Edge of Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  He said, “I have three words for you, Ember.”

  Ignoring the traitorous little butterflies dancing in her stomach, she cocked a brow and waited.

  “Double. O. Seven.”

  The way he was looking at her—hot and half-lidded—was intimate, too, and she sternly reminded herself that this man was in all likelihood very, very practiced at giving women intimate looks.

  Remembering how he’d looked at her when he first came in the store yesterday, how his keen gaze had travelled over her plain clothes, her unkempt hair, she decided it was much safer having him look at her that way, than this new, disquieting, butterfly-stirring way.

  Time to remind him he couldn’t melt the panties of every woman on planet Earth, even if her stupid butterflies wished he would melt hers.

  In a light, mocking tone Ember said, “I hate to break it to you, but those are three numbers.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him up and down. “All beauty and no brains, hmm? Well, it’s not exactly a shocker. With that face, you probably haven’t needed to think too much.”

  Seemingly not insulted at all, Christian drawled in a sensual purr, “Why, Miss Jones, was that a compliment? Did you just call me beautiful?”

  He knew her last name. He knew her real first name. What else did he know about her?

  Intrigued, in spite of the voice screaming in her head that she was an idiot, she replied a little too quickly, “Actually, I just called you dumb.”

  He smiled at her, lips twitching as if he might break out into laughter again, but the look Asher gave her was so horrified, so full of wide-eyed, open-mouthed disbelief, she couldn’t help but smile too. It was a big one, a real one, teeth and all, and it felt absolutely fantastic.

  And when he saw it, Christian did the strangest thing.

  He froze. His own smile faltered. His face contorted with a fleeting, unidentified emotion, before he looked away, jaw tight, and swallowed. He cleared his throat and murmured, “It seems you’ve got me pegged.”

  When he looked back at her, it was like watching a door slam shut. There was a coldness there, a new, flat hardness, which began in his eyes and went everywhere at once. It was even in his voice when he spoke again.

  “May I see them?” His flinty gaze dropped to the two paper-wrapped books she cradled in her arms.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

  The voice in her head was satisfied with his new coldness. Unfortunately the stupid butterflies were not, and began to mope, drifting down to the pit of her belly where they lay heavy and silent, staring up at her with accusing eyes.

  Asher looked back and forth between the two of them several times, then politely excused himself and began to browse through a nearby shelf of mid-century cookbooks, picking out Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Considering he thought ordering takeout was the equivalent of cooking a meal, Ember realized he wasn’t really browsing. He was eavesdropping.

  Okay, Ember, pull yourself together! Be nice so you don’t lose the most important sale the store has seen in years!

  “Please, follow me,” she said more forcefully, adopting an all-business attitude. She walked to the round table where Sofia’s book club usually met. Christian silently followed her. She indicated he should take a seat, which he did—after waiting for her to sit first—and then she carefully unwrapped both editions of Casino Royale from their black, acid-free paper.

  She turned them toward him without a word and sat back in her chair.

  It was a moment before he moved. He stared down at them, looking at first one, then the other, taking in the condition of the dust jackets, examining the curl of the bottom edge on the less expensive edition. He dismissed that one and opened the cover of the pristine edition, the one worth twice as much.

  “It’s in perfect condition, as you can see,” said Ember, watching him reverently touch the cover page. He ran his fingers slowly along the edges of the stacked pages, lifted the dust jacket and traced the gold lettering on the spine. The hard look on his face from before was being replaced, inch by inch, with something softer, an expression of affectionate melancholy she recognized as sentimentality.

  Unable to stifle her curiosity, she asked, “Is it a gift for someone, or…?”

  Without looking up, he quietly answered, “This was my father’s favorite book. He owned a first edition like this one, signed by the author. He used to read it to me every night before bed when I was a boy. I’m sure I could quote whole pages from it. I haven’t been in Spain long, and I thought…maybe if I could find a copy just like the one my father had…it might make me feel more at home…”

  He trailed off into silence while Ember sat there feeling like a first-class idiot for making fun of it before. She’d never have guessed someone like him could be so sentimental. Or homesick. On impulse she said, “My father used to read me Animal Farm.”

  Christian looked up at her then, and another expression replaced the quiet melancholy, a look of such pure, crackling intensity it took her breath away. His eyes glowed vivid, burning green. The air between them went electric.

  “ ‘Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy,’ ” he recited in a voice low and infinitely dark.

  “ ‘Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend,’ ” Ember replied breathlessly. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but something in his manner elicited it, his menacing, urgent look that spoke of secrets and mysteries. Of danger.

  He said, “ ‘No animal shall wear clothes. No animal shall sleep in a bed. No animal shall drink alcohol. No animal shall kill another animal—’ ”

  “ ‘All animals are equal,’ ” Ember finished, her voice barely audible. She and Christian stared at one another in tense silence. Goosebumps broke out all over her body.

  The seven commandments the rebellious animals of Animal Farm made to unite themselves against the cruel rule of humans and prevent them falling into humans’ evil habits sat there between them like the proverbial elephant. She didn’t know why his manner was so changed, but Ember knew one thing for absolutely certain.

  She wanted to know.

  Dammit!

  “Do you believe that? That all animals are equal?”

  His question was asked with such searching earnestness, Ember felt the sudden, irrational urge to reveal something of herself, something she never felt, with anyone. “My father always said man and animal are interdependent. What we do to them, we do to ourselves. And I think that’s true. I think…we’re not better than animals. Humans are animals. Just a different kind.”

  He sat slowly back in his chair, his gaze never wavering from hers. “Smarter, though, than all the others. You have to admit that gives humans a distinct advantage. You don’t think that’s enough to make humans ‘better’ than the other animals? You don’t think that gives them the right to rule over all the other animals as they see fit?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said instantly. “Am I ‘better’ than a five-year-old child because I’m smarter? No. Am I ‘better’ than someone who’s mentally handicapped because I’m smarter? No. Are men ‘better’ than women because they’re—usually—physically stronger? No. There’re just differences that should be respected, not degrees of superiority.”

  “There are many who’d disagree with you,” he said flatly.

  “Just because they disagree doesn’t make them right. There was a time when it was generally accepted that white people were ‘better’ than black people. And there was a time when a failed German painter convinced a lot of people that Jews should be wiped off the face of the earth because they were ‘inferior.’ And thousands of years of history have shown us what a bunch of frightened, cowardly mice people really are. General consensus doesn’t equal incontrovertible truth. As a matter of fact, I think you’re safe going against whatever the popular ideology happens to be. If there’s anything I know for sure it’s that people are easily led, and don’t like to think for themselves.”

  Sh
e didn’t know why she spoke so passionately; it just came out that way. She was sitting forward in her chair, gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn her knuckles white, staring at him in unblinking intensity.

  “Well,” he said after a time, his voice tinged with new warmth, “it doesn’t appear you have that particular problem.”

  She released the edge of the table and sat back in her chair. Heat rose in her cheeks, spread throbbing hot to her ears, down her neck.

  “That’s another thing my father always said,” she muttered. “I’m way too opinionated for my own good. Sorry.” She dropped her gaze to the table, ashamed by her inappropriate outburst. The man must think her crazy. Or at the very least overbearing.

  But why should she care what he thought? She didn’t—she just wanted the sale…right?

  He sat forward suddenly and grasped her hand. The contact shocked her, and she looked up at him, startled, as the butterflies sat up en masse and looked at him, too.

  “Don’t ever apologize for being yourself.” His voice was urgent, his gaze scorched hers. “That kind of self-confidence, especially for someone so young, is amazing.”

  His hand was warm and big and she wanted to look down at it, to see it touching her own, but she was held in place by the sheer force of his gaze. He was so…fierce. Why?

  “It’s not self-confidence,” she whispered, staring into his eyes. “It’s more like misanthropy.”

  He slowly shook his head. “You don’t hate people. You’re too kind to hate anything.”

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”

  “No. I don’t.” His voice dropped. His grip on her hand tightened. “I’d like to, though.”

  Everything ground to a halt. The sun slanting through the front windows of the shop, the sound of traffic on the street outside, the familiar, musky scent of old books—all of it vanished. In its place came white-hot, encompassing heat.

  No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now. He, the perfect, mysterious, beautiful stranger.

  She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She sat there bombarded by unfamiliar sensations, lightness and warmth and a dizzying, stupid kind of wonder. Wonder that someone like him could have actually said those words to someone like her.

  For the first time in a very long time, Ember felt alive. The butterflies were soaring and screaming in glee.

  And then his cell phone rang, shattering the moment.

  There were several more rings before he finally released her hand—almost begrudgingly, it seemed, almost reluctantly. Without taking his gaze from her, he reached into the pocket of his shirt and answered it with a curt, “Yes.”

  Whoever it was on the other end spoke a few, short sentences, and Christian’s entire demeanor shifted from impassioned intensity to stiff, jaw-clenched strain. Suddenly, he radiated violence.

  “How many?” he hissed into the phone. He listened for a beat, then, “And you’re certain they’re headed here?”

  Another beat of silence, then Christian, in a move that was shocking in its speed, shot to his feet. “Send me everything you’ve got. I’ll be back at the house in ten minutes.”

  Then without another word or glance in her direction, he turned, ran to the door, then set off at a flat-out sprint down the street.

  Ember sat at the table in stunned disbelief, her eyes trained on the front windows, staring at the view of the street beyond, of the pedestrians and the traffic, until Asher darted over, still clutching Mastering the Art of French Cooking in his hands.

  “What the hell have you done to Christian? He ran out of here like he was being chased!”

  Ember shook her head slowly from side to side. “I have…absolutely…no idea.”

  He sighed. “Well, there goes your big sale. Looks like I’ll be needing to hide you from Dante for the rest of the month.”

  She looked down at the copies of Casino Royale on the table, sitting as he’d left them, and had the sudden, uncomfortable realization she didn’t really care about the sale at all.

  Even though she absolutely hated to admit it, what she cared about had just run out the door, and possibly out of her life forever.

  “Faster, Corbin,” Christian barked from the back seat of the Audi. At his command, Corbin pressed his foot to the gas pedal and the car lurched forward. The powerful engine propelled them through the winding, cobblestoned streets of Barcelona so fast the scenery became a painted blur of color flashing through the windows.

  His mind was a blur as well.

  All animals are equal. People are easily led. General consensus doesn’t equal incontrovertible truth.

  Ember might be surprised to discover exactly how much he agreed with each of those sentiments. She would definitely be surprised to discover the effect her words had had on him. And the effect her smile had on him.

  Jesus, that smile.

  He’d thought her plain, but now realized his mistake. She was plain in the same way the ocean was plain before dawn, before the sun illuminated the unembellished dark surface of the water, bringing all its color and motion and beauty into brilliant focus as the light reflected off the waves. When she smiled it was like watching sunlight play over water. Her entire face was illuminated. It was transformed.

  It took his breath away.

  In a quiet, natural, earthy way, Ember was lovely.

  She was also human. And, therefore, as much of a danger to him as he was to her. He should stay away. He knew he should.

  And yet…

  All animals are equal.

  If there ever was to be a chance for his kind, if there was to be a future for them, it would hinge on people like her. Like the modest and lovely September Jones, she of the piercing dark eyes and passionate convictions, of the wary glances and spectacular smiles. Of the slightly trembling left hand and arm filled with metal she tried to disguise with long sleeves.

  What is your mystery, human girl? Christian mused, watching the sprawl and chaos of the city give way to the green expanse of the rolling foothills as they sped nearer to home. And why, why do I care?

  He had no answer for either one. By the time the car pulled up to the scrolled iron gates that marked the beginning of his property, Christian had managed to convince himself it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be seeing her again. The quest for an original copy of Casino Royale was a sentimental one, entirely ridiculous. It had no place in the stark reality of the reasons he’d come to Spain in the first place, and the phone call he’d received had only reinforced that.

  He couldn’t afford to get distracted now. He couldn’t afford curiosity. Or flirtations, no matter how innocent they seemed.

  As the gates swung slowly open, his cell phone chirped with an incoming text message. He lifted it from his shirt pocket, gazed down at it, and felt his heart twist in his chest.

  Hope everything is OK. If I don’t see you again, it was…interesting…to meet you.

  He muttered an oath and Corbin’s gaze flickered to his in the rearview mirror.

  “Nothing,” he said to Corbin. “It’s nothing.”

  Corbin nodded wordlessly and Christian turned his face to the window, wondering if he’d ever uttered such a colossal lie in his life.

  Ember passed the rest of the day in a haze.

  Asher left and she ate the lunch he’d brought her, standing behind the counter, leaning against the wall. She couldn’t concentrate and she couldn’t banish the thought of Christian and his strange visit from her memory, either. She’d re-wrapped both copies of Casino Royale in the tissue-thin sheets of black paper, carefully set them back into the transport box and put them on a shelf in the store room. She sent him the text, but her own phone remained silent; he hadn’t responded.

  She didn’t try to fool herself that her reasons for wanting to hear from him were entirely financial.

  By six o’clock, when she locked the front door and flipped the square white sign that hung in the window from abierto to cerrado, she was
exhausted.

  Mentally exhausted, that is. Physically, she felt as if she might crawl right out of her skin.

  In chilly twilight with her coat buttoned up and her scarf wrapped tight around her neck, she walked the few blocks from the bookstore to her apartment building in the Plaça Sant Jaume, blind for once to the lighted fountains, carved marble statues, and vendors with food carts hawking helado, chorizo, and chopitos, her least favorite: crispy fried baby squid. It was only a few days before Carnaval, and preparations were being made all over the city. Already the bars were full to bursting, breathing crowds of people in and out into the streets, laughing revelers dressed in bright colors who were determined to stuff themselves with food and alcohol before the fasting period of Lent began next week.

  A block over on La Rambla, the main thoroughfare, the Carnaval King parade that signaled the kickoff of the weeklong festivities was already in full swing. Music and singing filled the air, drums beat, a rash of azure and crimson and gold fireworks flared in the dark sky then began a slow, dying float back to earth, teased apart by the salt-laden breeze from the Mediterranean. There would be floats and masked dancers and costumes aplenty, and though she couldn’t see it, she could imagine it well, as she’d attended every year since she’d moved here at eighteen.

  But not this year. She just wasn’t in the mood.

  When she arrived at her apartment, Asher was just leaving. Dressed in black military boots and a hot pink mini skirt with orange ruffles, he wore two bandoliers with fake ammo slung across his bare chest, had a plastic rifle strapped to his back and a variety of fake knives and other weapons on a belt around his waist. Atop his head perched a towering hat of colorful feathers and fruit. It appeared as if he’d oiled himself; his muscular arms, chest and legs glistened in the fluorescent hallway lights with an iridescent sheen.