The Mephisto Mark: The Redemption of Phoenix

by Trinity Faegen

  He barely blinked, but I knew he lied when he said, “I’m here for a family funeral. Jordan’s rabbit was torn up because of me, an accident, and she’s so attached to it, I thought it’d make her happy if I found where it was made and took a picture. I didn’t expect to find out so much, but now that I know, I’d like to have the whole story.”

  Why did he lie? I supposed he didn’t trust me any more than I trusted him. But he was in love with my sister, and since he had the bunny, she must feel something for him. He was determined to tell her about me. My only hope of convincing him to keep quiet was to tell him the whole bloody truth. When he knew, when he understood, he’d change his mind, I was certain.

  I focused on the button again and took a deep breath.

  Speaking of it meant remembering. I hated him for coming to Romania, for walking into Gustav’s, for digging and asking and making me do this. I carefully drew a very old box from the deepest recesses of my mind and hesitantly lifted the lid. “My mother’s cousin, Nadia, was married to a horrible man named Emilian. We’d only been living there a week when he broke my arm. He’d get angry and lock me in a closet and wouldn’t give me any food for days at a time.”

  He clenched his hands into fists and I could feel anger roll off of him.

  I ignored it. “It’s said that very young children who are abused don’t know it’s not normal, because that’s all they know. So maybe if our parents hadn’t been so loving, I wouldn’t have understood how wrong it was. But I knew he was evil, and as much as I hated what he did to me, I couldn’t bear watching him torment Viorica. She was so happy, so sweet, and I didn’t want what happened to me to happen to her. So I took her and ran away.”

  “Where did you go? Where did you plan to go?”

  “As you said, I was six. I had no plan. I just knew I had to get her out of there. Emilian was already pinching her hard enough to leave bruises. I sometimes wonder if God led me, because I took refuge inside a church that happened to have an orphanage. I hid there for two days, trying to decide if I should ask the priest for help, but I was afraid he’d call Emilian and we’d be sent back. I’d been watching what went on at the building across the street, the children in the play yard, and the nuns who looked after them. I realized those children lived there, that they had no parents, no family. So I took Viorica late in the night and left her on the doorstep, rang the bell, then hid to watch, to make sure the nuns took her in.”

  The cars had long since passed, and I stepped off the curb, restless and anxious to get home. I wanted him to go away. I wanted to shove all of this night into a box and go to sleep and when I woke up tomorrow, it’d be life as usual.

  “Why did you leave her?” Kyros asked. “Why didn’t you stay, as well?”

  If only that had been an option. “I knew if I didn’t go back and make up a story about Viorica, Nadia would search for us, and she might look where orphans live.” I stared down at the sidewalk as we traveled from one rundown part of Bucharest to another. The air was frigid, and I buried my hands deeper in the pockets of my old coat, wishing I had fur-lined gloves like Gustav’s. “So I went back and told her I had gotten lost when Viorica and I followed a dog down the street. We couldn’t find our way home, and when we were in a crowd of people, a lady picked up my sister and took her away. Maybe because Viorica was such a beautiful child, Nadia believed my story. She made a halfhearted attempt to find her, but I know they were glad to be rid of her.”

  “Didn’t they call the police?”

  He didn’t get it. Not yet. I glanced up at him. “Emilian wouldn’t let Nadia call.”

  “What about neighbors? Didn’t anyone ask what happened to your sister?”

  “If anyone noticed one of us was missing, they must have assumed she’d been visiting or something. We’d only been there two months when I ran away. And even if they were curious, no way they would have knocked on the door and asked. Emilian and Nadia never spoke to their neighbors and had no friends. You really can’t imagine what horrible people they were.”

  “You’d be surprised. I’m kind of an expert on evil people.”

  It hit me then what it was about Kyros that was so odd, what set him apart from other guys. There was an air of darkness about him, a faint but distinct feeling of doom. I checked him out as we walked. “You seem . . . different. How do you know my sister?”

  “It’s a long story.” As we turned a corner, he asked, “Didn’t Emilian and Nadia recognize Jordan when her adoptive father became president, and she became a public figure?”

  There it was, the question I’d known he’d ask, that I’d tried to prepare for. Didn’t matter. This box I had hidden deep and well, but I could never completely lose it. That it existed at all was my certain damnation. It was why I never attended mass. Hadn’t since . . . “Nadia died from cancer before he was elected president, but yes, Emilian knew it was Viorica, and he had big plans to demand money in exchange for not taking her back. He also wanted to extort money for his silence. How would it look if the American president had adopted a child with legitimate guardians? That President Ellis didn’t know wouldn’t have made any difference, because there would be people who’d insist he did know. Emilian would have threatened to go public, and play up how Viorica was stolen from him. I was so afraid for her. She didn’t know any of this, and having that slime crawl out of the gutter and come after her family . . . I couldn’t let it happen. By then, I was almost fourteen, and after all that time, after what I did to save her from Emilian, I wasn’t going to let him screw up her life.”

  “How did you stop him?”

  I killed him. “It turned out I didn’t have to do anything. He died when his house burned down. He was a drunk, and a smoker. He passed out with a cigarette, and that was that.”

  “When did Nadia die?”

  “When I was twelve. After she was gone, Emilian started . . .” I paused, horrified by what I’d almost said. Had I been that close to saying it? Kyros’s peculiarity was getting to me. “Everything got worse,” I finished lamely.

  He fell quiet and I wondered if he guessed. He was young, but an old soul. I had a feeling Kyros knew about men like Emilian.

  He asked in a low, hoarse voice, “After he died, what did you do?”

  “I lived with the woman across the road, who wasn’t unkind, but she expected me to work for my keep. I cooked and cleaned, and when I was old enough, I went to work for her son.”

  “Gustav?”

  I nodded. “He’s gruff and hard, but generous, and he makes sure none of the customers get out of hand. About six months ago, his mother passed on and he sold her house. That’s when I got my own apartment.”

  “Are you . . . with someone?”

  “No. I’m never going to be with someone. I don’t even date.” I shot him another glance. “I don’t like men.”

  “You mean, you’re—”

  “No, I just don’t like guys. You saw, in the bar. You know. And after Emilian . . .” I couldn’t possibly be close to anyone, ever. I was dirty. Damaged. And the thought of . . . no. I was absolutely content to be alone. I determinedly slid the lid back on that box and shoved it where it belonged, in the darkest part of my mind. “So, are you going to tell me how you met my sister, and about her kidnapping, and who you really are? Because I’m pretty sure you’re not a regular guy.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “There’s something about you, a little bit spooky. No offense.”

  “None taken. As soon as we get to your apartment and you get your cat, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Panic returned. “What do you mean, get my cat? Do you think I’m going somewhere with you?”

  “I’ll explain when we get there, and you can decide if you want to go, or not.”

  He could explain whatever, but no chance I was going anywhere with him. Especially if it involved seeing my sister. I had to convince him to keep my existence a secret from her. “Just so you know, if you didn’t have her bunny, I
wouldn’t be taking you to where I live, and I wouldn’t have told you anything. I don’t ever talk about her with anyone.”

  “How do you know it’s the same bunny?”

  Because I still saw it in my dreams, my little sister’s arms around him while she watched me back away from the orphanage steps, her lip trembling. She cried and tried to follow. I told her I’d be back to get her in the morning, that she just needed to keep the nuns company for a little while, but she knew I lied. She was so smart, even as a tiny child. With tears on her round cheeks, she held her bunny and watched me disappear into the shadows.

  But I didn’t say any of that to Kyros. I simply said, “Viorica’s initials are embroidered inside his ear.”

  We reached my building, and he followed me inside and up seven flights of unsteady stairs without comment. It was past three in the morning, but some of my neighbors were up, loud music coming from behind several of the doors along my hallway, the guy in 742 shouting at his girlfriend, and somewhere, glass broke.

  As soon as I opened the door and stepped inside my very tiny apartment, Olga wound between my legs, meowing her greeting. I picked her up and turned, about to introduce her to Kyros when he reached for my arm. Before I could pull away or tell him to back off, everything went dark and the floor disappeared.

  I sucked in a harsh breath, too stunned to scream.

  Seconds later, my feet were once again on solid ground and light returned. Except I was no longer in my apartment.

  Where was I? How had he brought me here? Confused and angry, I clutched Olga against my chest and stepped back from Kyros. “Holy God, what just happened?” I dashed a look around what appeared to be a circular grand hall. Very grand. My brain registered rosewood and gilt, life-size portraits, and a vast expanse of white marble decorated with an ornate inlaid onyx M, where I now stood. To my left was a grand staircase, to the right, a gigantic door. A domed ceiling soared three floors above me, painted with angels and clouds.

  Kyros was about to say something, but a deep voice from above distracted him. I knew very little English, but I understood two words I’d read in a badly translated Dickens novel: Yorkshire and heather.

  Then a girl spoke and I understood nothing of what she said.

  A couple appeared at the top of the stairs. They caught sight of me and instantly stopped moving, staring at me with shocked expressions. She was blond and beautiful, tall and graceful, and there was something different about her that I noticed immediately. All around her, the atmosphere seemed a tiny bit brighter. It was astonishing and I wondered what would make her body do that. Where was this place? Fairyland? Maybe I’d been hit on the head and was dreaming this. Or maybe I was struck by a car and was now dead on the street, and my spirit was on the other side. But, no, that couldn’t be. No way a girl like that would be in Hell.

  By contrast, the guy next to her looked exactly as I imagined a guy from Hell. His eyes were black as midnight and he had a ferocious scowl. He was tall and broad with dark features very similar to Kyros’s. His brother. This had to be his brother. Was Miss Glowlight his sister? Or was she attached to the brother?

  Did I care? Not really. I wanted to be taken home. I had to work two shifts tomorrow and I needed sleep. And food. I also needed to wash out my pants so I could wear them again. I only had the one pair, and a pair of jeans, but Gustav didn’t like me to wear jeans at work. I had a lot to do, and being brought to this freaky place in the middle of the night was not on the list.

  The girl asked Kyros a question in English, her voice communicating a note of wonder. I caught “Jordan’s sister,” but didn’t understand anything else. She continued talking and asking questions as she hurried down the stairs toward me.

  Her companion, Sir Frownsalot, stayed on the top step, completely still.

  She said something to me, and all I caught was the name, Sasha. Then she turned to Kyros with a brilliant smile and exclaimed in an excited voice. I imagined she said something like, “We need an exhausted barmaid with a cat! How clever of you to bring her!”

  Looking skeptical, Kyros jerked his gaze to me and said in Romanian, “I don’t think so, Sasha. She’s exceptional, but not Anabo.”

  Of course I wasn’t Anabo. I was Romanian. And furious. Olga meowed in protest when I squeezed her too tightly.

  Smiling at me, the blond rattled off more meaningless words.

  Equally bewildered and irritated, I said, “I don’t speak English.”

  She nodded and said in Romanian, “I’m Sasha. Poor thing, you look scared to death. Please don’t be. You’re safe here.”

  My definition of safe and hers were miles apart. I said to Kyros, “Please take me home.”

  “I know this is confusing,” he said, “but no one’s going to hurt you, I swear it.”

  Getting hurt wasn’t the issue. I didn’t feel threatened. But I’d been brought here against my will. I was in a weird place with strangers – and no one asked. I didn’t get the chance to say no. Old anger surged and I clasped Olga tighter, forcing it back in the box. Anger never helped. It brought more pain. Always.

  Kyros asked the guy at the top of the stairs, “Can you see it, Phoenix?”

  See what?

  His expression had changed from anger to disbelief. He was staring hard at me, as if he was powerless to look away. “No, but I can feel . . . I can . . .” His voice was low and rough.

  Spellbound by his black eyes, I forgot to be upset about Kyros bringing me here against my will. I lost the thread of wondering how he’d done it. The beautiful girl faded, along with the exquisite grand hall and every conscious thought but one: the guy named Phoenix despised me. His loathing slid down the wide staircase to wrap around me, making my breath catch, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t not stare back. I couldn’t stop the shiver in my belly. And I couldn’t fathom why someone I’d never seen before would hate me this much.

  Chapter 2

  September 6, 1888

  Yorkshire, England

  Standing with my brothers, circling the Mephisto M in the center of the great hall’s flagstone floor before we leave for London and what promises to be an excruciatingly difficult and exhausting takedown, I’m surrounded by the scent of heather. Mathilda had the Purgatories who serve as housemaids go out to the moors and gather up great bunches of the tiny purple flowers, which are now stuffed into vases and crockeries all about the house. I know I will never smell heather and not think of Yorkshire. It is wild and beautiful, sometimes savage, though more accommodating than Russia and infinitely more jolly than Greece, but perhaps I only think so because these are modern times. Greece was almost nine hundred years ago, after all, and we haven’t lived in Russia since just after Catherine the Great died.

  Key looks at me and each of my brothers in turn, silently communicating his expectations and his authority. He does this before every takedown and I’m always reminded of a wolf pack, of the alpha asserting his superiority. It’s needless with Kyros. We accept that he’s leader of the Mephisto, but he’s compelled to give us this look, and waits for a nod before moving on to the next brother.

  We will take out the lost souls tonight, and tomorrow we’ll begin planning the next takedown. It never stops, never ends.

  I feel energized by the scent of the heather, anxious to be gone.

  Jax says into our silence, “On three.” He begins to count.

  Moments later, I’m standing at the entrance to the Duchess of Rothschild’s ballroom, cloaked so no one can see me. The last time I was here was to attend a masquerade ball held by the sixth Duke of Rothschild, and we were not invisible – only disguised. My brothers and I wore masks and pretended to be Russian aristocrats. We danced and drank champagne and every single one of us found a bed partner for the evening; even Zee, who generally finds it difficult to speak to females without offending them.

  Tonight’s ball is held by the eighth Duke of Rothschild, a celebration to commemorate his second wife’s thirtieth birthday. This night
, we aren’t here to dance, or look for willing girls. We’re here to take out seventy-nine people who were faithless and gullible enough to hand their souls to Eryx.

  I scan the sea of color swirling around the dance floor, searching for our oldest brother. Key had said Eryx might be on to our plan, that he might show up and attempt to stop us. In all the smiling, flushed faces, I don’t see Eryx’s. I’m relieved, but to be absolutely sure, I concentrate carefully, mentally searching for him. His location comes to me in little waves of awareness. He’s nowhere close to London. I stay focused and eventually I know he’s in the mountains of Romania, walking the halls of Erinýes. He won’t be interfering with tonight’s takedown. He doesn’t know. I feel glad, and smug. This one is huge – he will lose a large group of his followers after we’re done.

  At the far end of the room, just behind the musicians’ dais, Jax holds up a finger, then two, then three, and as one, he and I throw a freeze across the entire Mayfair house. The music and the dancers instantly stop and all conversation ceases. The only movement in the large room is by us and three Skia, Eryx’s immortal minions who convinced the other seventy-six souls to turn their backs on God and follow their master. Our inability to freeze Skia and their ability to see past our cloaks never fails to hamper takedowns, and tonight is no exception.

  Giles St. John sees me scarce seconds after the freeze and grabs his frozen dance partner around the neck. “I’ll snap her like a twig,” he threatens.

  “Go ahead,” Key says, winding his way through the stiff, still crowd toward St. John. “Just know that no matter what you do in the next two minutes, it won’t change your fate.”

  St. John lets go of the woman and makes a mad dash toward the terrace doors, but Key pops there before him and easily overtakes him, disappearing immediately.