Edge of Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  His skin was tanned and hairless. She resisted the urge to ask him if he shaved or waxed his entire body, because that would be a little too much information, and also because he probably did.

  He sent her a roguish smile and made elaborate spokesmodel hands at his outfit.

  “Whaddya think?”

  “I think you have bipolar disorder,” said Ember, eyeing him.

  “Puh! You’re just jealous I come up with all the creative ideas for costumes. Isn’t it genius?”

  “You look like the love child of a Navy Seal and a vegetarian cancan dancer.”

  “Exactly!” he shrieked, clapping. It was alarming to see an oiled, half-naked man in a fruit hat and bandoliers shrieking and clapping, but it definitely wasn’t the strangest thing she’d ever seen, so she just shook her head, laughing.

  “Okay, I give. What’s her name?”

  Because there was always a name when Asher donned a costume. At his Halloween bash last year when he’d dressed as a nun from the Order of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, his name had been Helen Bed. Hell-in-bed. Where he came up with these little gems, Ember had no idea.

  He grinned. “Carmen MiRambo.”

  Ember blinked at him. “You’re right. That is genius.” Looking him over again, she said, “Where are you hiding your wallet in that getup?”

  He blinked demurely, but his rogue’s grin grew wider. “You don’t want to know.”

  “No. You’re right. I really don’t.” She smiled and gave him a kiss on one ruddy cheek, then unlocked her apartment door and turned back to him. “Be safe tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He looked crestfallen. “You’re not coming out? But it’s tradition! And I wanted you to meet Rafael!”

  Interested, Ember leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb. Since Asher’s long-term partner Sebastian had died last year, he’d developed an ironclad rule never to get serious with anyone again. He claimed he needed to make up for being with just one man for so long, and so was going to dedicate himself to sampling every young thing Barcelona offered up, but Ember knew better. It was really his way of staying detached, because no one could ever measure up to Sebastian. And Asher didn’t want anyone to. Bas had been the love of Asher’s life. Deep down, he didn’t think he could bear that kind of loss again.

  There are only so many times a heart can break, Ember, before it’s broken for good.

  He’d said that the first week she met him. And she knew from personal experience it was true.

  “Rafael? Is this your new flavor-of-the-week?”

  Asher playfully batted her on the arm with his plastic gun and did a happy dance in the hallway, which included a twirl that dangerously flared the mini skirt. She quickly averted her eyes—Asher was infamous for going commando.

  “Flavor-of-the-month if I play my cards right, honey. Please come. Please? Pretty please?”

  Each entreaty grew progressively louder…and ultimately proved disastrous. From downstairs came a hollered, “Septiembre! Es que se?”

  Ember hissed a curse, Asher gasped an apology, and they both scuttled into her apartment just as the sound of shuffling, slipper-clad footsteps began to travel up the stairs.

  “Dante!” Asher said in a stage whisper as they stood with their ears pressed to the back of the door in her dark apartment.

  “You’ve officially woken the beast,” Ember muttered. “Thanks a million, Carmen.”

  Even in the dark she saw him cringe. “God, that man has hearing like a bat! I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Come out with me tonight and I’ll buy you as many—”

  Her glare stopped him before he could say “drinks as you want.” It was force of habit, all his friends drank like fish, Asher included, but Ember never touched a drop. He amended it to, “—chopitos as you can eat.”

  She sighed. “You know I hate chopitos, Ash.”

  “Honey, they’re so good. Don’t discriminate based on how they look—”

  “They look like fried alien afterbirth. I am not putting fried alien afterbirth in my mouth.”

  “They’re chewy, and salty, and entirely delicious. Close your eyes if you have to, it works for me.”

  “Ugh. Gross. Forget it. I’d rather eat toe jam.”

  Asher snickered. “There’s a whole underground fetish movement in this city devoted to exactly that, you know.”

  “Double gross! Stop talking before I barf on your shiny combat boots.”

  The two of them were whispering, listening to the slow, shuffling footsteps draw inexorably nearer as Dante climbed the staircase. The apartment building was old, and lacked an elevator, a fact she was now grateful for. The reprieve would be short—though Dante moved slowly, once he decided on a course an act of God couldn’t deter him—but any reprieve was better than none.

  “Okay,” Asher said, brightening, “here’s the plan. You go put on that fabulous costume you wore to my Halloween party, and I’ll go tell Dante you’re staying the weekend with your boyfriend in Terrassa.”

  Ember stared at him. “What boyfriend in Terrassa?”

  “The pretend one, knucklehead! Do you want me to buy you a weekend so you can put together the rent money or what?”

  The footsteps moved closer. Through the windows of her apartment, the rising moon hung heavy and languid in the sapphire sky. Ghostly pale moonlight sketched shadows along the floor and walls, creeping over to where they were huddled by the door. “Fine,” she relented. “But I get to choose the name of this pretend boyfriend. I don’t want you saddling me with a Xalbadoro or an Innocencio.”

  Asher sent her a sly, sideways smile. “How about a…Christian?”

  “Funny. Very funny, Mr. MiRambo. You’re lucky I don’t give you some authentic knife scars on your stomach to go with that costume.”

  As she turned and tiptoed toward her bedroom, Asher chuckled quietly. “Kitty doesn’t like to get her tail pulled, does she?”

  She waved a hand and disappeared into the darkness of her bedroom, while Asher slipped out into the hallway to break the news to Dante that he’d just missed her. She’d left with her boyfriend Christian for a leisurely weekend touring the Romanesque monasteries of Terrassa.

  Six hours, four bars, two discotheques and one hellish taxi journey that rivaled Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, Ember was ready to drop.

  “I’m calling it a night, Ash!” she hollered over the pounding of the music. Though Asher’s ear was inches away, he gave her an I can’t hear you shrug, and went right back to grinding against the very pretty Rafael, who was dressed as the Black Swan, complete with tutu and red contacts.

  Ember made hand motions toward the exit. Asher gave her a giddy thumb’s up, which she interpreted as, knock yourself out, there’s no way I’m leaving, sister. She sent him an air kiss, along with one to a pirouetting Rafael, and pushed her way slowly through the gyrating crowd on the dance floor until finally she stood outside on the pavement, breathing in lungfuls of fresh night air.

  She wasn’t cold because her costume was composed entirely of latex. She was encased head to foot in a thick, shiny layer of black material. She’d have to peel herself out of it later, but for the moment it was doing a fine job of protecting her from the chill of the February air.

  A half-naked woman with her entire body painted gold shoved past her with a laugh, dripping red feathers from an elaborate headdress. A man in a yellow dragonfly outfit followed her, weaving drunkenly, his green wings listing dangerously to one side, perilously close to sliding off his back. The scents of perfume, wine, and smoke from the fireworks hung heavy in the air; even at midnight the crowds had not thinned. The streets were a riot of noise, color, and motion, and Ember felt pleasantly invisible among the chaos, able to drift through and just watch. The smaller side streets of the neighborhood were closed to everything but foot traffic, so she made her way through the throngs toward one of the main thoroughfares, still open to cars. She hoped to catch a taxi to take her back home; her feet, clad in four-inch heels, w
ere killing her.

  She rounded the corner of the Rambla de Catalunya and spied a taxi stand next to a little French restaurant. She began to walk toward it with a sigh, anxious to get off her feet, but as soon as she stepped off the curb and into the street, she jolted to an abrupt stop.

  Because there, just emerging from the restaurant and striding down the red-carpeted steps toward a sleek black sedan waiting at the curb, was one Christian McLoughlin.

  Their eyes met at the exact same moment. Christian felt it in his body like the weightlessness that accompanies the start of a free fall on a rollercoaster, just before the hot rush of euphoria, terror, and heart-pounding glee seizes you and as you tip over the edge you raise both hands in the air, a scream of exhilaration ripping from your throat.

  His stomach dropped. His heart clenched. He froze just as she had, and stared at her.

  Corbin walked around the rear of the Audi and opened the passenger door for him. When Christian didn’t move, he turned his head to stare in the same direction as his employer, and his whole body jerked.

  “Good Lord in heaven. Is this a joke?” Corbin whispered, stunned as Christian was.

  But it was no joke. Fate had decided to once again put September Jones directly in Christian’s path. Only this time, Fate had a trick up her sleeve.

  Fate was being sly.

  Ember, frozen on the street with one stiletto-booted foot in front of the other, her hand stopped halfway to her face, was clad in the most astonishing outfit, something he never would have believed possible had he not seen it with his own eyes.

  A cat. She was dressed as a cat.

  Complete with a little headband from which sprang two pointed cat’s ears, and a long, curving tail that trailed behind her, tufted at the end. The costume was tight and black and entirely revealing and had it not been for the nature of the costume itself he would have been devouring the sight of slim curves that her usual ensemble of baggy jeans and even baggier sweaters managed to hide completely.

  But—a cat? A goddamned cat?

  He’d never been so shocked in his entire life.

  She recovered first. She took a few tentative steps forward, then a few more, more confidently. By the time she reached his side of the street and stood looking up at him—she even drew silver whiskers on her cheeks and blackened the tip of her nose, Jesus Christ—Christian was in slightly better control of himself, and managed to greet her with a semblance of civility.

  “Ember. How nice to see you.”

  “Um, you too,” she responded, sounding a little unsure if that were actually true.

  Her brown gaze flickered over him, uncomfortably keen, and he hoped she overlooked the pulse throbbing in his temple. He wanted to press his fingers against it, but restrained himself.

  “Having dinner?”

  “Oh…” Christian glanced back at the restaurant, still feeling as if he’d been hit by something large and heavy. “Yes. It’s my favorite place in the city. Have you ever eaten here?”

  Ember wrinkled her nose. Her whiskers twitched with the movement, and he stared at them in utter fascination. “Nope. This is more my stepmother’s speed.”

  There was faint distaste in her voice, and he wondered whether it was directed at him or her stepmother.

  After a moment’s pause he said, looking over her outfit, “So…been out on the town I see.”

  She looked down at herself and blushed. Crossing her arms over her chest, she muttered, “Asher—you met him earlier—we always do Carnaval together. It’s a tradition.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “It’s a nice tradition. Especially when you get to dress up.”

  She glanced up at him, saw him smiling, and gave him a tentative smile in return. “It’s my thing. Cats. I volunteer at the shelter on my day off. Asher’s always telling me I’m going to wind up one of those crazy old cat ladies with like two hundred of them in her apartment and no friends so that when I die, it’ll take weeks before someone discovers my dead body and by then the cats will have eaten half of it away.”

  Good God. The thought made the veal fricando he’d had at dinner turn over in his stomach.

  Seeing the look on his face, Ember quickly said, “I mean, I don’t have any cats now—my landlord won’t allow pets in the building—I didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m some weird collector or something…”

  She trailed off, color rising in her cheeks, and Christian felt a sudden, violent urge to touch her face, feel the heat of that pale, almost translucent skin. He stifled it by biting down hard on the inside of his lip and shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “Well, anyway, it was nice to see you,” she said, stepping back. “If you still want the copy of Casino Royale, you know where to find me. Have a good night.”

  She turned away but he stopped her with a blurted, “Do you need a ride home?”

  Corbin looked at him over her head with raised brows. Yes, he knew it wasn’t a good idea for a million different reasons, but he didn’t like the thought of her wandering around in the dark alone. Wearing that.

  “Um…well…sure. I guess.” Dubiously, Ember looked at the car. “This is yours?”

  He inclined his head and didn’t look at Corbin, whose mouth had pinched to a tight line. He wouldn’t dare contradict Christian aloud, but his expression was proof enough of what he thought of this plan.

  “That would be great. If it’s not out of your way. I live in the Plaça Sant Jaume.”

  “By City Hall, I know the place. It’s not too far.” He gestured to the open door. “After you.”

  She hesitated for a moment, sending a surreptitious glance toward Corbin, then shrugged, capitulating but still with that slight uncertainty. She climbed in the back of the Audi and he tried very hard to keep his eyes averted from the incredibly alluring sight of her latex-clad bottom, embellished with that sinuous tail, disappearing into the car.

  He followed her in and settled himself but then lifted his backside from the seat when he realized he’d sat on her tail.

  “Sorry.” He held the fuzzy tail aloft between his fingers. “This is yours, I believe.”

  “Well, it sure isn’t yours,” she quipped and lightly removed it from his hand.

  Buckling his safety belt in the driver’s seat, Corbin sputtered a horrified cough that Christian tried to cover by leaning forward and pounding him on his wide shoulder.

  “That cold still bothering you, Corbin?” His voice was stern, his gaze full of warning. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, and Corbin acknowledged the warning with a small, curt nod of his head.

  “These things sneak up on you when you’re least expecting them, sir,” he replied. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, though. Thank you for asking.” Then he started the car and concentrated on steering them out into traffic. He didn’t look in the mirror again.

  “So…do you always eat so late? It’s past midnight,” Ember said softly from beside him, pulling his thoughts back from a precipice. He turned to look at her, admiring the way light from the passing streetlamps wove strands of bright color into her dark hair, gold and bronze and mahogany glints that flared and faded as the car picked up speed. They were seated close together but not too close; the sedan had a spacious interior and the back seat would easily fit three adults. He noticed she’d chosen to sit as close to her door as possible, while he’d taken a spot almost in the middle. He hadn’t done it consciously, but as he looked at her, he was glad he had.

  He smelled the clean, warm scent of her skin, the citrusy shampoo she’d used earlier to wash her hair, the chemical smell of her latex costume, the liner she’d used to draw on her whiskers, and the paint she’d used to blacken the tip of her nose. Still she wore no other cosmetics, no lipstick or mascara, and he was glad she didn’t. It made her seem more real to him.

  More…bare.

  “Usually, yes. I’m a bit of a night person.”

  He willed Corbin not to cough. It must have worked, because the man didn’t even flin
ch.

  “Really? I’m a morning person myself. When I first came to live here I couldn’t believe how different it was from home. Breakfast at ten in the morning, lunch at two in the afternoon, a two hour siesta then back to work until eight, dinner practically in the middle of the night.” She shook her head. “I still can’t sleep past six.”

  A personal revelation. Her first. Intrigued, he said, “You’re originally from New Mexico, you said. What brought you to Spain?”

  She looked down at the tail she still held in one hand and her fingers tightened around it. She swallowed, said in a lowered voice, “Life.” She sat quietly a moment, then glanced up at him. “You? You’re originally from England, correct?’ He inclined his head. “So what brought you to Spain?”

  “Life.” Their gazes held. Outside, the night sped by in a blur of color. He watched her face, watched her eyes, large and dark. “It seems to have a way of derailing even the most carefully laid plans, doesn’t it?”

  Her face grew somber, a little furrow appeared between her brows. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and turned to look out the window, as if she couldn’t meet his eyes. Her hand rose to touch the gold rings that hung on the delicate chain around her neck, and she twisted them between her fingers, round and round. Staring out into the passing night, she said quietly, “Life is cruel in the same way people are. Casually. Randomly. Indifferently. Sometimes I wonder how anyone survives it at all.”

  “Ultimately, we don’t.”

  She turned back to look at him just as the car went over a bump in the road, an unseen pothole or crumbled, unrepaired piece of curb that had Corbin cursing and swerving to correct. They were jolted, kicked out of their seats, a nanosecond of weightlessness and then settled again, but they’d both put their hands on the seat between them to steady themselves and realized at exactly the same moment that they were, just barely, touching. Pinky to wrist, their hands met against the leather, and neither one moved away.

  They pretended they weren’t touching. They both looked forward, silent, gazing out the windshield, but neither one withdrew. As the blocks passed by it became an almost unbearable agony, the slightest pressure from her hand, the warmth of her skin grazing his, the urge to lean into her, or say something, or do anything, anything at all. But Christian held himself still and felt thankful for the darkness, because he was sure if she looked at him now she would see what was written plainly on his face, and she’d open the door and run.