“Ian!”
Everything--all the fear and horror of bloodied bodies and exploded buildings, old sins and precarious futures--fades away. Only Ian exists, in me, above me, possessing me. Even as I possess him. This is the power we share, what we are together, able to focus completely on one another in a way that I am convinced means we can withstand anything.
Convincing him of that will have to wait. My inner muscles spasm, the onset of orgasm burning through me. White. Hot. Bliss. He holds my gaze, holding me captive, my body, my mind, my soul, all his. As he is mine.
I rear up, drawn to the bead of sweat trickling down the ripped muscles of his torso. My tongue spears out, lapping at him. The taste of his skin explodes on my tongue. It’s a drug I will never get enough of and it tips me over the edge. The orgasm that tears through me is the most powerful I’ve ever experienced, fueled by terror, anger, and above all, the defiant decision to embrace life.
I cling to Ian as he joins me, his breath hot against my skin, both of us coming as one, alive and free.
Chapter Fourteen
Amelia
Waking, my eyes still closed, I reach out instinctively for Ian. My hand fumbles on cool sheets. His side of the bed is empty. I’m alone.
I sit up gingerly, aware of the delicious soreness in every inch of my body but especially between my thighs. I wince just a little but I can’t help smiling until I remember how hard I pushed Ian to take me to his bed. It’s all well and good for me to tell myself that we are better off facing his demons together but I have an urgent need for reassurance that in the cold light of morning he feels the same.
Anxious to find him, I dart out of the bed and into the shower. Twenty minutes later, dressed in a soft cotton blouse and matching short skirt that must have been brought down from the palazzo, I venture out into the vast apartment. I’m standing atop the tallest building in the city in which several tens of thousands of people work and live. Yet the world feels eerily empty until I hear the hiss of an espresso machine coming from the kitchen.
I head toward the sound only to stop in my tracks when I see the silver-haired gentleman standing at the stove. Hodgkin is formally dressed in dark trousers, a matching vest, and a pin-striped shirt. A charcoal gray apron is wrapped around his waist. It only serves to emphasize his military bearing, the legacy of an earlier life.
Hodge, as he’s better known, was introduced to me as the steward of Ian’s estate north of the city, the palazzo where I first awoke. Since then, I’ve come to realize that he’s much more. The soul of discretion but also of compassion and quiet understanding, he’s played a pivotal role in Ian’s life, guiding him away from the father who did him so much harm and toward the military that was the making of him. He’s always been gracious to me but I still feel more than a little self-conscious at encountering him now.
He sees my reflection in the stainless steel backdrop of the stove and turns. His normally hang-dog face creases in a warm smile that gives every evidence of being sincere.
“Good morning, Miss Amelia. I trust you’re hungry?”
Before I can respond, my stomach growls. The scents of bacon and coffee override every other consideration, at least for the moment.
“I’m starving.” Remembering my manners, I add, “It’s nice to see you again, Mister Hodgkin.”
“Please, miss,” he says, “Hodge will do. Mister Ian asked me to give you his apologies, he’s been called away to a briefing but he should return shortly. In the meantime, may I suggest breakfast on the terrace? The wind has died down and it’s a lovely day.”
I swallow my disappointment at Ian’s absence and nod. “That sounds lovely, thank you.”
Doors from the soaring great room lead out onto the terrace that wraps all the way around the lower floor of the penthouse. A table is set for two facing the harbor but before I sit down, I walk in the other direction until I am looking north toward the park.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to see but the scene takes me aback. If I squint, I can make out a few vehicles on the periphery of where the Crystal Palace stood hours before but I’m not even sure that they belong to the MPS. A strange normality has taken hold in stark contrast to the chaos and death of the previous night. Elsewhere in the city, the same holds true. Traffic moves smoothly through the streets below. No more than the usual number of surveillance drones are aloft. I’m so high up that the people look like small specks but even they appear to be moving around the city as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
Surely, they know what occurred. They must be talking among themselves about it, probably with great fear and dread. But where are the crowds that should be gathered, watching the authorities go about their investigation, and sharing theories stranger to stranger? Have they been banned? Is there some grand delusion at work? Or is what I’m seeing evidence that people are too afraid to show any reaction to the catastrophe that has made a mockery of their carefully nurtured illusion of safety?
I’m still puzzling about that when I return to the table. Hodge is setting out my breakfast.
“There you are, miss. Would you like coffee or do you prefer tea this morning?”
“Coffee, please, the stronger the better.”
He pulls out my chair for me, then fills my cup from a silver pot. “Will there be anything else, miss?”
I look down at the plate where an omelet oozing with cheese nestles besides several slices of crispy bacon. “This is more than enough but--”
I don’t want to eat alone. The servants at the McClellan family residence keep a careful distance that rebuffs any possible overtures of friendship before they can be offered. But Hodge is different. I sense that he could unbend if I just give him the opportunity.
“Would you join me?” I ask.
He looks surprised but not displeased. “I’ve already eaten, miss. However, I’ll be happy to keep you company.”
He doesn’t take a seat but he does lean against the balcony railing, cross one ankle over the other, and smile. He looks courteous and professional, but approachable. I suspect that Hodge is one of the very few people who knows the truth about me. That Ian trusts him completely inclines me to do the same.
“I hope the events of yesterday evening did not upset you too much?” he says.
A memory of immense shards of shattered glass raining down from the sky flares across my mind. I shy away from it and shrug. “It’s the first time I’ve gone to a party where the building has blown up. Is there very much about it in the news?”
“There was initially but the coverage has rapidly transformed into an outcry against the scavengers, demands that they all be driven from the city, and so on. About what one would expect.”
He’s lost me. “What do the scavengers have to do with it?”
Hodge raises a brow. “Why they’re to blame, miss, didn’t you know? Apparently, a group of scavengers attacked the Crystal Palace with the intent of taking the city’s elite hostage. A valiant group of MPS officers fought them off but was, alas, unable to prevent the explosion that, purely coincidentally destroyed most of the evidence of what had actually happened.”
I think of the ragged children I saw and of everything else I know about the people who are consigned to the city’s underbelly. While they may certainly have motive, I don’t believe for a moment that they could have the means to carry out such an assault.
“That’s ridiculous. Nobody with half a brain could believe that the scavengers are responsible for what happened.”
“With all respect, miss, people can believe anything they choose to when they’re too afraid to confront the truth.”
The weight of his words resonates within me. I know from my own experience how easy it is to embrace denial. When Ian told me the truth about myself. I fled rather than accept it. But I couldn’t flee from the terrifying memories that I’m not supposed to have. They are inescapable. I fear and loath them but as horrible as those periods of self-awareness are, they are proof
that something of me existed before I received Susannah’s imprinting, something that is entirely my own.
The implications of that are profound. I haven’t even begun to understand them but I sense that when I do, I will find within them answers to many of the questions I have about myself.
“Miss?” Hodge is staring at me. “Are you all right?”
Jerked back into the here-and-now, I just manage a nod. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. You were saying that people are afraid--”
“Not without reason. After all, someone attacked the Crystal Palace. The Council can blame whoever they like but they’ll be doing everything they can to find out who was really responsible.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “In the meantime, all the emphasis is on a speedy return to normality. It’s already been announced that Carnival will proceed as scheduled.”
I can’t hide my surprise. From everything I’ve heard, Carnival is a time of frenzied pleasure-seeking. Crowds throng the streets, mind-altering substances of all kinds flow freely, and every inhibition is cast aside.
“Will people want to participate given what’s just happened?” I ask. “And even if they do, surely it isn’t wise to draw them out into the streets where they could become targets for another attack.”
“I share your doubts, miss,” Hodge says. “But regrettably the Council does not. They are concerned only with maintaining the image that they are in control. We can only hope that whoever really was responsible for the attack on the Crystal Palace is found and contained quickly.”
I remember my grandmother’s warning that suspicion could fall on Ian. A shiver runs through me. “Do you think Ian can find out the truth?”
“Oh, yes, miss, I’m certain that he can. Mister Ian has never let any obstacle stand between him and an objective.”
I can’t help but smile. No one has to tell me that Ian’s will is formidable. I’ve experienced it for myself on more than a few occasions.
“You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?” I’m not sure where I’m going with this or how far Hodge will let me get but I have to try. Ian loves his mother and sister but I don’t for a moment believe that he has ever let them know the details of what drove him away from his father. Hodge on the other hand-- Hodge was there, he intervened, he changed the course of Ian’s life.
“A dozen years,” he says quietly, “since Mister Ian was sixteen.”
“He didn’t…get along with his father, did he?”
It’s now or never. Hodge will answer me or he’ll blow me off. Either way, I’ll know where I stand with him.
He takes a breath, lets it out slowly, and says, “No, miss, he didn’t. Marcus Slade was a brilliant man in many ways. He could have made a difference in the world for the greater good. Unfortunately, he lacked anything remotely resembling a moral compass.”
From the little Ian has told me about his father, that’s putting it mildly. Marcus Slade was a misogynist who enjoyed hurting women. He used that to exploit other men’s weaknesses and perversions, and advance his own ends. The amount of damage he did to those who fell into his grasp is incalculable.
“He wanted Ian to be like him,” I say. My throat tightens at the thought of the boy Ian was--brilliant but achingly vulnerable, wanting so desperately to please his father.
“It has been my observation that good people want their children to grow up and have fulfilling lives of their own,” Hodge says quietly. “Others, like Marcus Slade, are incapable of seeing a child as anything other than an extension of themselves, a way to extend control beyond the limits of their own mortality. Fortunately, Mister Ian had the strength to break away from his father and make his own life.”
“You helped him to do that.”
“I merely showed him what was possible.” He pauses for a moment, studying me, before he says, “He’s an extraordinary young man who has achieved a great deal against enormous odds. But he still lives under the shadow of the past. I would like nothing better than to see him put that behind him once and for all.”
So would I but I’m cautious all the same. When it comes right down to it, I’m operating on sheer instinct. If I made a mistake in agreeing to return to Pinnacle House, Ian is likely to pay the price.
“You don’t think it’s better sometimes to let sleeping demons lie?”
Hodge’s smile is gentle. “Dogs, Miss Amelia. The saying is to let sleeping dogs lie, which is good advice. A man’s demons are a different matter altogether. Either he controls them or they control him. There really is no middle ground.”
It occurs to me that Hodge is speaking from personal experience. He spent his youth in the military. In all likelihood, he saw things that he would rather forget. But he’s found a way to live with them.
Softly, I say, “I’m afraid that being with me forces Ian to confront the past in a way that hurts him.”
His nod is sympathetic but he doesn’t pull any punches. “He was hurting before you ever came into his life, Miss Amelia. You can’t make that worse and there’s a chance that you could make it better. Do you really want to turn away from that?”
The thought of Ian in pain is a knife through me. I don’t trust myself to speak. All I can do is shake my head and pretend interest in my breakfast. Hodge gives me a few moments to compose myself before he tops off my coffee and slips away. I’m left alone on the terrace, the city spread out below me in all its brittle beauty.
After a time, I pick up a link and scroll through the news. I’m on the private net available only to the city’s elite residents, many of whom must have been present at the Crystal Palace. But not even they can be allowed to read the truth about what they experienced. In addition to the absurd claim that the MPS fought off the attackers--a lie that makes my blood boil--the entire incident is framed in terms of nobility versus brutishness, sprinkled with vignettes in which the valiant guests rush to each other’s assistance, men in evening dress carry fainting ladies to safety, and angels of mercy in gowns comfort the wounded.
The only upside to this litany of lies is that it seems to have overwhelmed the news editors so that they let a few other stories slip through unvarnished. I come across one that quotes doctors at the city’s hospitals expressing alarm at the increasing number of cases they’re seeing related to the illegal street drug that’s been dubbed “Jekyll/Hyde”. Jorge Cruces, head of the world’s largest recreational drug company--to which the government has long since turned over responsibility for enforcing the drug laws--has vowed to find the source of the drug and destroy it. I don’t doubt that he’ll succeed, given his reputation for ruthlessness. But I have to wonder how the drug got into the city in the first place.
My curiosity is no match for my concern about Ian. I flick the link off, wishing that I had more life experience to draw on in dealing with him. The soft click of the door to the great room opening distracts me. It could be Hodge returning to check on me but I know it’s not. When a hand falls lightly on my shoulder, I touch my lips to it tenderly.
“Hey, babe,” Ian says softly. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up.” He takes the chair across from mine, stretching his long, jean-clad legs out to the side, and studies me. His eyes are hooded, his expression concealing far more than it reveals. But his concern is unmistakable when he asks, “Are you all right?”
After a night of blood, death, and wild sex? All things considered, I think I’m doing remarkably well. But if that weren’t the case, it wouldn’t matter. He’s all I care about.
“I’m fine. Have you learned anything?”
“Nothing of substance but we will. It’s only a matter of time.”
I wish that I shared his confidence but I can’t begin to imagine who could have committed such an atrocity, or why. “Hodge says that the Council is blaming the scavengers. He also says that Carnival is going on as scheduled. How can that be?”
Ian shrugs. “The Council is scared shitless. They’ve never had to deal with anything like this and they don’t have a clue what to d
o.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Maybe that was the point. Make them desperate enough to turn to whoever they think can preserve the status quo.”
It occurs to me that he’s giving me a glimpse into the workings of his mind as he mulls over what has happened. That’s a first, as well as reassurance that I made the right decision in being where I am.
Softly, I ask, “In exchange for what?”
“There’s only one currency that really matters--power.”
I consider what Pinnacle House itself represents, the steel embodiment of power that can make itself felt with no more than a word from the man who controls it. “What if the Council, instead of trying to blame you, turns to you for help instead? After all, who could keep things the way they are better than you, if you chose to do so?”
But he wouldn’t, would he? Ian wouldn’t protect a system that leaves so many without opportunity or hope.
As though he reads my mind, he says, “I’ve been places where everything is falling apart. It isn’t pretty. The best case scenario is that one ruling faction replaces another. Otherwise, chaos reigns and the weakest suffer the most.”
It’s a non-answer but it’s enough to alarm me. “What about freedom?” I ask, not caring if I sound naive. Freedom is far too new and precious an idea for me to let go of readily. “What about democracy, human rights?”
He looks resigned to a reality he wishes was different. “None of that is easy to achieve. At the very least, there has to be a period of relative calm when decent, honorable people can come together and work out their differences. You don’t have that if the streets are running with blood and firebrands are in charge.”
“Surely that couldn’t happen here? This place is so civilized, so cultured.” If only for the chosen few.
“So was Russia before its revolution,” he counters. “At least if you were fortunate enough to be living in Moscow, attending the ballet and dining on caviar. France was the cultural center of the world when the guillotine popped up and body parts started being paraded through the streets. I could go down the list but the fact is that when societies collapse what follows is anarchy. That’s worth avoiding at almost any cost.”
Anew: Book Two: Hunted Page 12
