The Darkest Frost: Vol 2 of a 2-part serial (TDF, #2)

by Tanya Holmes

  Xavier shoved from the sofa and paced the floor like a caged animal. “What? You want an answer now?”

  “It’s a simple question.” Braeden filled another goblet. “Frankly, I don’t see what the big dilemma is.”

  “Um, let me think.” He rounded and flung an arm. “Okay, how’s this? Her life. What’s left of mine. Yours. Ian’s! Do you even remember what the Join was like? Because all I’m coming up with is a ton of whatthefuckery.”

  “You mean like we are now?”

  “Don’t be dense. You know what I’m talking about.”

  Braeden handed him the drink, then returned to his seat with his own. “It doesn’t have to be that way anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because true love will balance us. Danielle’s love is real. I feel it and so do you.”

  Xavier gave a bitter chuckle. “True love. Sounds like a fucking romance novel.”

  “Go ahead and mock it, but you know that kind of love is soul deep. If it wasn’t, she’d have little interest in you.”

  “Well, I beg to differ. Trust me, Braeden. You’re not the center of her universe.”

  “Believe what you like. But my feelings for her are true. I love her, Xavier, and in your own…twisted way, I believe you care about her.”

  Xavier downed half his brandy. Making a face, he said, “You don’t know shit about my feelings.”

  “Enlighten me then.” Braeden paused. “That’s assuming you can articulate them properly.”

  “Thus saith the robot.”

  “There you go again. Proving me right.”

  “Okay, you want to know about my feelings? For one thing, I’m in no mood to deal with those fascist assholes at that hospital again. Do you remember how it was the last time?”

  Indeed—extremely unpleasant. Torrance Hospital facility, the place that performed The Dividing of One on Ian, was the best in the country, but like many Yoreck institutions, the staff there viewed Halved Yorecks as inferior. As a result, they treated Braeden and Xavier like second-class citizens, barely a notch above mortals.

  Human bigots had nothing on the Yoreck.

  “I share your concern about them,” Braeden said, “but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. We were talking about Danielle, remember? Why do you keep dodging the question? I’m beginning to think there’s some underlying—”

  “What are you, my shrink?”

  “I’m just trying to understand you,” Braeden said patiently.

  “Horseshit. You and I both know why I’m like this. Why I chose to be like this. So you can shove your psychobabble up your ass.” He slapped a hand on his chest. “You created this perfect mess. Not me.”

  Braeden shifted in his seat, his expression hardening. “How is it my fault you have the emotional maturity of a two-year-old?”

  Xavier darted a finger at him a few times. “See, it’s shit like that that makes me want to tear your head off. Arrogant prick.” He dropped back on the sofa. “I gave you the brunt of our heart, and for good reason. After what you did….”

  “And you’ve never let me forget it,” Braeden said quietly. “Just tell me this. Is your refusal to help Danielle my repayment?”

  “Right,” Xavier said in a burst of sound. “Because it’s all about you, Braeden. It’s always about you.”

  “I don’t see you denying it.”

  Xavier polished off his brandy. A trickle slipped down his chin and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why should I? You’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Then tell me you still don’t blame me for Hannah’s death. Go on, I’m listening.”

  The rancid look in Xavier’s eyes spoke volumes.

  “Your silence is answer enough.” Braeden glanced off. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again. She was a distraction to Ian’s work.”

  “Ian’s work? Don’t you mean yours?”

  “Please. If you’d had your way, we would’ve spent the war in bed with her, drinking cheap wine and penning that wretched prose you’re so fond of.” Braeden straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin. “No, we had work to do. Important work. Do I regret how things ended for her? Certainly. Not a day goes by that I don’t see the horror in her eyes. The fear. The confusion. She wasn’t ready. Frankly, she never would’ve been. You understand this, don’t you? Because no matter how I presented it, she still would’ve done the same thing—”

  “And once again we have blah, blah, blah, fucking blah! Tons of excuses and rationalizations, but as always, you fail to accept responsibility. After all these years!” Xavier gestured with the empty goblet. “Don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk? I swear it’s like listening to Charlie Brown’s teacher. Look, asshole, telling her wasn’t the issue. It was the way you did it!”

  “I cannot believe you’re still deluding yourself about this. She would’ve rejected us no matter how it was done. There’s no doubt in my mind. That’s why I’ve been so cautious with Danielle. But let’s not forget the other part of this. You trusted her and I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, and why was that?”

  “You know why! She didn’t love us, Xavier. I said this all along, but you refused to believe it, so I set out to prove it. Was I rash? Yes, but I can’t change the past.”

  “Because dead is dead!” Xavier slammed the goblet down. “She’s nothing but dust now.”

  “But Danielle isn’t. She’s alive and possibly carrying our child.” Braeden sat forward. “This isn’t about us. For once in your life think of someone else.”

  “So I’m being a selfish tool because I refuse to put any faith in your fucking pipedreams. Ennis’ clinic isn’t all that. There’s no guarantee he can fix her. I mean, come on. Look at the facts. If she’s not pregnant, she’ll die anyway. And if she’s not pregnant, and you tell her the truth, but she rejects us, they’ll end her.” An icy glaze shone in Xavier’s eyes. “That’s Protocol.”

  “She won’t reject Ian,” he said, more for himself than for Xavier.

  “Ian? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re dealing with the here and now. Once she knows the whole truth—not just your version of it—it’ll be about you and me separately.” Xavier paused. “Have you ever wondered who she’ll love more?”

  He jerked his head in Xavier’s direction.

  “Does that keep you up at night, Saint Braeden?”

  He just looked at him.

  “Oooooh. What’s that smell?” Xavier tipped his chin and sniffed. “It’s blood in the water.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “God, you’re so easy to read.” Xavier sat back and folded his hands behind his head. “Here’s the thing. She already knows I’m a dick. I never denied it. What’ll happen when she finds out you’re one too?”

  “Do you hear yourself? This is about her loving Ian.”

  “Are you sure?” Xavier asked, brow raised.

  “Of course I am, but you seem to prefer pitting us against each other when we should be aligned!”

  “I’m only reacting to your emotions. Your mouth says one thing, but your heart says something else.”

  “Enough.” Braeden shoved out of the chair. Had he thought about how Danielle would react once she knew about Hannah and what really happened? Yes, but only for a moment. He never allowed his thoughts to venture in that direction. Madness lay there.

  Bored with brandy, he went for the Goldschläger and gazed at the golden flecks floating within the clear bottle. The bigger issue at hand was the baby. Given what he’d gleaned weeks ago during his fishing expedition at dinner, Danielle clearly didn’t want children, and immortality seemed just as distasteful to her.

  Choices. At this stage, there weren’t any—only rules, tradition, and damage control. Fate had painted him into a dark corner. He had an entire race to consider, one that had existed in secret for millenniums. What real significance did any of their lives have when measured against that? None, really, but it didn’t matter. Danielle had a right to know w
hat was happening to her body. And if she rejected them, he’d die protecting her. Since he’d put her in this predicament, it was the least he could do.

  Forty-eight more hours, Braeden told himself as he poured the cinnamon liqueur. If she came down with the Fever, he’d tell her. It would be reckless to say anything before then.

  Braeden turned to his brother. “So what’s your decision? Will you Seal her or not?”

  “I don’t know!” Xavier’s gaze bounced all over the room. He shot to his feet and prowled around again, rubbing his neck. “I need to think, okay? Just let me breathe for a—”

  Xavier’s phone rang. He dug it from his pocket and punched a button. A minute later, he was heading for the door, looking grateful for the interruption.

  “Hey!” Braeden yelled. “Where are you going?”

  “That was the Elders. They’ve reached a decision on Milton Vogel. I’ll call later with the verdict.”

  CHAPTER 7

  OUTSIDE THE FROST ESTATE

  DEARBORNE, MARYLAND

  Denieve

  ____________________________

  Three blocks from the house, I pulled over to the side of a dark, treelined road as another muffled ring peeled from my glove box. I cut the headlights and ripped the thing open to check the number. It was Braeden again. For the past two hours, both he and Xavier had been blowing my phone up every fifteen minutes. Now every five.

  It was a little after midnight and I’d been driving around for hours, but I still needed more time. My mind hadn’t stopped racing since I left the diner. All because Luke had to go and play the Digby card.

  The Digbys: a case that would forever haunt me.

  When I was a kid I learned a very hard lesson. People lie. And they do it under the most altruistic of guises: to protect others. I was just as guilty of this as anyone else. Which is why I knew the real deal. Most people lie to avoid conflict and pain, but what about the folks they lie to? How are they supposed to pick up the pieces once the truth is revealed?

  I first found out my mom was terminal two months before she died. I was eleven. My brain wasn’t fully formed so she could’ve told me clouds were made of cream cheese and I would’ve believed her. It was the flu, she insisted, and it would blow over soon. But as the days passed, I suspected otherwise. Especially when Rachel, who I later learned was a hospice nurse, started taking care of her.

  I first saw the skull and crossbones on my mother when I was sitting at the kitchen table with her and Caryn. It had been a good day for Mom. She was able to get out of bed and wanted to eat with us, something she hadn’t done in weeks, but the minute Rachel wheeled her in, the skull flashed over her face. I hadn’t a clue what it meant, but somehow Caryn did. She became my saving grace and a shoulder to lean on.

  Like my mother, Dad was all sunshine and light. Whether she told him to lie, I’m not sure, but the stench of manure made its debut with him. It began the first time he staggered into the house after midnight, smelling of booze and cheap perfume. When I asked why he was so late, he claimed he was grading papers at the university and lost track of time. The scent of manure plumed as he kissed me goodnight. Ten minutes later, he crawled into the twin bed next to his dying wife.

  After my mother’s death, I became dependent on my psychic ability. Given Mom and Dad’s deceptions, I saw my gift as a compass in a sea of lies. Dad kept busy chasing tail, and Rachel, who’d grown close to Mom, honored her deathbed request to take care of me. So I moved in with her and Caryn while Dad continued fucking women half his age.

  Things were fine in the beginning. Caryn had always wanted a sister, and I wanted to belong. At first, I think Rachel gave me special attention because she pitied me. I, in turn, did my best to earn her love. I kept my room clean, my grades up, stayed out of trouble, and anything else I could do to remain a part of my new family, I did. Including keeping my gift on the down low. This had been Caryn’s suggestion. “Just forget you know how to do it,” she’d told me.

  So I took her advice. I just stopped. Didn’t even talk about it with Caryn anymore, which she seemed to prefer. Besides, Rachel was a staunch Catholic who viewed anything remotely paranormal as sacrilegious. That all changed years later after Caryn’s ghost appeared to her. But back then, she probably would’ve dragged me kicking and screaming to a priest for an exorcism.

  Anyway, the more I pleased Rachel, the more distant Caryn became. I didn’t get sick of her attitude overnight. It took years before I reached my limit. Years of her freezing me out. Keeping secrets. Of not trusting me. And lying—God could she lie. She became a stranger. When I finally broke down and read her the night of the accident, the anger and bitterness I detected shattered my heart, enough to compel me to stop using my gift again—for a while at least. But once I met Luke, all the old insecurities returned, leaving me with the unshakable belief that I could only rely on what I sensed.

  So what does all this have to do with the Digby case?

  Everything.

  On paper, Wanda and Edward Digby had the American dream: Married four years, 1.5 children, two Volvos, and a house with an actual picket fence. But it wasn’t all puppies and cupcakes in dreamland. At six months pregnant, Wanda came looking for a PI because she feared Edward had a mistress. When asked what she’d do if her suspicions proved correct—something Luke and I asked all potential clients—she told us she’d try marriage counseling.

  “Counseling my ass,” Luke had said after Wanda’s first agency visit. He stretched all six feet of himself out on the leather sofa in his apartment. “Trust me, she wants his balls on a chopping block.”

  I stood over him. “Ten bucks says you’re wrong. I think she’s just trying to save her marriage. God only knows why though.”

  “Newbie lesson number 1.” He tugged me down until I lay flush atop him, and after kissing me breathless, he lifted my head and grinned. “You’ve only been at this for three months, but you should know better. People trying to ‘save’ their marriages don’t need private dicks. They confront their partners directly.”

  I frowned. “But she was as sincere as they come.”

  “I don’t doubt her sincerity, babe. I’m just saying you go to a PI for tangible proof. And tangible proof equals legal ammunition. That’s what she’s really after.”

  Sadly, he was off by miles, though the ammunition part was right.

  When Wanda returned the next day to sign the agency contract, I detected nothing that contradicted my initial psychic impressions. Like before, I’d sensed fear, genuineness, and sorrow. Emotions I was all too familiar with.

  We did preliminary investigations on all new clients. Sometimes we even shadowed them—our way of weeding out criminals and nuts. However, my psychic readings on Wanda didn’t raise any red flags, so I only did an obligatory background check. Newbie lesson number 2: My gift was just a companion to good old-fashioned detective work. Not a replacement.

  At any rate, it only took two days before I hit pay dirt on Edward Digby. He was having an affair. Only his mistress turned out to be a “manstress” named Larry Biggs—Wanda’s baby brother. After I spent twenty minutes talking Wanda down, I was confident she’d weather this storm. She seemed even more hopeful when I called to check on her the following week. In fact, she confided that they’d already made an appointment with a marriage counselor.

  A few days later, Edward and Larry were found dead. Shot execution style in a car parked less than a mile from the Digby’s American dream house with the picket fence. Wanda denied doing the deed when questioned. She even passed a lie-detector test, something that left me baffled. Especially since I read her the day of the murders. I’d smelled nothing but sincerity in her denial, yet Residual Death streamed from her pores. She’d supposedly had no contact with the bodies. They’d been removed from the scene by the time she showed up.

  Hard to believe, but both conflicting messages were true. Wanda Digby hadn’t killed her husband.

  Shelly did.

  Confused yet?
Well, join the club. You see, Wanda had Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), otherwise known as multiple personalities, and Shelly was her newest alter ego. Since my gift centered on reading emotions, seeing through Wanda’s psychological veil had been impossible. Still, if I hadn’t allowed bias to direct my actions, I might have prevented those murders. Had I dug an inch deeper into Wanda’s past, I’d have learned about Dr. Rick Morris, her psychotherapist, and ‘Shelly’s’ recent purchase of a shotgun at Walmart.

  Yet I didn’t do that. Instead, I saw what I wanted to see. Edward Digby. A lying SOB who’d stepped out on his dying wife.

  I saw my dad.

  Luke was right. As with the Digby case, my feelings for Braeden had clouded my judgment. I wouldn’t be sitting in my car trying to talk myself out of going back to him otherwise. Not to mention, the connection my brain was making between Wanda’s mental condition and the doppelganger enigma.

  I mean, I know I said this wasn’t a Three Faces of Eve thing, but DID could explain the stark differences between Braeden and the affable guy in that video, the guy I fell in love with that night just by listening to his voice. Only problem was, I’d been living with this man for almost two months. If he had anything resembling DID, I would have seen at least one manifestation.

  Wouldn’t I?

  Given all the batshit craziness I’d witnessed—this afternoon especially—any rational person would’ve hauled ass by now. Yet I was far from rational where Braeden Frost was concerned. Maybe this was why I’d convinced myself to stay the course. That all I needed was a good night’s sleep. That everything would look brighter in the morning. At least that’s what I chose to believe.