A rush of adrenaline coursed through me. The top of my head tingled, and I was breathless, as if I’d just run a mile. I stopped beside the desk to look across the room at him. “What does that mean? That it wasn’t personal? He didn’t actually hate me, he was just mad at his dad?” My voice grew progressively louder, until I was almost shouting. I couldn’t help it. “I was small and helpless and therefore a convenient punching bag?”
“I’m sure he hated you. He hated everyone and everything, and blamed the world for all his difficulties. His father was somebody in the communist party before the Romanian revolution, and they had more money than most, but by the time Emilian died, he’d spent all of what his father left to him.”
Breathing hard, my hands clenched, my heart raced, and I was so hot, I began to sweat. I continued pacing, my mind a jumble of scattered boxes, all the lids off, all the memories crowding into my head. “He never talked about his family. He never talked about much of anything. He’d stare at television for hours, and drink and smoke, and sometimes go out to buy more vodka. And eat. Nadia always cooked huge meals and they’d eat and I’d clean up, but only after she’d thrown all the leftovers in the garbage. She told me I was getting too fat and didn’t need to eat. This from a woman who was three times Emilian’s size. She’d bake – always baking, and it smelled so delicious, and she’d tell me if I would finish my chores in some impossible amount of time, I could have some. I never did, and she’d sit there like a giant cow and stuff all that food in her face and laugh at me. She’d laugh and laugh. And I was so hungry, I’d beg, like a ravening dog.” I stopped pacing and sucked in a deep breath. “Sometimes, she’d take what she didn’t eat and throw it in the yard, in the dirt, and I’d eat it, Phoenix. I ate dirt because I was so fucking hungry.”
“How old were you?”
“It started when I was eight.” I took off again, pushing my hands through my hair, shaking with rage or relief – I wasn’t sure which. “I’d wait until they went to bed, then go to the rubbish bin and pull things out to eat. If I pilfered from the pantry, I was punished. She spent all day cooking, reading gossip magazines, and watching the TV in her bedroom. I loved going to school because it was a respite from them. I’d volunteer every day to stay after and do something for the teacher, and I think they knew, because they always gave me some task that would keep me there a little bit longer. I fainted once from hunger and a doctor came and after that, I had free lunches at school. She was very kind, and wanted to help, but when she came by the house to see Emilian and Nadia, they wouldn’t open the door. He was so mad that she came, he locked me in the closet for a week. I used to pray to die. I wanted to die so much, and be with my parents, with God, where there’s no pain and no cruelty.” I grabbed the back of a chair and looked at him, at his handsome face, his dark eyes, and loved that there was no pity. No anger. Only acceptance. “But I didn’t die. I just kept living.”
“You’re here now, Mariah. Nothing and no one will ever hurt you again.”
I felt sick to my stomach. Shaky and anxious. “Talking about this is making me sad.”
“And mad.”
“And mad. Yes, mad. Furious. They had no reason, Phoenix. None at all. I was never a bad kid. I tried to make them like me, and it always backfired.” I walked around the chair, back to the desk, to the bathroom door, and back again. “They called me Anna’s accident because my mother was older when she had me. They said it was my fault my parents died, that they had to drive back and forth to Bucharest to find work to feed me and Viorica, and they were too tired because they were too old to have children, and that’s why they had the wreck and died. Nadia said they were stuck with me, and I got what I deserved because I’d killed my parents. Who says that to a little kid? Who’s that cruel and vile?” I stopped at the edge of the bed and met his dark gaze.
“You didn’t believe them, did you?”
“A part of me did. I missed them so much, and Viorica. I dreamed about her every night, standing there crying while I left her. I made bargains with God. If I could stand what Nadia and Emilian did to me, he had to make sure Viorica was safe. I hated not knowing. I went back to the orphanage at least a hundred times, hoping to see her in the play yard, but I never did. I knew later that she was adopted barely three months after she arrived, taken to the United States, given a new name, a new family. I was certain she forgot me. And our parents. And I wasn’t sad because that meant she also forgot Emilian and Nadia.”
“Was he cruel to her?”
“If she got in his way, but I tried to keep her away from him. I couldn’t always because he’d put me in a closet. I’d hear her scream, then cry for me, and it was more painful than when he hit me. I never regretted taking her to the orphanage.”
“Why did he put you in a closet?”
“To punish me, but whatever I’d done wrong never made any sense to me. Now that I’m grown, I realize he got off on it. He got some sick twisted enjoyment out of knowing I was in there, suffering. So many times, he’d lock me up, sometimes for days and days, in the dark, with no food or water, no toilet. And when he’d finally let me out, I’d beg for water, and he’d be so mad because I’d have peed myself, and he’d take off that belt and hit me over and over because I’d soiled the floor. Nadia would make me clean it up, even though I could barely stand because I was dehydrated. If I passed out, she kicked me until I woke up. I was so glad when she died. Then we came home from her funeral and I was alone with him, and because she was gone, I was the one who cooked, who bought the groceries. He stopped locking me in the closet. He stopped shouting at me and hitting me. Instead, he came to my room when he wasn’t too drunk and raped me, and the more afraid and angry I was, the better he liked it.”
I focused on the painting above the bed, a pastoral scene of the moors in Yorkshire, blooming with heather. “I hate him so much, and you are so wrong that I didn’t mean to kill him. I did, and I watched his horrible, cold, cruel hands shrivel up in that fire and felt nothing but joy. I laughed like an insane person, because I knew he’d never touch my sister, never hurt me again, and I will never be sorry I didn’t save him. Never. I hope he’s in Hell.”
“He is.”
“Maybe I’ll be there, too, and maybe I’ll deserve that, but it will be worth it. I’d dance with Lucifer himself if it meant sending the evil bastard to the lowest pit of Hell.”
Phoenix murmured into the quiet of the room, “Rage of angels.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to Hell, Mariah.”
Hearing something in his voice that wasn’t simply a reassurance, I looked at him, only then realizing I had tears on my face. Ignoring them, I said, “How do you know?”
“I asked my father.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, got to his feet and came to me. He grasped my arms in his big, warm hands. “Emilian was dead already when the fire started. He had plans that night to kill you, and himself, but he was so drunk, he couldn’t find his knife.”
“He couldn’t find it because I hid it.”
“He lit a cigarette and had a stroke a few seconds later, fell on his bed, and it went up in flames. When you saw him, he was already gone, and people don’t go to Hell for being glad someone kicked it, or failing to move a dead body out of a fire.”
“But I didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. If my father says he’s not coming for you when your time comes, he’s not lying. He knows. Ease up on yourself, Mariah, and leave Emilian to Hell.”
I blinked up at him, feeling such tremendous relief, I was exhausted. “Don’t stare.”
“Why? Are you embarrassed to cry? Don’t be. You need to cry for a long, long time.”
“I hate . . . crying.”
“I know.” Bending, he picked me up, then sat on the bed and settled me on his lap to hold me close while I sobbed like a child.
Chapter 12
~~ Phoenix ~~
She cried herself to sleep. Whi
le I held her soft body next to mine, I listened to the hum of Olga’s purr and relived every moment of the past hour, since the instant I woke to the sound of her rapid breathing. She’d been straight as an arrow, stiff as a board, every muscle in her body tensed, and I knew what she dreamed, what was happening to her in her mind. I told her to wake up and she asked how I was there. Still asleep, she brought me into her dream. And Emilian disappeared. She lifted her shirt in her sleep to see that he hadn’t cut her, and unknowingly showed me what I was certain no one had ever seen. No one but Emilian. Both of her breasts had been severely mutilated, large sections of flesh missing, healed over with angry red scars.
I drew her closer against me and swallowed hard, blinking back tears.
I’d never felt rage like that. Never. I have no idea how I had remained so calm, except that I was determined to focus on her, to help her. But Jesus God, in all the centuries of chasing lost souls and witnessing the horrors they inflicted on others, I’d never felt this kind of helpless fury, this bone deep grief. She was so soft and gentle. How could anyone hurt her like that? I couldn’t fathom the pain she’d suffered.
Healing her had been almost impossible to do without losing it. I’d wanted to cry and shout and hit the wall and break things. She wasn’t aware, but I had held her as close as possible and nearly squeezed her to death because it was all I could do to keep myself grounded.
Then she told me all the things he did to her and it was infinitely worse than anything I’d imagined.
M’s words came back to me. “. . . nothing you’ve lived through in a thousand years of life could help you understand what she has endured, because you’ve never been overpowered or helpless. Let her use all that rage to her advantage. Teach her to fight.”
I’d thought altering her gentleness was the wrong thing to do, and I still wasn’t completely comfortable with it, but now, knowing what she had to live with in her memories, I wondered if having the ability to kick ass and take names would make it better, make her feel empowered, even if only to fight in her dreams?
It made sense, but for one problem: me. It always came back to the problem of me. Mariah becoming Mephisto meant I was her only choice, and now more than ever, I knew I could never be with her. If I turned my back on my past, on what I owed to Jane, what I’d promised Lucifer, and went after Mariah, there would come a day when she’d know all my secrets. She’d despise me, and I wouldn’t blame her, but by then, she’d be stuck with me, with no way out.
I looked down at her beautiful face and wished all over again that I was different, that I could deserve her.
But wishes are worth exactly what you pay for them.
I began to make a plan, and the more I thought about it, the more certain I was that this would work. It would kill me to do it, but my life was totally screwed anyway. I would do this for her, to make her whole again, and whatever it did to me, I’d just have to deal. If I couldn’t deal, there was always death. And eternity with Lucifer.
I recognized that it might come to that without my death. What I planned would either go off without a hitch, or infuriate Lucifer so much, he’d take me out without blinking.
But I had to try. For Mariah.
When she stirred in my arms, I stood, turned and laid her on the bed. As I smoothed the covers over her, she opened her eyes and looked up at me solemnly. “You’re upset.”
“No.”
“Liar.” She closed her eyes. “I got carried away telling you things, and now I feel awkward.”
“You can feel anything you like, but you should never feel awkward with me.”
“But you’ve seen my . . . and I told you everything. I’ve never told anyone. I didn’t even tell Father Michael about Emilian.”
I sat next to her and held her small hand in mine, tracing the half-moon cuts with my finger, healing as I went. “You regret telling me because you think it changes how I see you, but it doesn’t, Mariah. You’re Anabo, intended for me, so it’s my instinct to want you, and extremely difficult not to act on that. But it’s more than just instinct. I genuinely like you. You’re not afraid of me. You call me on my bullshit.”
“Only because you said we should be honest with each other.”
I reached for her other hand and traced the cuts to heal them. When I was done, I let go and stretched out next to her, propped up on one elbow so I could look into her face. “I don’t feel sorry for you, if that’s what you think. It’s not in my nature to feel sorry for people, even an Anabo. I wish it had been different, and I wish I could fix you and make it all go away so you wouldn’t be in so much pain, but as much as anything, I’m enraged, and even that has more to do with me than you. It grieves me that he’s dead, only because I will never have the satisfaction of killing him.”
“You would do that, even though he wasn’t a lost soul? Wouldn’t you be in trouble?”
“Lucifer has a strict rule against killing people who aren’t lost souls, so yes,” I slid my fingers into her so soft hair and rubbed my thumb across her lower lip, “I’d be taken out and sent straight to Hell. But I’d do it anyway, and he’d know who I am and why I’d want him dead.”
“I’m glad he’s already dead. I’d be sad if you went away.”
“Would you?”
She nodded and looked at my mouth. “Are you going to kiss me?”
“Yes. Close your eyes.”
She did, and her trust made me feel like crying again. Great God, between Key and I, we would turn the Mephisto into a pansy party. But I didn’t cry. I bent my head to hers and took my time. Her scent was intoxicating. Her skin was smooth and tinged with pink in her cheeks, because she was anxious, maybe embarrassed. I touched my lips to hers, just barely, and even that tiny touch made my whole body tighten. I thought about viruses. I thought about algebra. I thought about a thousand things that would steer my mind away from where it wanted to go.
Feeling stronger, I turned my head slightly and kissed her. A sweet, chaste Jimmy Stewart movie kiss.
Redirecting my thoughts made no difference. Absolute awareness of who she was and what she’d been through didn’t change anything. The sweetness of the kiss was irrelevant. Desire streaked through me, taking my breath away. I lifted my head, closed my eyes and prayed to a God who couldn’t hear me to give me patience; give me what I needed to not screw this up. I’d known it would be like this. I’d known, but did it anyway. For her.
“Phoenix? Are you done?”
That made me smile, which did give me a drop of relief. I opened my eyes and looked into hers, noticing they were a shade lighter than they’d been only moments ago. “Not yet.”
“I thought there must be more. Although that was very nice.” She closed her eyes. “Do it again.”
I did. Several times. Always gentle, no tongues. I was just thinking this was going okay, certain I had complete control over what lay sleeping inside of me, when she curled her arm around my neck and rolled to her side, flush against me. I’d failed to put my shirt back on, which meant the only thing between me and her soft, round perfect breasts was the skimpy top that went with her pajama bottoms. It was half falling off.
I imagined a tiny army in my head, lifting their swords and spears to Heaven, shouting Freedom!
They should have been shouting Get away from her!
Amazing what we can convince ourselves of when want collides with responsibility; justifications that would never hold up under rational scrutiny. I hadn’t touched a female in a sexual way in 125 years. A pure-hearted Lumina would have been sorely tempted. I was a son of Hell, capable of unimaginable things. All I wanted to do was touch her. Just this once. What could it hurt?
I slid my arm around her, drew her still closer, and nudged her lips open with my tongue. The part of me that was standing back and shaking his head wanted her to be shocked and pull away. He was doomed to disappointment. Mariah touched my tongue with hers, hesitant for a nanosecond before she moved her head and took the plunge.
Our teeth
bumped and she laughed against my mouth. “Is this the awkward part?” she whispered.
“It’s the awesome part,” I replied.
She kissed me again, and maybe she’d never done it, maybe I was out of practice, but damn it was hot. At no time had I ever enjoyed a kiss that much. The tiny army was cheering.
And other things were happening even more than before. I was becoming shaky, hot, and sweaty. My body wanted what it hadn’t had in over a century; primed, ready, and beginning to be pissed off at me for not cooperating.
I know she could feel me. How could she not? Wasn’t she afraid? I tried to move my hips back a little, but she followed. We were tighter than two coats of paint. “Mariah.”
“It’s okay. You said it does that even when you don’t want it to.”
So trusting. If she had an inkling what was racing through my mind, she’d shove me off the bed.
But she didn’t. With her delicious mouth on mine, I slipped my hand beneath the thin fabric of her top to cup one breast.
The wee army went wild.
I unequivocally decided there was nothing in the world as soft as Mariah’s breast; full enough to fill my hand, with a pretty pink nipple that grew tense beneath my fingers. I needed to stop, had to move my palm away from her perfect, lush . . .
She drew back an inch and looked right into my eyes. “You don’t have to be nervous. You’ve already touched them once this morning.”
“That was different.”
Sliding her fingers through my hair to hold my head, she smiled up at me. “You fixed them. I think that gives you the prerogative to touch them if you want to.”
If I wanted to? I’d give up breathing. “It doesn’t bother you?”
“They’ve been hurt for so long, I tried my best to ignore them. I couldn’t actually feel anything that touched them. Nerve damage, probably.” Her eyes were sleepy and dreamy. “But now, your hand is so strong and warm, and that feels . . . it’s just . . . lovely.” Blowing my mind completely, she slid the top up and over her head and tossed it away. Her arms went around me, mine went around her, and skin to skin, we kissed again. The scent of heather was all around, making me euphoric.
The Mephisto Mark: The Redemption of Phoenix Page 20
