Find Me in Darkness: Mal and Christina's Story, Part 1

by Julie Kenner

And I remember Mal’s face, wretched with agony. The strain in his voice as he held me, battered and broken. As he told me that he would fix it—that he wouldn’t let them use me. That I would never become the instrument of death that the fuerie intended. That he would do what must be done, and that I needed to know that he loved me always.

  That he would protect me.

  That he would keep the world safe, both from me and for me.

  That somehow he would find a way to save me.

  And then I remember the tears that welled in his eyes as he held me in his arms, engaged his fire sword, and with a cry of pain that even now sends a shiver through me, thrust his weapon through my heart.

  Chapter 4

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  A scream rips the air, and it takes a moment for me to realize that not only is it mine, but that it is being forced from me not just by the pressure of my lungs, but also by a boiling, writhing energy that seems to be welling up inside of me. Not fear, but fomented by it. Not pain, but unlocked by it.

  And even as I realize that, a new terror washes over me. And not simply the loss and horror of the realization that Mal betrayed me—this man whose touch fills me with such delight and whose memory I hold so dear. But another terror. Colder. Darker. And bitter with blood.

  This is it. This is the evil they put inside me.

  And relief sweeps over me as I realize that this is why Mal destroyed me. Not to betray, but to protect. To save not only me, but the world.

  And I am about to destroy all of that because I do not have the strength to control what is now boiling within me.

  Back it off.

  Breathe—just breathe. And back it the fuck off.

  Even as I think that, I know that it is impossible. I can’t stop this power—this pounding, pulsing, violent energy. I can’t control it, and soon it will explode out of me, destroying not only me and Mal and Brayden, but everyone near this alley, this street, this whole fucking continent.

  It’s rising—rising—

  And I’m scared. So damn terrified. And I curl my hands into fists, grabbing tight to Mal’s shirt, but it doesn’t help, because how could that help when all this power just wants to shoot out of me, and I can feel the heat building in me, like a volcano about to erupt? Hotter and hotter, and wilder and deeper until it’s going to just—just—

  Stop.

  It’s gone.

  Just whoosh, like someone let the air out of a balloon, and I realize that I am a shell. That every ounce of energy has been drained from me. Even the part of me that was feeding the volcano.

  I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I only know that I lack the strength to stand. My knees buckle and I sag toward the ground, only to be captured before I fall in the arms of——oh, holy Christ, I can’t remember his name. But he is staring at me with an expression that seems to be fear mixed with concern mixed with tenderness.

  “I—Do I know you?”

  For a moment, he doesn’t move. Not a muscle. Not a breath.

  And then, very slowly, he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You don’t know me.”

  I swallow. I’m not scared, though some part of me thinks that I should be. On the contrary, with his hand at my back I feel more safe than I have ever felt in my life.

  But that evaporates in a heartbeat when I realize that not only are my clothes askew, but that Brayden is splayed out motionless on the asphalt. I jerk in shock, and when I do I catch a glimpse of what is behind the man who holds me. A body—and oh dear god help me—it’s headless.

  Panic shoots through me. Ice and frost fill every part of me until I am frozen with fear, literally unable to move.

  “Please.” I force the word out. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  He flinches, as if my words are a slap. Then he very gently sets me on the ground.

  I scramble to Brayden’s side, then exhale with relief when I see his chest rising and falling.

  When he speaks, the man’s voice is soft. Almost a whisper. “No,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not this time.”

  But I don’t believe him, because he is moving toward me with such an expression of desolation it rips my heart out.

  Then he presses his fingertips to my forehead, and I slump to the ground, one word ringing in my ears. Forget.

  *

  Mal’s entire body ached, as if he’d fought a long, hard battle that had ended with someone taking a fist and pounding it hard into his gut.

  Then again, isn’t that exactly what had happened? He’d had her back. For a few perfect, amazing moments, he’d had Christina back in his arms, perfect and beautiful. Long brown hair that fell in waves just past her shoulders. Deep brown eyes as innocent as a deer’s. And oh, god, she had the face of an angel.

  She was always pretty—how could a woman with her core be anything but?—but this time she was so lovely it almost hurt. He’d craved her, mind and body.

  Craved her, and for a few grand moments, he’d had her. He’d even gone so far as to allow himself to believe that everything was okay. That after all this time, she’d learned to control it. To battle it down.

  To keep the power that was trapped within her safe and dormant and locked away tight.

  How fucking wrong he’d been. And dammit, dammit, god-fucking-dammit, he knew damn well that he was the reason she’d lost her grip. That he was the one who had ripped the power loose. Who had sent it spiraling up almost to the point of explosion. And it had taken all of his control and strength to keep the whole fucking world from ending.

  He’d almost failed.

  God help him, he’d been so lost in the feel of her that he had almost been too late.

  He’d won, though. In the end, he’d won, at least if you could call it a win. Mal really wasn’t sure anymore.

  Maybe he’d saved the world by absorbing her energy, but she was lost to him once more.

  No longer his mate, but his prey.

  Not his lover, but the woman that he had been tasked to kill.

  Goddammit all to hell.

  A wave of nausea swept over him as he crouched to retrieve his fire sword. Without shifting his gaze from where Christina lay asleep on the ground, he extended the blade, oddly comforted by the familiar vibration of the weapon in his palm.

  He lifted it, knowing what he had to do. Knowing that if he didn’t take action—if he didn’t destroy her yet again—that he was putting not only his race at risk, but this entire world.

  One breath, then another.

  It was easy. Hadn’t he done it a hundred times? A thousand? Just a contraction of his muscles. Just a few moments of heartbreak and then it would be over. He would be free for another decade, another century.

  Free, and alone.

  Free, and miserable.

  He didn’t lunge. Didn’t bring the sword down and steal this life, this existence, from the woman he loved.

  Instead, he deactivated the weapon, then slid it back into the pocket of his jeans.

  He stood a moment longer, looking down at the woman and at the man who still slept beside her.

  And then Mal, who had never once defied orders or ignored his mission, turned the opposite direction, and walked away.

  Chapter 5

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  I wake to the sun streaming through the window, then stretch lazily in the huge bed that dominates the guest suite in Brayden’s massive apartment.

  I’m naked, and the sensation of the cool sheets sliding over my heated skin is incredible, allowing me to fully enjoy the lingering remnants of a truly exceptional dream.

  Sadly, in the way of dreams, I cannot grasp even the tiniest tendril of memory. I know only that the dream was deliciously sensual and starred a gray-eyed man whose face I cannot see no matter how hard I try. Nor can I conjure the sound of his voice. Just one word lingers—Lover.

  The thought of it makes me shiver.

  I am not prone to erotic dreams, and this morning I can’t help but think how unfortunate that is, because I have awake
ned wet and aroused, and I have to say that I like it.

  Bray and I had returned to the apartment after our effort to snare Roger the cat had failed, despite having braved the dark shadows and hideous odors of one of New York City’s alleyways.

  A full day of travel—punctuated by fainting spells and cheesecake—must have finally taken its toll, and I’m glad that we didn’t go for drinks. Considering my exhausted state last night, I can only imagine the kind of hangover I’d now be suffering.

  Brayden’s parents divorced when he was six, after which Brayden and his newly single mom moved to my neighborhood. But Brayden is a Kline on his father’s side—as in the massive hotel chain that has pretty much taken over the Northern hemisphere—and that means that hospitality is in his blood. And that means that my room overflows with amenities. Right now, I’m especially appreciative of the fluffy white robe. I put it on, cinch the tie, and stumble from the guest suite into the state of the art kitchen.

  I expect to find Brayden there, but of course I’ve forgotten that he has class. He’s left me a note, though, telling me that he’s going to stay at school all day to study, but to make myself at home and he’ll be there when I get back from rehearsal.

  I glance at my watch. It’s not yet eleven, and rehearsal doesn’t start until three. Even when I factor in changing my clothes, grabbing a bite, and getting to Brooklyn, I have tons of time. What I should do is start scouring the internet for a day job—I’m thinking about fully embracing the starving actor cliche and waiting tables. Instead, I decide to go for a run.

  I’m not one of those people who loves to run and craves the runner’s high, which I am convinced is only a myth. I do it for practical and vanity based reasons. Vanity, because it’s the best and fastest way to keep my butt and legs looking decent. And practical, because acting is hard work, and the cardio keeps me sharp.

  This morning, I’m not thinking about either of those things, though. Instead, I just want to work off this weird energy. This antsy, almost sexual thrum that has been burning through me since I woke up.

  That must have been one hell of a dream.

  I think about the gray eyes again and wonder to whom they belong. Is he just a figment of my imagination, or am I having sex dreams about someone I met in passing and my subconscious latched onto?

  When she was lucid, my mother would have said he was a lover from a past life. For that matter, she’d probably say the same when she wasn’t sane.

  Either way, he is not real and he is not here, and I tell myself that is a good thing.

  But as I make my way to the lobby and then start out down 59th Street at a slow jog, I can’t help but wonder if the man from my dream really does exist. And, if so, what I will do when I meet him.

  *

  “Tell me, daughter Juliet, how stands your disposition to be married?”

  I look across the stage to Angie, the woman who plays Lady Capulet, my mother. “It is an honor I dream not of.” I am holding the script in my hand, but I don’t have to look at the pages. This is a play that I have loved my entire life. There is something about the romance of it. The tragedy. The star-crossed lovers.

  The story called to me the first time I read it in high school, and playing the role of Juliet now is like living in a dream.

  Beside me, Juliet’s nurse, played by a boisterous woman named Marva, begins her lines. “An honor!” She makes a snorting sound and dives into one of the best deliveries of the rest of her line that I have ever heard. But I am only half-way paying attention. Instead, I am looking off stage, over the rows of seats, to a shadow in the distance.

  There’s someone there. I’m certain of it.

  Someone standing in the shadows and watching me.

  “Christina?”

  I jerk my head up to face Eric, the director. “Sorry. What?”

  “Are we keeping you from a pressing engagement?”

  I stand up straighter and give him my full attention, the very epitome of contrition. Because the last thing I want to do is piss off or insult the very first New York director I’ve worked with. “No. No, of course not. I just—”

  “What?”

  “I was thinking about Juliet’s character,” I lie. “She’s so young, and of course we know she’s a virgin. But she’s still quite sophisticated sexually—I mean, if you don’t pick up on that before, it’s apparent during the balcony scene, right?”

  “Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied,” Eric recites, quoting Romeo’s line.

  “Exactly.” I’m practically giddy that he bought my story. “And she flirts back, asking him what satisfaction he can have right then—I mean, she might as well say you can’t sleep with me now. I’m holding all the cards.” What I don’t mention is that this line really has been taunting me. Because after waking up so aroused, I’ve felt rather unsatisfied myself all day.

  “Very true.” He nods, and I feel a surge of gratitude for my eleventh grade Honors English teacher who worked with me on my semester paper on the role of women in Shakespeare’s plays. Eric shifts his attention to Angie and Marva. “Anything to add, ladies? Other than that our newest member of the company has already proven herself worthy of being a Story Street alumnus?”

  As both women sing my praises and comment on their own characters, I glance once again toward the back of the theater. I don’t actually expect to see anyone. For one thing, it’s highly likely there was no one there at all, and I was just conjuring up remnants from my dream. But even if he was real, he surely would have overheard the conversation and gotten the hell out of here.

  So I am not at all prepared when I see the movement in the back row. And not just movement, but a person. A man.

  He rises, and because the stage lights are on, I see him only in silhouette. Tall and lean, he stands with the with the kind of confident posture that suggests that he is exactly where he is supposed to be, the rest of the world be damned.

  He is looking toward the stage, and though he could be looking at any one of the four of us, I know without a shadow of a doubt that his attention is entirely focused on me.

  For a moment, he remains still. But when he finally moves to leave, the houselights catch his eyes. And though I know that he is much too far away for me to really have seen the color, it doesn’t matter. Because I am absolutely one-hundred percent sure that they are as gray as a building storm.

  Malcolm.

  The name cuts through me, and I stop, only then realizing that I’d taken a step toward him.

  I shake my head, entirely unsure where that name came from. I don’t know anyone named Malcolm, and yet the name seems to fit this man perfectly.

  Which, of course, also makes no sense.

  I watch as the man turns and leaves, pushing through the double doors at the back of the theater. I’m just about to rattle off an excuse about needing to go to the bathroom when Eric turns a bit and deliberately includes me in the conversation.

  “Of course, analysis and interpretation is essential,” he says, “but the key is applying that interpretation. So how does what you noted about Juliet’s sexual sophistication apply to the scene we’re running?”

  “Um.” I mentally kick myself, because my mind has wandered so far off topic that I’m having a hard time remembering what exactly I noted. “Right,” I stall. “Well, they’re talking about marriage. And, um, if she’s sophisticated about what goes on during a wedding night, then her line should maybe not be delivered with innocence, but with more self-assurance?”

  For a moment, he says nothing. Then he points to Alicia. “Let’s run through it again. Christina, excellent work.”

  My cheeks heat, but I accept the compliment graciously. And throughout the rest of rehearsal—as I infuse Juliet’s dialogue with sensuality and sexual awareness—I force myself not to think about the gray-eyed man who had filled my dreams.

  Or the mysterious man who watched me from the back of the theater.

  Chapter 6

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  Mal
continued to study the chessboard as Liam dropped into the seat across the table from him. They were in the VIP room at Dark Pleasures, the members only club that the Phoenix brotherhood had established in 1895 after Mal had insisted that they needed a place to gather, to talk, to be among friends.

  Not that the club at 36 East 63rd Street was limited only to the brotherhood. On the contrary, throughout the years they had offered private memberships to certain select humans, most of whom didn’t have the slightest inkling that their hosts had more secrets than simply what transpired behind the solid oak door that led to the VIP section. The policy was useful in a number of ways, most specifically because it allowed the brotherhood to keep its finger on the pulse of the city, not to mention the world. Dark Pleasures’s clientele was, after all, highly exclusive. And any given evening would find the bar filled with politicians and dealmakers, money men and celebrities.

  Today was Saturday, and since it was still early, Liam and Mal were the only two people in the VIP room. Later the brotherhood would fill this room, and members would flood the main clubroom. The air would be pungent with the scent of fine cigars, and the sound of ice tingling in highball glasses would fill the air. Most weekends he made the rounds through the members’ area, often finding a woman to share his bed that night.

  Tonight, that wasn’t going to happen.

  After having Christina in his arms only two nights ago, he knew he would never again be inclined to bed another woman, not even for the pleasure of forgetting.

  “Who’s winning?” Liam asked, nodding at the chessboard.

  Mal sighed as he picked up his queen and rolled her between his fingers. “I suppose that depends on what qualifies as a win.”

  “Considering you’re playing yourself, that’s not the answer I expected.”

  Mal put the queen back down, taking care not to look at his friend’s face. “I’ve been playing by myself for a long damn time, Liam.”

  “Yeah,” Liam said softy. “I guess you have.”

  Mal looked up, then took a long sip of Glenlivet as he studied his friend. Liam’s broad shoulders and well-muscled body filled the chair, but equally compelling was his commanding presence. Liam was a man who knew what he want, and didn’t stop until he got it.