Edge of Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  There was a pause, then a scream came over the line, hair-raising, vibrating with agony.

  “…or I’m going to make you both suffer so badly you’ll beg for death, and I won’t give it to you.” His voice had dropped to a husky, excited whisper, and Ember’s skin crawled in horror.

  Whatever he was doing to Marguerite, he was enjoying it.

  “Where…where do I go?”

  “Your bookstore.” There was a slight pause, another broken scream from Marguerite, then he added darkly, “You better hurry,” and disconnected the call.

  The cell phone in Christian’s pocket rang and he answered it without looking at the screen.

  His attention was fully absorbed with thoughts of Ember, of getting back to her and getting her in his arms. He and Corbin were almost home; it wouldn’t be long now. And in the two hours since he’d left her, Christian had a revelation.

  He couldn’t do it.

  He couldn’t leave her alone.

  He’d been sitting there with the banker and the transfer paperwork, staring at the pen in his hand, when that epiphany had stolen his breath.

  Ember mattered more to him than anything. His family, his future, even his honor.

  How could he abandon her? How could he voluntarily die, now that he had something so precious to live for?

  Put simply, he couldn’t. The thought of leaving her burned like acid in his throat.

  So Christian tore up the paperwork and ran out of the bank, thinking he’d just have to make alternate plans to kill that bastard Caesar. Now that Christian knew his whereabouts, he could lay low and determine some other way to wipe him from the face of the earth that didn’t include getting himself killed in the process.

  Ember. That’s all he could think about now. His heart pounded in anticipation.

  He was so eager to see her he even imagined he could smell her. A hint of orange blossom teased his nose, and he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and relaxed back into the plush leather seat. He must have her scent on his shirt from when they’d said good-bye earlier; it was so luscious a flash of heat tightened his groin. He almost groaned with hunger for her.

  Into the phone, he said, “Yes.”

  “Good evening, Mr. McLoughlin. This is Dr. Katharine Flores,” a woman said in response. Christian frowned, not recognizing the name.

  “Dr. Flores? I’m sorry, are we acquainted?”

  “I’m September’s psychiatrist. Is this a good time for us to speak?”

  Christian’s attention snapped back into the present and honed in on the ominous note in the woman’s voice. “How did you get this number?” he asked, instantly, violently on edge.

  “September listed you as her emergency contact on her treatment form.”

  Christian realized several things simultaneously. One: Ember had listed him as her emergency contact during the two weeks they hadn’t been speaking and she’d first seen this doctor, which he guessed meant she assumed he’d refuse to hear anything about her and would just hang up. That made his heart ache as if someone had put a hammer to it. Two: this phone call was not going to make him happy.

  He growled, “What’s this about?”

  She began hesitantly, her voice full of professional concern. “Well, this is a delicate situation, but September signed a standard release waiver allowing me to communicate the details of her medical history with other healthcare professionals or immediate family if I felt it necessary to the success of her treatment plan.”

  “Go on,” he insisted, bolting upright in the seat. It became a little harder to breathe.

  “And, I must admit, after speaking with a few of her former doctors, I’m very worried for her. For her safety.”

  Christian felt as if he’d been injected with adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out all over his body and his heart throbbed painfully. He said, “Former doctors?”

  Dr. Flores paused for a moment that felt like years. Then she asked in a gently compassionate tone, “If I might ask—are you aware of Ember’s history with mental illness?”

  “Mental illness?” he repeated in a horrified whisper. Everything beyond the sound of Dr. Flores’s voice faded to black.

  “I’m guessing by the tone of your voice that’s a no.” She sighed. “That’s very common; many patients are reluctant to share that kind of information with people they care about, fearing it will drive them away.”

  “I…the accident that killed her family. I know she was…she’s understandably haunted by that—”

  “The clinical term is ‘survivor guilt.’ It’s a symptom of posttraumatic stress disorder, and in Ember’s case it’s quite severe. Sufferers blame themselves for the deaths of others, even though there was nothing they could have done to save them. It’s commonly found among survivors of combat or natural disasters, even among friends and family of people who commit suicide. It’s extremely debilitating, and, in my clinical experience, sufferers of this particular syndrome are prone to very self-destructive behaviors. Even to the point of taking their own lives.”

  From Christian’s throat came a strangled, incoherent noise.

  “Ember believes she is responsible for the automobile accident that killed her mother and brother—”

  “She was drinking—she told me all about it!” Christian choked out. His throat was so constricted his voice sounded unnatural. Corbin glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his brows raised.

  “That is the script her mind has adopted to cope with the guilt of surviving. It’s an adaptive reaction to unbearable stress. You see, Mr. McLoughlin, the truth of the matter is that Ember had a single drink—a light beer—at a friend’s house prior to driving home to pick up her mother and brother that night before dinner. She had a blood alcohol level of exactly zero when she was tested at the accident site, and several witnesses testified that the single drink she’d had was hours before she got into the car. There was a comprehensive investigation, as you can imagine, but Ember was cleared of any wrongdoing. The car simply hydroplaned in the rain.

  “But for Ember, the accident is entirely her fault. Her mind has created an alternate version of how much she had to drink that night. Put another way, her mind’s way of dealing with the terrible reality of being the only survivor of a crash that killed her mother, younger brother and eleven other people was simply to…improvise. The human brain is a beautiful monster, Mr. McLoughlin. When it works perfectly, it’s a miracle of engineering. But it also possesses the ability to cannibalize itself until there is nothing left of what you and I would call the ‘truth.’ ”

  “Oh God,” Christian whispered, remembering in excruciating detail the expression on Ember’s face when he’d thrown her out of his house that night. The absolute self-loathing, the black, bottomless depth of despair.

  It was a lie. She didn’t kill anyone. The only thing she was guilty of was surviving when everyone else died.

  “The reason I’m telling you this, Mr. McLoughlin, is that I’d like you to be involved in her treatment, if at all possible. The more support she has, the better her chances of recovery. I don’t know if she’s still cutting herself—”

  “Cutting!” Christian hissed, physically sickened at the thought of Ember hurting herself.

  “Yes, apparently that was an issue when she lived in the States. Her last doctor prescribed lithium to manage her depression, although I doubt if she’s still taking it—if indeed she ever did. The medication would have done too much to dull the pain. Pain she very much feels she deserves.”

  Christian fought the urge to scream. To smash something with his bare fists. To beat something bloody.

  “I’d like you to watch her very carefully for the next few months for any signs that she may be hurting herself physically, and let me know. Also…please keep this call between the two of us. At this point in her treatment, it will do more harm than good if she feels cornered. I’ll suggest to her during our next session that she start bringing you along, perhaps once a month, and we can go from the
re. Does that sound all right with you?”

  Christian was speechless. He felt as if someone had just cut his legs off at the knee.

  “I know it’s a lot to process. Please call me if you have any questions; once you’ve had a chance to absorb this, we can talk further.”

  As if from the bottom of a deep, black well, Christian heard his voice thanking her and saying good-bye.

  When he arrived home, he felt Ember’s absence in the house as a solid coldness inside his chest as soon as he crossed the threshold of the front door. He ran from room to room calling her name, he dialed her cell phone over and over, but there was no answer.

  Then he found the letter.

  Left on top of the Steinway where they’d made love, it was folded in thirds and enclosed in an envelope that also held the necklace she always wore, the fine chain with her parents’ gold wedding rings.

  The letter tore his heart out of his chest, ripped it in two, and left it broken and bloody on the floor.

  Then, when he found the door to the woodshed open, the plastic chest inside empty, the pain turned to panic, which turned to cold, limb-numbing horror.

  Because he realized exactly what Ember was going to do.

  Dear Christian,

  As I write those words, I’m smiling. People use the word “dear” all the time without really thinking about what it means, but that is exactly what you are to me: dear. Beloved. I never imagined I would feel that for anyone, much less someone as amazing as you. You told me I make you feel free, but you gave me something even better, something I will never be able to adequately express—at least not in words.

  You showed me the way out of hell.

  For that, I will love you forever.

  I want you to know I realize this won’t be easy for you. I know how much this will hurt, how you’ll blame yourself, how you’ll wish you could have done something differently. And I’m sorry. Please believe me when I say that, because it’s true. But you are strong and I am so, so weak—you will survive this. Please forgive me. Please live your life and find someone who deserves you, someone kind, and beautiful, and unbroken. Don’t let the memory of me ruin even a single day.

  Because this is the only thing I can do that will make up for everything bad that came before. I know that now. And because of you—because you loved me—I’m not afraid.

  You make me unafraid. Do you have any idea what a gift that is?

  It’s beyond a gift. It’s a blessing.

  You found me in the dark, you shone your light on me, and you made me feel beautiful, for the very first time in my life. I want to say thank you for that. I want to say it to your face and then kiss you, but this letter will have to do. Know that if I could, right now I’d be kissing you, because that’s one of the best things I ever knew.

  Humans can be bonded mates, too—I wasn’t sure if you knew that. I suppose it doesn’t happen very often, but it can. I’m proof of it. There is nothing in this life or any other I wouldn’t do for you. I love you, and all the broken things inside me love you, too. I’m sorry now that I didn’t say it out loud, that I didn’t tell you how I felt over and over. You are the dream that I didn’t deserve, but am so grateful for.

  I love you, Christian. I love you.

  That is the one thing I got right. Loving you made all the rest of it—the years of darkness and hell—worthwhile.

  Even if we’d only had a single day together, it still would have been worth it.

  If I believed in heaven, I’d say I hope to see you there one day. But I know there are no angels on clouds, no cherubs, or singing choirs waiting for me. I don’t know what will come once I’ve left this life behind, but in my heart of hearts I hope it’s just…peace. Quiet. An end to all the pain and madness.

  Only one thing will never end: my love for you. No matter where I go after I’m dead, you will be with me. You will be the flame in my soul that never burns out.

  Always. Forever. Until the end of time.

  Ember

  Sitting across from him at a small wooden table in the quiet, shadowed courtyard in the back of the budget motel, the albino was hulking and silent, staring at Thirteen with a narrowed gaze that held all the geniality of a dragon about to spew fire on a group of screaming villagers.

  He’d caught the albino’s attention with a few well-chosen words. He’d walked right up to him in the lobby when he and his black-clad minions had arrived a few moments ago, looked into his scarred, ghost-pale face and said in a placid voice, “I understand you’re a priest. I’d like to make a confession. Involving a dead goat.”

  Then Thirteen had smiled at the albino, a mild curve of his lips that was non-threatening and sincere, but also managed to convey he knew that they both knew exactly who should really be making confessions involving dead goats, and perhaps they should have a chat about that.

  The albino hadn’t said a word to him, or to his minions. He’d simply looked at him a moment—looked into him, as if trying to slip inside his body using only his colorless eyes—then jerked his chin at his head minion—leave us. The head minion and the others immediately and silently had. Then the albino had jerked his chin toward the opposite side of the lobby at the swinging glass doors that led to the back courtyard, where they now sat across from each other in semi-darkness under the spreading branches of a ficus tree festooned with drooping strands of tiny white lights.

  Because the albino didn’t seem like the chatty type, Thirteen decided to break the ice by getting directly to the point. “I’m called Doe. I’m a hunter. Like you.”

  If the albino had eyebrows, they would have risen at those words, but since he appeared to be totally hairless—lacking even eyelashes—Thirteen only knew the albino was surprised when three sharp creases appeared in his white, unlined forehead.

  Thirteen shrugged. “I can tell by looking at people. You’re either one of two things: a meat-eater or the meat.”

  The albino absorbed that in silence.

  “I received a phone call a few minutes ago—just before you arrived, in fact—that the…creatures…I’m hunting have been found. At least, I know exactly where one of them is now, or will be shortly.”

  This was both carefully worded bait and the unvarnished truth, as Thirteen had been informed by an email from the Chairman that the tip line he’d set up had yielded credible information from a woman named Ursula Adamowicz. A suspected Ikati was stalking a girl that worked at a little bookstore on the Baixada Viladecols. The store was closed at this hour, so the creature would either lie in wait inside, or keep surveillance somewhere nearby. Either way, the information was the most interesting they’d had in months.

  But even more interesting was the way the albino reacted to what he’d said.

  He jerked forward in his chair. One big, white hand shot out, lightning fast, and he curled his fist around Thirteen’s shirt collar. The albino yanked him forward so they were nose to nose across the table, and growled, “Tell me where they are or I’ll cut off your tongue!”

  So—Doe’s suspicions were confirmed. This goat murderer was looking for them, too. Considering the city was crawling with mercenaries eager to get their hands on the reward money, it wasn’t much of a surprise.

  “I know a dozen ways to kill a man with my bare hands, freund,” replied Thirteen in a soft voice, staring unflinchingly into the albino’s eyes. “And a hundred more to kill you with the blade stashed up my sleeve. So I’ll give you a second to decide if you’d rather fail at cutting off my tongue and have my knife embedded in your brain, or if you’d like to hear what I propose.”

  The albino’s gaze flickered to Thirteen’s hands, spread flat in readiness against the surface of the table. A muscle in his jaw worked as he swiftly calculated his options. Then he opened his hand and slowly relaxed back into his chair, the flush of blood rising in his pale cheeks the only indication of his rage. His glittering gaze settled on Thirteen’s face, and he inclined his head.

  Thirteen adjusted the collar of
his shirt. “Good choice,” he said, unruffled. “As I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted, if we find one of the creatures, we can find them all—”

  “How?”

  He smirked. “A pair of pliers. A chain saw. An electric drill. Take your pick.”

  For the first time, the albino smiled. It was a carnivorous, teeth-flashing grin that would have looked at home on a shark.

  Thirteen continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted by such a naïve question. “The organization I work for has very close ties with the police, so I could avail myself of them and their resources, but in my experience they’ll do more harm than good.”

  He resisted the urge to adjust the patch over his eye, remembering exactly how badly his last experience with the police had ended.

  “My own team and supplies are fifteen hours out. Twelve at best. This particular situation requires a much quicker response or we’ll probably lose the target, so I’d have to work fast, and alone, neither of which are optimal for my chances of success.” Thirteen’s mild, knowing smile returned. “Unless I can temporarily partner with someone who’s already here.”

  He watched the albino process it. His sharky smile faded, and that muscle in his jaw began to jump again, making the ruined skin that covered it purse and pucker. “I don’t like partners,” he pronounced, ominously low.

  “Agreed. But I also don’t like letting a golden opportunity slip through my fingers. I’m willing to sacrifice my personal preferences in order to gain what I want.” He paused dramatically. “And you can have all the reward money. I don’t care about that.”

  Technically, he wasn’t even eligible to receive the reward money because it was the Chairman who was offering it, but the albino didn’t have to know it. But then the albino hotly snapped, “Neither do I!” and it was Thirteen’s turn to raise his brows.

  Judging by the rancor in the answer, he’d offended him. He wouldn’t have thought it possible to offend a man who got his kicks squeezing the life out of farm animals, but then again, the hypocrisy of someone who posed as a priest from the Vatican while engaging in said squeezing could not be underestimated.