Only You (The Mephisto Covenant Series)

by Feagan, Stephanie

  No, better not to ask or even wonder. But I was going to the library to search for romance novels as soon as I was back home.

  Dinner was roasted chicken with herbs, tiny potatoes, asparagus, acorn squash, salad, and chocolate layer cake. After I ate the last crumb, Zee jokingly offered me his cake, and they all laughed when I took it. Deacon brought him another slice and delivered a glass of ice cold milk to me. Heaven.

  Afterward, I went to my room to wait for Viorica’s visit, and since I didn’t expect her for at least two hours, I started the Stephen King. With Olga snoozing in my lap, I’d just read page five when there was a knock at my door. Surprised that Viorica was early, I called out, “Come in,” and the door swung inward.

  My smile of welcome hit the road.

  Not Viorica.

  Phoenix.

  His expression was inscrutable, and I was instantly beset with anxiety. Why was he here? What did he want? Mathilda wasn’t with me. I was all alone on the third floor of this monstrous mansion. Twenty empty bedrooms. Earlier, I’d thought it was creepy. Now, I realized it was dangerous.

  I was wondering how long I could barricade myself in the closet before he knocked the door down when I remembered he could pop himself anywhere he liked. There was nowhere I could go that he couldn’t get to me. Anxiety swiftly turned to panic.

  The lights went off at the same time every candlewick in the room burst into flame, and my panic slid right into hysteria.

  “Don’t be afraid of me, Mariah.”

  How did he know? I’d perfected the art of never showing any emotion whatsoever. “I’m not afraid,” I lied. “I’m just wondering why you’re here. You said you’d be gone this week.”

  “I had a change of plans.”

  He closed the door and I eyed the distance between my chair and the closet. I could hit the number three button on the plastic box and call Mathilda, but he was standing in front of it.

  “Did you have an enjoyable day?”

  The last thing I wanted to do was chat about my day. I wondered what he’d think if I told him Sasha read a romance novel to me, sexy bits and all. It might give him ideas, or make him think I was interested. Good God. I pasted on my Gustav’s smile and said, “It was a wonderful day. Sasha is an excellent docent. She says tomorrow she’ll teach me to paint.”

  He walked farther into the room and it was all I could do to stay where I was and not bolt from the chair, dash around him and run out the door. I’d race down the stairs to the front hall. Deacon would be there, adjusting the portraits or fiddling with the cut flowers on the middle console. I could ask him to get Mathilda. Or Sasha.

  “Mariah, relax. I’m not going to do anything but talk to you.”

  I didn’t relax. Last night, I hadn’t noticed how very large he was, and he became much larger the closer he came. Huge, really. His legs were long, his thighs thick with muscle beneath faded jeans. His scuffed brown boots were gigantic. He wore a starched white button-down shirt with PdK embroidered in black on the pocket, size ginormous to comfortably cover his torso and arms. Not only was he much bigger than me, he was Mephisto. Superhuman strength. If he decided to . . . I didn’t have a prayer.

  Olga meowed.

  He was next to my chair now. He bent to reach down, and I froze.

  Olga’s green eyes slid to half closed, and she purred when he scratched behind her ears.

  I watched his big hand against her ginger fur. Closely clipped nails, long fingers, no hair on the back, a visible vein. It was a strong, masculine, beautiful hand. Looking up, I met his black-eyed gaze, and he said softly, “What’s her name?”

  “Olga. She likes you.”

  “I suspect she likes everybody.” His hand began to stroke, slowly, gently, and I barely was able to not shiver when his fingers grazed my belly.

  “We had a bad start,” he said. “I’d like to begin again and be friends.”

  “Okay.” I’d agree to be whatever he wanted if he’d just step back. Or show any kind of emotion and give me a clue of his real intention.

  His eyes were on mine. “You’re very good at this, but I’ve been alive a thousand years. I have more practice.”

  I whispered, “What do you want?”

  “To be your friend.”

  I searched for sincerity and found nothing at all. “It’s a nice thought, but I won’t be here that long.”

  He came a little closer. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  His gaze searched my face before he settled on my eyes again. “Amazing. You’re scared to death and all I see is this sweet little smile.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Let’s strike a bargain, Mariah. You don’t lie to me and I won’t lie to you. I’ll tell you everything right out, good or bad.”

  “Maybe if we’d known each other for years and years, we’d have that kind of trust.”

  “Maybe you could give me a chance.”

  “A chance for what?”

  “To help you. Because you’re going to need help.”

  “I’m doing all right, but thank you.”

  He petted Olga once more, then stood straight. “I want to tell you something, but first I need you to stop being afraid of me. What can I do to set your mind at ease?”

  “Call Mathilda to be here with us.”

  He shook his head. “This needs to be between you and I and no one else.”

  That sounded alarming. If he was genuine in his desire for me to relax, he really had no clue how to make it happen. “Back up and sit down. You’re so . . . big. And turn the lights on.”

  The lights came back as he took his seat on the chair opposite mine. He smiled and, just like Kyros, it transformed his face. He was intensely handsome. “Better?”

  I nodded and set aside the book I still held in my hand. “Viorica will be here at ten.”

  “I’ll be gone by then.” He laid his arms on the wingback’s rests and looked completely relaxed, his long legs stretched before him, right boot crossed over the left. “My brothers and Sasha and Jordan want to wait until the end of the week to tell you, but I think you should know now. You can let them know about this conversation, or not. Entirely up to you.”

  “Why wouldn’t I tell them?”

  “Because they’ll ramp up the pressure for you to stay, and you might like a week of no expectations. If they think you’re unaware of their true motivation, they’ll court you instead of selling you on why you should stay.”

  Now thoroughly confused, I said, “You’re speaking in riddles.”

  “Are you still afraid?”

  “Less afraid,” I admitted, “and becoming aggravated.”

  He smiled again. “You have a temper.”

  An instant, unwanted memory of smoke and flames skittered across my mind. “You have no idea.”

  His smile faded, his fingers ever-so-slightly gripped the ends of the armrests, and his eyes became solemn, almost sad.

  I caught a hint of oranges and wondered where it came from. He appeared serene and calm, but his tightened fingers gave him away. Whatever he had to say must be terrible. Was it about Viorica? My heart beat faster as I impatiently waited for him to begin.

  ~~ Phoenix ~~

  She was more beautiful to me tonight than she’d been the night before. No doubt she’d be more so tomorrow, and the day after. Despite knowing the color of her eyes was due to all the trauma in her life, I was bemused by their smoky blue. Her dark, silky hair was down today and she wore a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee and a threadbare sweater. She’d taken off her boots to curl up in the chair, but had sat up straight as soon as I came in, no doubt readying herself to run. I looked down at her small, pretty feet, at her clean, rounded nails. No polish. Sasha always had polished toes, courtesy of Dani, who loved playing beauty shop, and Sasha gladly played along. Would Mariah like getting her toes done?

  I noticed her book was a Stephen King, one of his later ones – one of my favorites.

  I took fa
lse courage from that, like it was a sign, and began talking. She listened carefully, and once in a while she asked a question, but mostly she sat there with Olga racked out in her lap and stared at the fire and never, even once, allowed any emotion to cross her face. I told her everything, including how an Anabo becomes marked when she has sex with a Mephisto. I expected some reaction to that. Disgust, or fear. Something. But, no. I told her that love, the real deal, not lust or infatuation, was the only chance my brothers and I had of Heaven when the end of the world came, and the only females who could stick around long enough to fall in love were Anabo. I explained it was our covenant with God, given to us when we became immortal and took up the fight against Eryx. It was what gave us hope. And finally, I circled around and told her she was intended for me.

  Nothing. Nada. No reaction except to ask, “The girl you told me about last night, the one who died, was she Anabo? Was she meant for you?”

  I knew there would be questions about Jane. I just wasn’t sure I was up for answering. “She was, but Eryx murdered her before she became immortal.”

  “He found her because she was marked.”

  “Right.”

  She looked at me. “Why did you mark her before bringing her here, where she’d be safe?”

  Of course she’d zero in on that. “I didn’t know. None of us did. She was the first Anabo we’d ever found.”

  “If you and the others could sense it, what made you think Eryx couldn’t? He can sense each of you, so it logically follows he’d sense a new Mephisto, just as you did.”

  Guilt, my old companion, pushed at me, but I managed to shove it back. “There’s more to the story, and it doesn’t matter. I’m only telling you because you deserve to know all the facts now, instead of when the others decide you should know.”

  She turned her attention to Olga. “Are you sure I’m Anabo?”

  “I’m sure. Kyros didn’t know because he couldn’t see your glow. Sasha did. If you still don’t believe, think about your birthmark. There’s a tiny, cursive A with a sunburst around it just beneath your right breast. It’s the sign of the Anabo. Sasha has it and so does Jordan.” So did Jane. Until that night, when she . . . I turned my thoughts away from remembering and watched Mariah, hoping for any sign of her feelings about all of this.

  She didn’t refute me because she couldn’t deny the physical proof of what she was, but she did say, “It makes no sense at all. I understand about Sasha and Viorica. I can feel what they are, can see it in them.” Her hands slowly rubbed Olga’s fur. “But I’m not without sin. Not even close.”

  I wished she’d tell me, if not all of it, at least about Emilian. But I couldn’t push. It had to come from her need to talk about it, and that might not happen for a very long time. After Key left my room at Claridge’s, I’d read two books and countless websites about adult survivors of abuse and sexual assault. Maybe I was going at this all wrong, but I had to do something to help her. Had to work around my own completely fucked up life and try to salvage hers. She was meant for me, and abandoning her to the other Mephisto wasn’t just wrong. It was a replay of Jane.

  No matter how this ended, whether she stayed or didn’t, I wanted no regrets. She was already at high risk because of Key bringing her here, and Jordan taking her back to Bucharest. Her best hope was knowing everything, so that whatever they suggested in the future, she could make an informed decision.

  Without being obvious, she’d watched me carefully from the instant I walked in, gauging my body language and facial expression for any sign of imminent threat. She was in a constant state of war, suspicious and guarded around all males, except maybe Gustav. It had to be exhausting. How did she work in that pub with all those guys? I knew what guys were capable of, especially when they’d been drinking. I was a guy, and a son of Hell, which made me an expert on men behaving badly. Mariah had lived through the lowest, worst thing any male could do to a female, yet she worked with men, day in and day out, in a job that lent itself to disrespect and assumptions about her sexuality. I’d thought the exact same thing and accused her of it.

  Zee should have stabbed me in the heart instead of merely punching my face.

  Mariah wasn’t quite as petite as Jordan, and had more curves for sure, but she was on the small side, edging close to too thin, probably because she didn’t get enough to eat. Zee had told me how enthusiastic she was at meals. She was physically small and emotionally wounded, but ferociously protective of her sister, wasn’t a pushover, and she worked fourteen hour shifts in the midst of what frightened her most.

  I could kick anybody’s ass, and Mariah would lose in one go-round with a strong wind, but she had infinitely more courage than I did.

  I finally addressed what she’d said. “Being born without Original Sin doesn’t mean you’re incapable of doing something out of line. It’s the intent that’s crucial. No matter what you’ve done that you consider a sin, you didn’t do it for selfish reasons.”

  She moved, making Olga jump from her lap, and got to her feet to reach for the poker. I started to get up and do it for her, but realized she needed to be doing something while she talked. Muddling around in the coals, she shoved them this way and that before she set aside the poker and lifted a split log from the holder next to the fireplace. As she bent to set the log on the coals, I caught myself staring at her perfect ass and quickly looked away. I patted my leg in invitation to Olga, and she jumped up to settle on my thighs.

  Mariah was still jacking with the fire, still bent over. I willed the lights to dim, thinking it’d make her stand and look at me. But, no, she stayed there with the poker, trying to get the new log to catch.

  She didn’t turn when she spoke, and her voice was so soft and quiet, I almost didn’t hear her. “Did Kyros tell you about me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know about Emilian.”

  “He died in a fire he caused by passing out with a cigarette when he was drunk.”

  Gripping the poker like a weapon, she wheeled around, her eyes darker, but still devoid of what she was feeling. “I could have saved him,” she said in a low, even voice, “but I didn’t. I stood there and watched him die before I ran from the house. I stood in the road and watched that house of horrors burn to the ground and never blinked. Never felt the tiniest bit of remorse. I still don’t.” She turned and picked up the Stephen King book, set it on her chair, then picked up a smaller book that had been beneath. Turning back, she tossed it in my lap, eliciting a grouchy meow from Olga. I looked down and saw it was a photo album.

  “You’re holding the only things I saved. I had time to go back to my room and retrieve the photos and my cat. I didn’t call for help, didn’t scream, didn’t do anything until I was certain he had to be dead. Then I ran downstairs and out the door.”

  Abruptly turning back to the fire, she was much more aggressive with the log. I hoped it’d catch fire soon. She was going to hurt herself if she beat on it much longer.

  I opened the photo book, looked at the first page and quickly closed it, along with my eyes, but the image of her as a small child, smiling as she held Jordan’s hand, was burned into my brain. How long was it after this picture was taken that Emilian broke her little arm? I struggled for control. I couldn’t lose it in front of her. Me flying into a furious rage was the last thing she needed.

  I opened my eyes and caught her staring at me.

  She waved the poker around. “I killed him the same as if I’d poured petrol on him and lit a match.”

  “You were motivated by survival instinct and the need to protect Jordan.”

  The poker lowered. “That’s how I’ve justified it to myself all these years, but there’s a part of me that rejoiced when he was gone. I hated him. I prayed every day that he’d die.”

  “God didn’t take him out because you asked him to. He didn’t take him out at all. Emilian did it to himself.”

  “I didn’t save him, and I could have.”

  “You sure take a lot
on yourself, Mariah. How do you know he hadn’t had a heart attack? He could have been dead before the fire started. He might have aspirated on his own vomit. Alcoholics do that.”

  “You just said that intent is everything. I intended to let him die, so whether or not he was still breathing isn’t relevant.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you played a part in his death. It’s not murder. If it was, there’d be intent to kill, and because you’re Anabo, you’re incapable of the intent. If by some odd twist in the cosmos you were able to intentionally kill him, you’d lose Anabo immediately. Your birthmark would disappear. Your glow would go away.”

  “So because I have an unusual birthmark and Sasha thinks I have good skin tone, I get a pass? God forgives me for letting a man die? That’s awesome. Maybe I should parlay this amazing gift into financial gain. I could rob a bank and still go to the front of the line at the pearly gates.”

  “You think you’re damned to Hell.”

  “Of course I am.” She dropped the poker back in the fireplace tool stand and walked around the room. “You have to swear never to tell Viorica about Emilian, about what I did.”

  “Whatever we talk about is between us and no one else, Mariah.”

  She sat at the end of the bed, stared at the floor for a moment, then stood and walked around some more. She stopped at the desk, picked up a bottle of Tylenol, shook it, turned it within her palms, tossed it from hand to hand. She wanted to say something, was searching for the right words.

  “You can trust me, Mariah.”

  Wrong thing to say. She set the bottle down and frowned at me. “You’re a son of Hell, a guy who made a snap judgment call and insulted me, and as soon as you figured out I’m not who you thought, that I can be your ticket to Heaven, here you are playing Mr. Understanding. Am I supposed to fall at your feet and trust you and love you? Suppose I was stupid enough to do that. How long before I’d wind up like the other girl?”