I take another sip of his fine whiskey. ‘Just found out today that I’m not a Barrington.’
His jaw drops. Well, at least I know now that he didn’t know. ‘What?’
‘Yeah, apparently I’m not a Barrington.’
He recovers fast, I’ll give him that. He snaps his mouth shut and goes silent for a bit while all kinds of thoughts pass through his head and flash across his eyes. All of them self-serving. ‘Who told you?’
‘Victoria.’
His eyes narrow. Disappointment? ‘Isn’t she in an asylum for the insane?’
‘She had DNA results.’
He leans forward, his eyes gleaming. He looks like a man who can hardly believe his luck. I haven’t seen this side of him. ‘Have you…verified the results?’
‘No need to. I always knew I was different.’
He leans back. His voice is dry. ‘You weren’t different. Quinn was different.’
‘Anyway, the reason I’m here is because I want to walk away from being a Barrington heir. I want you to take over my portfolios and generally find a replacement for me in the Barrington hierarchy. The only thing I will retain are my own personal investments and Quinn’s portfolio.’
He looks at me strangely, suspiciously. Once, I called this man my brother. Today I am about to see his real face. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’ve got hours to kill,’ he says languidly.
I explain what happened so far and as I speak Marcus exhales slowly, looks into his whiskey, shoots it, and goes back to the sparkling chrome and glass bar. He lets his glass hit the surface too loudly and winces. He sloshes whiskey carelessly into the glass, spills it on the gleaming surface. He brings the glass blindly to his lips, takes a sip and swallows. He is drunk on my misfortune.
‘Any lawyer worth his salt will tell you—any contract you sign under duress can be easily declared null and void.’
‘That’s just the thing. I want out.’
‘What do you mean when you say you want out?’ he asks casually. As if I could be spooked into changing my mind.
‘I’m walking away from it all.’
He takes a large gulp, swallows and coughs. ‘All?’
‘All.’ I stare at him curiously. Was I once like this? Was nothing ever enough for my insatiable lust for more? ‘Well, anything that is not already in my name,’ I confirm.
He makes a disbelieving sound. ‘You’ll be a pauper.’ But I notice that he is not trying too hard to persuade me, otherwise. Simply gauging how serious I am.
‘Hardly.’
‘Well, you know what I mean.’ There. There is that self-serving smile again.
‘Yes, by your standards, I will.’
‘Then you’ll need a job. You can run the business for me.’
Strange, how I never saw the supercilious arch of his eyebrow, that condescending tilt of his chin. For the first time I see what my father or rather my stepfather saw. A greedy, grasping man of dissolute tastes who can’t even pretend to lead. A spineless fool without even a whiff of what it takes to sit at the front of a dynasty as vast and powerful as the Barrington’s.
I smile. ‘No. I’d like to strike out on my own. Do something different.’
‘You sound like Quinn.’
‘You’ll manage.’
‘I really need you, Blake. I’ll make it worth your while.’
I look at him and I am glad that he is not my brother. He wants to hire me as his employee. ‘Sorry, Marcus, but I’m sure you’ll forge new alliances.’
‘You’re just going to walk away from it all?’ He is pleased with his good luck, but seems angered and irritated by my decision not to work for him. Later, when he is at the bottom of the bottle, it might occur to him to make it all legal as soon as possible.
I shrug. ‘Yeah.’
He frowns, genuinely confused. ‘Why?’
‘When I was younger, the idea that all of nature—humans, animals, flowers, trees, mountains, rivers, galaxies, even universes—is nothing more than self-replicating fractals of an interactive biological software program based on golden ratio or the Fibonacci spiral was depressing. We are all animated mathematical constructs of great precision. It took the magic out of creation. I understood I was in a geometric prison, but I didn’t know how I could escape it. Until recently. Now I find new beauty and astonishment whenever I act out of autopilot. Whenever I leave the hive mentality, stop being a predator or lead a life of love and harmlessness.’
‘Because of her?’ he asks, his voice edged with some deep rage.
Ah, that’s where the irritation comes from. He is envious of what I have with Lana. ‘Don’t go there, Marcus,’ I warn, watching him over the rim of my glass.
Twenty-Three
Blake Law Barrington
“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. When, then, did he come?”
—Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of the Four (1980)
My mother lives overlooking Central Park in an apartment that takes up three entire floors. The ceilings are twenty-three feet high, the windows are ceiling to floor, and the endless views are quite literally breathtaking. Darkness has already fallen and the city lies a glitzy carpet of lights below me. I gaze down at the beautiful sight and feel crumpled and jaded.
A maid brings sage tea flavored with honey and warm brioches filled with foie gras and bacon curls. By the time my mother makes her fantastically elegant entrance, I have already been cooling my heels for fifteen minutes. I turn around to watch her sweep dramatically into the room, porcelain white, blonde and flawless, and remember her, when she used to dress in floor-length evening gowns and was what you would call an all-star beauty. Among other things she wore coats made out of ocelots. The memory leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
She smiles ruefully. ‘Have I kept you waiting long?’
My mouth twists. ‘Not at all.’
She sinks languidly onto a sofa, and after dutifully kissing either side of her smooth and perfumed cheeks, I take the seat opposite hers. She curls her fingers delicately into a half fist and lifts it to her mouth to conceal a sigh. Everything about her is designed to disguise the predatory gleam in her eyes.
‘There is a Byzantine church in Syria, called The Heart of the Almond. Imagine such a name for a church.’
‘Did Marcus call you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, are you going to tell me who my father is? Or are we going to discuss obscure churches in Syria?’
She thinks for a moment, her eyes secretive slits of blue. ‘Have you ever dreamed of a bird or an animal with glowing red eyes?’
I am unprepared for the question. If I had, my reaction would have been totally different. I would have schooled my expression. But as I wasn’t, she saw the unguarded expression of shock. Even though I shake my head, she pins me with her eyes, suddenly avid and glittering with excitement.
‘You have, haven’t you?’
Why she would be pleased about such dreams, I don’t know, but I consider them nightmares. Since I was a boy I have been trapped in dreams where I am being chased by a massive black horse with red eyes. It chases me through open fields, I can hear it snorting and breathing hard on my heels. Sometimes I will make it into an abandoned house or barn and I will lock myself in there and cower while the horse thunders its hooves at the door. Petrified, I will stare at the door as it rattles and shakes. That is usually when I wake up in a cold sweat.
‘Do you know how lucky you are?’
Lucky? I am robbed of all words.
‘That is the ultimate goal. To allow the master to inhabit our souls. Your father allowed it.’ Her eyes become misty with the memory. ‘Sometimes you could see Him looking out of his eyes
. He would look out at you, alive and living, in a human form. It is the thing we do for Him. We allow him to walk the earth in human form. It is why we keep our bloodline pure. If we sully it by mixing our blood with impure lines he will no longer be able to possess us. It is the reason we have all this power. It is our reward. Ultimate power over all of mankind.’ Her voice changes, becomes wheedling. ‘You don’t know what it feels like. You must allow him to take you over.’
I stand and take a few steps away from her. ‘But I’m not a bloodline, am I?’
She laughs suddenly. The sound is sarcastic and taunting. ‘You’re a fool, Blake. I never imagined you would be so blind. Can’t you guess that your bloodline is by far purer than the Barrington bloodline?’
I stare at her with surprise. My chest feels as if it is on fire. ‘Who is my real father?’
‘Do you really need me to spell it out for you?’ She seems genuinely surprised that I don’t know.
‘Yes, God damn it,’ I say harshly. ‘Spit it out.’
‘Your biological father is Hugo.’
‘Hugo?’
‘Yes, Hugo Montgomery.’
Hugo Montgomery! For a moment nothing makes sense. Time stops. The whole world outside my mother’s living apartment ceases to exist. We are splendidly isolated and perched high in the sky. I stare at her. She stares back with an expression remarkable only for its lack of emotion. Her eyes are indifferent blue stones. Then the antique clock on the mantelpiece above the seventeenth-century fireplace starts again.
‘What?’ I ask incredulously.
‘It’s not that startling, surely?’ she sighs.
‘But he’s Victoria’s father!’
‘Of course.’
‘Victoria is my sister?’
‘Half-sister.’
‘I was supposed to marry her?’
‘Which you didn’t do,’ she reminds in a silkily bored tone.
‘It would have been incest if I had,’ I counter angrily.
‘I never suspected you of being tedious.’
‘Why did the families want us to marry?’
‘For the bloodline. In your offspring would have run the purest blood of all.’
‘Does Victoria know?’
Her voice is very dry. ‘I believe she is still recovering from the shock of it even as we speak.’
‘Does Hugo know?’
She nods.
‘And… Father? Did he know?’
She looks at me disdainfully, and I marvel at her heartless, carefully expressionless mask. She is like one of those nimble mountain goats. Even on the most precipitous crags she never loses her nerve or her footing. She moves so casually yet so surely as she nibbles on tufts of grass among dangerously loose rocks.
‘We all did,’ she exclaims. ‘You didn’t imagine I had a sordid little affair with Hugo, did you? We planned it and we executed it for the good of the family.’
‘My God! You’re all mad.’
‘Madness is a subjective thing. At any rate, it would appear we failed, wouldn’t it?’
Twenty-Four
Lana Barrington
Julie comes to see me.
She hugs me. ‘I’m so sorry, Lana,’ she says.
But I am hollow-eyed. I don’t give a damn about people being sorry that my son has been taken from me. I want what I don’t have. I want information. I want to know what Vann has told her.
I offer her coffee and she accepts. We sit next to each other drinking coffee.
‘Blake will get him back,’ she tells me.
I put my cup down. ‘How do you know that?’ I ask.
She is not daunted by my question. ‘Because I understand what you do not.’
‘What? What do you understand?’ I demand, both my voice and manner more aggressive that I intended.
‘I know that Blake is special. Once when you were not there I saw him interact with someone that Vann said is very frighteningly powerful. He didn’t give an inch, and yet that frighteningly powerful man bowed to Blake. He has something they covet, Lana. They want or more likely need him. They will never let anything happen to him or Sorab.’
I look at Julie. ‘You know their agenda, don’t you?’
She nods unhappily.
‘Tell me what it is?’
She looks at me with pity in her eyes. ‘Oh, Lana. Blake does not tell you because it will grieve you.’
My fist connects with the table, so hard the coffee cups rattle. ‘Do you think anything you tell me will grieve me more than what I already feel?’
She looks me in the eye. She is brave. I’ll give her that. A lot braver than I gave her credit for. ‘There is always room for more grief.’
I crumple in shame. ‘Blake believes I am weaker than I am. I want to know.’
‘I hassled Vann for ages. I wanted to know. And in the end he told me and now I am not the same. I wish I had not asked. I wish I didn’t know.’
‘Why?’
She looks at me sadly. ‘Because there is not a single thing I can do about it.’
‘I’m not a child. I deserve to know.’
But Julie just shakes her head. ‘Trust Blake, Lana. He truly loves you. Everything he does is to protect you.’
I lean back in frustration. ‘OK, OK. Forget I asked. The truth is, I don’t care. I just want Sorab back.’
‘And you will,’ she says with total conviction. Conviction I wish I had.
By the time Billie arrives with a bottle of vodka, Julie is gone. She doesn’t say anything, simply finds two large water glasses and fills them up, spilling quite a bit. I can see that she is already more than half sloshed. She comes to the table where I am sitting and pushes a glass toward me. I shake my head.
‘Didn’t think you were afraid of a little vodka,’ she slurs.
Oh, what the hell! She’s right. Maybe this will help dull the pain. I take the glass and start drinking it like it is water. I can see Billie’s eyes widening.
Halfway down the glass, I have to stop. I feel sick. I put the glass down and look at Billie. ‘This is not going to help.’
‘You’re strung up tight like a bow. You need to loosen up.’
‘Loosen up? For what?’
‘It’s not your fault,’ she says.
‘What, no flip remark! You’re losing your touch, Billie.’
‘Um, yeah. Maybe.’ She looks sheepish.
I take a deep breath. The alcohol is already singing in my head. But I don’t feel any happier. In fact, I feel a bit sick. I put my head in my hands. ‘I don’t feel so good, Bill.’
‘Did you eat today?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Oh shit. Do you want something to eat now?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, I’ll put you to bed for a bit.’
In my bedroom I fall on the bed and lie on my side and groan.
‘Fuck, Billie, the room is spinning.’
‘It’s not really.’
I close my eyes and I feel Billie lie down beside me.
‘I miss that kid,’ she says and hiccups.
My heart does a little somersault. ‘Me too.’
‘He has the clearest, sweetest eyes. You could dive in and drown in them.’
‘Yeah.’ I smile to think of them. ‘I think of them as pieces of sky boiled down to fit into his irises.’
‘And he has this great cartoon chuckle.’
‘Cartoon chuckle? He has a great laugh.’
‘Oh God, don’t you go all “my son’s poo’s a better color than yours” on me now.’
My laughter is both drunken and sad.
‘I never wanted children until Sorab,’ she says.
That sobers me. We are both silent for a while. My limbs feel heavy and my head feels odd.
‘What the hell am I doing, Billie? Getting drunk at a time like this?’
‘Nothing. It was a bad idea of mine. Just go to sleep.’
‘Big stinking pile of smug. That was me.’
‘Stop it.�
�
‘Things between me and Blake are not good.’
I feel her body stiffen. ‘Did you argue?’
‘No. That’s just it. All the passion is gone from our relationship.’
Her body relaxes. ‘You’re a silly muffin, Lana,’ she chuckles.
‘You don’t understand, Bill,’ I insist.
‘When he comes back tomorrow, tell him you went to bed with me and we’ll see how far banker boy’s passion has fallen.’
I feel her hand come around my waist and her body spooning mine. Her big new boobs push into my back. They feel warm and firm and not uncomfortable. ‘Thanks, Billie,’ I mutter and wriggle closer to her. Almost immediately I feel myself slipping into sleep.
Hours later I feel Billie’s hand being removed and I half-open bleary eyes. My head is throbbing. Blake smiles at me.
‘You’re home early,’ I mumble.
‘And what a lucky thing I am.’ He carries me to the spare room, tucks me under the duvet and climbs in beside me.
‘Nobody gets to sleep with my little angel except me,’ he whispers and spoons my body exactly as Billie had.
Twenty-Five
Victoria Jane Montgomery
I lie on my bed and look at the moonless night and desperately wish the phoenix would come to me. There is no more peace for me since I found out that Blake is my half-brother, and I can’t have the revenge I had so carefully planned. When I think of what he has done to me, my blood boils.
Once I loved him. Now I want nothing more than my revenge. I keep dreaming that I am pouring boiling oil into Blake’s bitch’s belly button. She screams like crazy as her skin peels and her flesh and fat bubbles and cooks like a piece of steak on a grill.
God, I hate her so much.
If only the phoenix would come again to me. I can ask it for its blessing. For I am frightened. I feel that something strange is happening to me. I hear the sounds of knives being sharpened in my head and I’m afraid I am losing my grip on my sanity. Perhaps it is because I am locked up here with all these crazies that I am becoming one too.
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