is longer and styled very tastefully with wax.
“May I ask how you got into this field? You must have been very young when you started.”
“Indeed, I guess I was. I was introduced to it by a relative who also deals in art, and I was fascinated by art and its forms of expression very early on. Especially paintings. I always found museums more exciting than popular pastimes.” He smiles and I feel myself liking him more and more.
“If it were up to my mother, I would most likely have chosen a completely different career, but I stuck to my guns. And I have to say it again, I'm glad I did, because otherwise I wouldn't have the pleasure of sitting here with you this evening.”
“How did you find out about my work?”
“The little gallery where your paintings are sold has a website. That's where I first became aware of you. My success is all thanks to my feel for talented and unique artists. And you, Miss Álvarez, are both of the above – talented and unique. And that's precisely the reason I'm interested in more of your work and thought of having an exhibition in Paris. Assuming you can envision that too.”
“Let me assure you, I can envision that only too well, Mr. Daniels,” I reply smiling, and try not to let my joy at his words show too clearly.
“I'm pleased to hear it. But as my soon to be new client, you can feel free to call me Jack. So far I was only in contact with your manager, Wilson Brody, who informed me already, among other things, that you only want to be presented under your first name, AMKAYA, it is to be your stage name so to speak. Is that right?”
“Yes, that's right Jack,” I reply and have to give myself a mental shove to continue, “You can call me Kaya, if you like.”
“Perfect. Let's toast our new venture, Kaya.” He raises his glass and I clink mine to his. I notice again that his words always sound very controlled and self-assured, and his face too gives away no sign of insecurity.
“It would be wonderful if you would make a couple of paintings available to me. How about I come pick them up and bring a contract over at the same time, before I fly back to Paris?”
“That sounds excellent.”
“Here, please take my card. You'll find all my contact details on it.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out an ivory-colored business card and hands it to me. Smiling, I take it and practically freeze when our fingers brush slightly and all my senses suddenly concentrate for a moment in my fingertips. Right there, where his meet mine. It's unexpectedly pleasant and intense, a feeling which alarms and positively disturbs me at first.
I can tell by his surprised expression he feels the same, especially since his eyes twitch nervously for an instant.
I pull my hand with the business card back, reach for my glass and take a gulp to regain my poise. I'd like to leave right now, because I suddenly feel uneasy. I simply can't place what that was just now and don't even want to find out. Before I can put together the words to end the meeting in my head, they tumble automatically from my mouth. “Thank you, Jack. For inviting me here, too. But I can't stay any longer; I have somewhere else to be. It was lovely to meet you.”
“The pleasure was all mine. It's a shame you have to go, but I'm already looking forward to our next meeting. Let me see you out.”
“No, that's not necessary,” I'm quick to reply, standing and giving him a flustered smile. “I'll find my own way out. I'll put together a few paintings for you and let you know when they can be picked up.”
“Wonderful,” answers Jack Daniels obligingly and holds out his hand. I don't shake it, instead I cast a glance at the Parmigiani luxury watch on his wrist. In spite of his youth he seems to be successful as an art dealer, if he can afford such an expensive piece.
“Oh, is that the time? I'm sorry, I must go. If you have any questions feel free to call,” I excuse myself with a forced smile. I avoid looking at him again and hurry out of the huge room, down the steps, through the loud soundscape of the restaurant to the exit. Air! I desperately need fresh air and a few clear thoughts.
18
Amkaya
Out front of the restaurant I breathe deeply, and try to collect myself. Dusk has long since descended and the air of the lukewarm June night blows gently over my skin, a pleasant temperature. I was expecting all sorts of things from this meeting, but not such an unusually fascinating and yet also unsettling encounter. You find him attractive, something inside me whispers, but I drown out the whisper with loud protests. He was nice and kind of. . . unexpected. Nothing more.
The charcoal gray car that comes to a stop right in front of me pulls me from my thoughts, because the back door opens automatically while the driver makes no move to get out.
Did Jack Daniels order this car for me? Completely unnecessary, since I'm going to walk back and enjoy the pleasant night air. But I've barely taken two steps when the car follows me at a crawl.
“Excuse me, I don't need a car,” I call to the driver behind the dark pane of glass, but he doesn't react. With a sudden gust of wind I inhale his scent and freeze in disbelief for a moment, only to then go to the open car door, climb in without a word and close it behind me.
Noah. He doesn't say a word either, immediately setting the car in motion and watching me intently in the rear view mirror. How did he find me? Did Wilson tell him where I was? A quick glance at my iPhone, which is set to silent, shows that Wilson tried to call me. My assumption seems to be correct. The nervous beating of my heart intensifies with every glance in the mirror, where our eyes keep on meeting. The strange feeling about Jack Daniels disappears in Noah's presence and is soon forgotten.
We drive up to the Marina District toward Crissy Field, the stunningly landscaped park near the Golden Gate Bridge.
There he parks the car in a side street and gets out, while I remain seated until he opens the door and pulls me out into his arms.
“You have no idea how much. . .” He presses me to him. I feel the warmth of his body and the sound of his voice freeing me from my daze and making my body soften.
“Are you okay?” I whisper. By the weak light of the streetlamps and the moon I try to see whether any of the injuries from Airas are still visible. I pull aside the black leather jacket he's wearing over a white shirt and search for traces of the injuries, but I can't find anything.
Instead of answering, he kisses me and takes my hand.
“Come on,” he says and pulls me toward the beach, against the light, salty gusts of wind which tousle my hair and make me f
eel more alive with each breath I take.
“Hang on,” I gasp halfway there, because it's almost impossible to follow him at this pace on the soft ground in my high Christian Louboutin pumps. I quickly slip them off, take them in my right hand and walk on barefoot. Only when we arrive at the shoreline near the fishing pier and the sea washes around our feet do we stop to catch our breath.
“You've got water in your shoes,” I point out with a giggle. Laughing as if it were nothing, he lifts me up, spins me around in a circle, puts me back down on the soft sand and gazes at me. The moon is reflected in his eyes and even now in the darkness they lose nothing of their allure.
“I was scared I'd only dreamed you,” he admits in a tender voice, and buries his face in my hair. “I hesitated a moment too long.”
Wrinkling my forehead, I give him a questioning look.
“That's why your brother got me,” he says. “I wanted to explain it to him when he burst into your room, but apparently he wasn't in the mood for explanations. These things happen.”
“And the second time he attacked? He could have hurt you even worse. It almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I was counting on my strong girlfriend to save me.” He flashes me an irresistible grin.
“Huh. You're insane.”
“How does the saying go? Fortune favors the bold,” he says, and adds, “Probably also the insane.”
“But where were you all that time? Why didn't you contact me?” I've barely spoken the words when I realize how totally stupid they sound. But before I can qualify the reproach they held, he already answers.
“Like yours, my wounds might heal somewhat more quickly than a human's do, but at the same time they're like flares in the night for the watchers. Angel blood is a dead giveaway and it makes it easy for them to track me. In fact I shouldn't have even stayed those few minutes with you I did because of my promise. By doing so I not only endangered myself, but you too.”
“But didn't you say they put up with you since they found out you're not like your father?”
“The watchers? Yeah, they don't go out of their way to find me anymore, but if I'm served up to them on a silver platter they sure won't hesitate to erase me. And besides, we've just found out there's an enchanting creature who can cheat the curse. They'll be upset when they find out.”
“Then that whole time you were in danger,” I murmur, stricken.
This realization doesn't help me feel better about my reproachful question. Through the injuries my brother inflicted on him, he was in mortal danger the whole time.
“I'm sorry,” I say and embrace him.
“I'm only sorry to have been apart from you,” he says, waving his hand as if to brush off my concern. “I had no idea how agonizing longing for someone can be. It was significantly worse than the beginnings of freezer burn.”
Although his voice sounds quite joking, I can feel his tone is only the packaging which protects something real.
“Freezer burn?”
“Yeah. I found out a long time ago that when I get injured, I should hang out in a place where the temperature is well below freezing point. It seems to be the only way to stay off the radar.”
“It's June. Even Alaska wouldn't be cold enough. Did you beam yourself over to Antarctica?”
“No, into Miller's cold room.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He takes my hand and we wander toward the pier. So many thoughts are running through my head, I can hardly get hold of a single one to examine it calmly. But then I do manage to free myself from the chaos of my thoughts.
Up on the pier, only a few fisherman can be seen who have cast their lines and are waiting patiently for a catch. We walk past them right to the end of the pier, sit down on the raised edge, dangle our legs and look silently over at the illuminated Golden Gate Bridge, beneath which the moon is reflected in the water. His arm reaches over my back and wraps around my waist, which causes me to lay my head on his shoulder automatically and lean into him. In a love story I'd find a situation like this terribly sappy and over the top, but here and now in reality, it feels incredibly good.
Is it really days, weeks or months which build a love, or is it moments? Moments like this one, which seems to change everything that was in my life up till this point. What was all the time before Noah compared to the few hours, days and moments I've spent with him? Don't those moments count for so much more? Infinitely more?
Our minute long silence doesn't feel awkward for a second. Quite the opposite. An intimacy I've never known till now seems to shroud us like a cloak and warms me from the inside.
“Do you feel that?” I break the silence. I'm curious to see whether he's capable of perceiving the earth's vibrations I very often feel here in San Francisco. That's another thing which gives me the typical danger-signaling goose bumps.
Noah tears his gaze away from the bridge and looks at me questioningly.
“There's going to be an earthquake soon,” I explain.
“Are your seismographic powers telling you that or is this a seductive invitation?”
How light-hearted and free my laughter feels, like the break of spring after endless winter days. And all at once I become truly aware for the first time that my life felt like an everlasting winter for far too long. Wretched, dark and icy. Until now.
Even as I'm still smiling, the gentle splashing of the water against the jetty suddenly brings up memories in me which spoil my joy. No, not now. I don't want to think about it. Don't want to allow any shadows near this precious moment. But images of the past force their way stubbornly into my head and carry me back to the inside of the ship which took me, my mother and my siblings from Almería in the north to Germany. A trip I will never forget, because on this journey we hoped would bring us to safety, my mother's death began.
“Hey, what's up?” Noah searches my eyes and even before his right hand can touch me, I draw back because I suddenly have the feeling I can't breathe properly anymore. As if a steely fist has seized my heart and is squeezing it tight.
Noah immediately releases me from his arms and I feel like I can at least get a bit of air in my lungs again as I inhale. Still, I have to suppress the urge to get up and run away. Pull yourself together, Amkaya. I try to get a hold of myself by breathing deeply in and out.
“I'm sorry. . . I. . . I don't know what. . .” I struggle to get an apology for my behavior out, trying to figure out why I reacted the way I did at the same time.
“I couldn't help thinking of my mother. . . and how she died,” I murmur softly and stare at my hands, which are clinging to the sequined material of my silver dress.
“How did your mother die? Do you want to tell me?” Noah's voice is gentle and calm. Calming.
I falter as I begin telling him about leaving my father and the journey on the ship. I tell him how my ma was already unwell on the ship, and how she changed. It feels strange, sharing these memories with someone. Strange, yet good.
“In what way did she change?”
“Her face changed. She aged like in a time-lapse. As if every single day stole months of her life. It was frightening, and we couldn't explain the phenomenon. When she looked in the mirror, I could see the bewilderment and fear in her eyes. I could see it clearly, even though she tried to play it down for us, talking about the strain of the journey and laughing about it, joking that our father might not recognize her once we were all back together.”
I pause, because my throat is so dry it hurts and I find it hard to speak. Once more I long to cry. Crying must feel wonderfully liberating. Like the release a sneeze brings, when your nose tickles and the pressure becomes unbearable.
“Go on,” he says, without looking at me.
“When we arrived in the Port of Hamburg some weeks later, her hair was gray and her face at least twenty years older than when we left. She looked so horrifyingly different.”
Noah cocks his head to the side, glances at me and then turns his gaze back t
o the water in front of us.
“We settled on an island a hundred or so miles north of Hamburg. A lady at the inn where we spent our first night in Hamburg offered her work on the island. They were in desperate need of helping hands there due to the sudden upturn tourism was causing. My mother was a general lackey at a therapeutic spa. Everyone there loved her. We had a small but very comfortable home, and we were happy. But her strength waned each day, until she was too weak to work. My siblings and I could only watch the quick progression of the aging process helplessly. Watch as her hair got whiter and whiter, deep lines creased her face, the gleam in her eyes faded and her face came to resemble that of a very old hag, showing barely anything of the beautiful 31 year old woman she had been only a short while earlier. It was horrifying and frightening for us. Only when she barely had any life left in her did she speak of a curse she bore, a curse cast by this vampire witch who had killed my brother Aven and who was the reason my father had remained behind, because she threatened to kill us too if he didn't stay. When my mother died. . .” My voice breaks off and the pressure around my heart increases.
Noah lays his hand on mine, which is playing nervously with the seam of my dress.
The Night Within Us: Dark Vampire Romance Page 12
