Anew: Book Two: Hunted (15 page)

The only upside to this litany of lies is that it seems to
have overwhelmed the news editors so that they let a few other stories slip
through unvarnished. I come across one that quotes doctors at the city’s
hospitals expressing alarm at the increasing number of cases they’re seeing
related to the illegal street drug that’s been dubbed “Jekyll/Hyde”. Jorge
Cruces, head of the world’s largest recreational drug company--to which the
government has long since turned over responsibility for enforcing the drug
laws--has vowed to find the source of the drug and destroy it. I don’t doubt
that he’ll succeed, given his reputation for ruthlessness. But I have to wonder
how the drug got into the city in the first place.

My curiosity is no match for my concern about Ian. I flick
the link off, wishing that I had more life experience to draw on in dealing with
him. The soft click of the door to the great room opening distracts me. It
could be Hodge returning to check on me but I know it’s not. When a hand falls
lightly on my shoulder, I touch my lips to it tenderly.

“Hey, babe,” Ian says softly. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you
woke up.” He takes the chair across from mine, stretching his long, jean-clad
legs out to the side, and studies me. His eyes are hooded, his expression
concealing far more than it reveals. But his concern is unmistakable when he
asks, “Are you all right?”

After a night of blood, death, and wild sex? All things
considered, I think I’m doing remarkably well. But if that weren’t the case, it
wouldn’t matter. He’s all I care about.

“I’m fine. Have you learned anything?”

“Nothing of substance but we will. It’s only a matter of
time.”

I wish that I shared his confidence but I can’t begin to
imagine who could have committed such an atrocity, or why. “Hodge says that the
Council is blaming the scavengers. He also says that Carnival is going on as scheduled.
How can that be?”

Ian shrugs. “The Council is scared shitless. They’ve never
had to deal with anything like this and they don’t have a clue what to do.” He
pauses for a moment, then adds, “Maybe that was the point. Make them desperate
enough to turn to whoever they think can preserve the status quo.”

It occurs to me that he’s giving me a glimpse into the
workings of his mind as he mulls over what has happened. That’s a first, as
well as reassurance that I made the right decision in being where I am.

 
Softly, I ask, “In exchange for what?”

 “There’s only one currency that really
matters--power.”

I consider what Pinnacle House itself represents, the steel
embodiment of power that can make itself felt with no more than a word from the
man who controls it. “What if the Council, instead of trying to blame you,
turns to you for help instead? After all, who could keep things the way they
are better than you, if you chose to do so?”

But he wouldn’t, would he? Ian wouldn’t protect a system
that leaves so many without opportunity or hope.

As though he reads my mind, he says, “I’ve been places where
everything is falling apart. It isn’t pretty. The best case scenario is that
one ruling faction replaces another. Otherwise, chaos reigns and the weakest
suffer the most.”

It’s a non-answer but it’s enough to alarm me. “What about
freedom?” I ask, not caring if I sound naive. Freedom is far too new and
precious an idea for me to let go of readily. “What about democracy, human
rights?”

He looks resigned to a reality he wishes was different.
“None of that is easy to achieve. At the very least, there has to be a period
of relative calm when decent, honorable people can come together and work out
their differences. You don’t have that if the streets are running with blood
and firebrands are in charge.”

“Surely that couldn’t happen here? This place is so
civilized, so cultured.” If only for the chosen few.

“So was Russia before its revolution,” he counters. “At
least if you were fortunate enough to be living in Moscow, attending the ballet
and dining on caviar. France was the cultural center of the world when the
guillotine popped up and body parts started being paraded through the streets.
I could go down the list but the fact is that when societies collapse what follows
is anarchy. That’s worth avoiding at almost any cost.”

Almost. I have to wonder where he draws that particular line
but I don’t ask. I’m too new to all this--caring about him, wanting the best
for him, wondering how he and I fit together, hoping with everything I possess
that we do. That last thought is harsh enough to knock the air from me.

“You’re not eating, babe,” he says, glancing at my plate. He
looks up, meeting my eyes, and I see the cautious smile in his. “What do you
say we get out of here?”

I stare at him in surprise. His gaze is intent but
guileless. He appears almost boyish, as though he’s shucked off his concerns or
at least stored them away somewhere in favor of simply embracing the moment.
Making no effort to disguise my eagerness, I ask, “Can we?”

He stands, holding out his hand. My prince in every sense
but suddenly not quite so dark. All the same, he looks as commanding as ever as
he grins and says, “Who’s going to stop us?”

Ian

I’
ve never taken a
woman to the beach house before. It’s where I head to when I need a quick
break, closer to the city than the palazzo and the one refuge where no one
gives a damn who I am. Women would just complicate that. Or at least that’s how
I’ve felt in the past. Amelia is different. In more ways than I can begin to
count.

“Where are we going?” she asks when we’re in the chopper. We
take off from the roof pad on top of Pinnacle House, clear the city in seconds,
and swoop over the cookie-cutter buildings to the east, stuffed with micro-apartments
for the worker bees. I can hear the excitement in her voice. If anything really
fazes this woman, I’ve yet to discover it. She embraces life with an ardor that
leaves me reeling. Not that I’m in any hurry to let her know that. I’m already
vulnerable enough where she’s concerned.

“Montauk,” I say. “It’s a little town out on the tip of Long
Island. My mother’s people came from there. They were potato farmers and
fishermen until the Wall Street guys moved in. After the super storm in 2029
turned the beachfront mansions into kindling, the rich folks disappeared.
Life’s going back to what it was a century ago.”

I’m explaining more than I normally would but I’ve got an
irresistible impulse to
open up to her. It baffles me at the same time
that I sort of understand it. I want Amelia to know the real me, including the
parts I don’t usually show to other people. At the same time, I’m scared
shitless of what will happen when she does. I have to be crazy to be doing this
in the aftermath of the attack on the Crystal Palace but I can’t help myself.
In the past, I’ve seen death as a grim aspect of the reality we all inhabit, to
be accepted and moved past. Now it’s urging me to pause, reflect, and seize
happiness where and when I can.

She turns her head and meets my gaze. I’m struck yet again
by her beauty--not merely of her face and body, although heaven knows I
appreciate both--but in the spirit that shines from her eyes. As challenging
and impetuous as she can be, she is also the most genuinely warm and giving
woman I have ever known. There are moments when she actually makes me believe
that I can be a better man.

 “I can’t imagine you as a potato farmer,” she admits
with a smile. “Fishing, maybe.”

I laugh. “You should see me land a marlin.”

“Is that what we’re going to be doing today?” She sounds up
for it but then I haven’t seen her turn away from any experience. She embraces
life with a fervor that makes everything around her seem new.

“I might drop a line in the water, among other things.
Mostly, I think we can both use a little time away from the craziness. You’ve
got to admit, ever since we met life has been coming at us like the proverbial
freight train.”

Amelia looks relieved. “I’m glad it’s not just me. I’ve been
afraid that if I blink, I’ll miss something.”

“Not today,” I tell her. “Today it’s just us. All right?”

She nods but I catch a flicker of hesitation. I can’t blame
her for that. I’m not being entirely truthful and on some level she senses it.
I want this day for us not just for its own sake but because I’ve got a good
idea what’s coming. A bigger storm in its own way than the one that hit in ’29
only this time Mother Nature won’t be to blame. This will be a purely manmade
disaster compounded of greed, the lust for power, and the devaluing of the lives
of all but the fortunate few. I’ve got a chance, maybe, to head it off but
whether I can or not one thing is damn sure, I will keep Amelia safe no matter
what comes at us. I have tremendous respect for her courage and intelligence
but she’s far too inexperienced to be left to her own devices in a dangerous
world.

“You’re frowning,” she says. “Is something wrong?”

Not much except I’m wondering if I should send her back to
the palazzo and keep her there under guard until this is over. She wouldn’t
like that. Hell, she’d fight it tooth and nail. But she’d be safe.

She also might never forgive me.

I’ll keep that option in mind all the same but for now I
meant what I said, I want this day to be for us.

“Everything’s fine,” I assure her. “Just sit back and relax.
We’ll be there soon.”

Twenty minutes later, I angle the chopper down toward the
concrete slab sitting beside a former potato field within sight of the ocean.
Amelia has been silent for most of the trip, riveted by the sight of the
Atlantic rushing toward us. The view from Pinnacle House, impressive though it
is, barely prepared her for the reality.

“This is incredible,” she says, gazing at the diamond bursts
of light on the gray-blue surface. Gulls circle overhead, squawking at the
chopper’s intrusion. The sandpipers have vanished temporarily from the strip of
sandy beach within sight of the landing pad but I see a sleek head rise from
the rocky outcropping that extends beyond the shore. The seals are stubborn,
not so easily disturbed.

I take her hand, helping her out, and breathe in her
scent--that jasmine body wash she uses and something else that is pure Amelia
and makes me think of her, of us in the night, her skin against mine, soft
moans spilling from her throat.

My cock hardens. I do my best to ignore it and draw her
attention to the small house sheltered by a hillock but within sight of the
beach. It’s nothing like the mansions that used to litter this shore, just
two-stories covered in gray shingles with dark green shutters and a wrap-around
porch. It’s the kind of house that was common in these parts for a century and
more.

“Is this where your mother’s family lived?” she asks as we
climb the few steps to the front door.

“This was their land but it’s not the original house.”

“What happened to that? The storm in ’29?”

“No, it was actually one of the few structures around here
that survived.” Keeping in mind what I want this day to be about, I add, “When
my mother left my father, he got control of the property and had the house
razed to the ground.”

Amelia’s eyes go dark, resembling nothing so much as the
deep, fast running currents that sweep along the coast after a big blow. “To
hurt her?” she asks.

I nod. The house was one more thing I’d tried to fix. “I had
it rebuilt although at her urging, it’s not identical. The outside is the same,
the interior’s been updated.”

“Does your mother ever stay here?”

“No, she’s happy that it’s been rebuilt but she wants it to
be mine now.”

That surprised me until I realized that she was right to see
it as a place that I could come to and connect with the better part of my past.
That’s why I’m here. To try to convince myself that I haven’t made a terrible
mistake by being with Amelia again. If I have, I’m all too aware of how much
she could be harmed but I’d hardly escape unscathed myself. Hurting her would
destroy me.

I unlock the front door and stand aside for Amelia to enter.
She does so but pauses at once and looks around slowly. I wait, not sure what
to expect.

Finally, after what seems like forever, she says, “This is
very different from your apartment in the city.”

She’s right. The penthouse is a statement of power. This is
a modest home built for solid people who lived quiet lives built on strength
and faith. I don’t question why it feels so right to me, it just does.

“My forbearers probably would have been a little surprised
by the new layout--” It’s an open plan that sweeps from the front door clear to
the back with a glimpse of the beach beyond. “But I like to think they would
have been comfortable here.”

She looks around at the white walls and pickled floors, the
simple furniture, and the few works of art that I’ve acquired from local
painters and sculptors. They are mostly images of the natural world just
outside the door. Moving over to the windows at the back, she peers out. The
palm of her hand rests lightly against the glass. When she turns her head, she
looks excited but tentative.

“Can we go for a walk along the beach?”

My heart twists at the thought that she believes I would
deny her anything. “We can do whatever you want but a walk sounds great.”

A minute or so from the house lies a stretch of the Atlantic
shore that looks as pristine as it must have to the first humans ever to see
it. Small waves lap at golden sand dotted with drift wood and patches of
stranded sea weed. The scent of beach roses that line the path from the house
fills the diamond-clear air.

On a workday, no one else is in sight. We might as well be
the only people in the world. It occurs to me that I’ve run for miles along
this beach more times than I can count but I’ve never just strolled along it.
With Amelia, there’s no other option. We have to stop every few yards as she
makes a new discovery.

 “What is this?” she asks, holding up a dark,
rectangular object that she’s plucked from the sand. I’ve already noticed that
she doesn’t hesitate to touch anything that catches her eye. Hell, she puts
most of it right up to her nose and takes a good sniff. If there’s a squeamish
bone in her body, I haven’t noticed.

“That’s a mermaid’s purse,” I say with a grin. Her eager
embrace of the world I’m showing to her delights me. For the first time in
years, I feel a stirring of my own wonder at this place when I was young and
innocent, an eon ago.

She gives me a chiding look. “It is not.”

“How do you know? Or are you just going to make some blanket
statement about there being no such thing as mermaids?”

She tosses her head and slants me a glance that suggests I’m
being deliberately obtuse.

“Don’t be silly. There’s no room in here for a mermaid to keep
her shell comb much less her tail moisturizer, water-proof mascara,
sunglasses--”

I raise a brow. This is a side of Amelia I haven’t seen
before--whimsical, playful, and utterly captivating. “Mermaids need
sunglasses?”

“For when they come up to the surface. The light can be very
glaring there.”

I nod, considering. “That would explain why we don’t see
more of them?”

She gives me a teasing smile. “Exactly. Now, since we’ve
established that this cannot be a mermaid’s purse, what is it?”

I look at what she’s holding, something I discovered when I
was maybe three years old and have seen so often ever since that the truth is I
don’t really see it any more. Until now. Suddenly, I’m seeing it again for the
first time, through her eyes.

I step closer to her and cup my hand around hers. Her skin
is soft, smooth, and warmed by the sun. I have to fight the urge to bury myself
in her.

“It’s the egg pouch of a skate. What’s left after the eggs
hatch and the baby fish are born.”

She turns the pouch over in her palm, staring at it. Her
focus is intent. I can’t begin to guess what’s going through her mind until she
says softly, “Everywhere I look, everything I see, it’s all about life really,
in all its astonishing variety. Sometimes it overwhelms me.”

My throat tightens as I think of her struggling to make
sense of the world without the benefit of memories or experience. I could have
made things easier for her and would have if I hadn’t let my cock do my
thinking for me.

Dropping my hand, I take a step back. “You’ve had more to
cope with than any person should.”

She looks surprised until she sees that I’m sincere. A flash
of anger darts across her face. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. I’m
incredibly fortunate, not just to be in this world but to be surrounded by
every comfort and luxury. I’ve seen for myself what it’s like for other
people.”

“What other people?” So far as I know, the only people she’s
associated with are others of her class or close to it, like the damn Russian.
Unless she’s talking about servants.

“Scavengers,” she says. “I’ve seen them.”

“How the hell?” Belatedly, I remember what Edward told me,
something about Amelia coming to the defense of a young man being beaten by the
MPS.

But that isn’t what she means, as I discover a moment later.

“Children. I saw them in the park. They came up out of a
tunnel. They were dirty and ragged, and so hungry.” Her voice breaks.

I curse under my breath. The presence of adult scavengers is
bad enough but that there are children among them makes the whole situation all
the more screwed up and reprehensible. Every time the matter of what to do
about the so-called scavs comes up, I’ve signaled loud and clear that Slade
Enterprises won’t tolerate an attack on civilians. I’ve done so again in the
aftermath of the idiotic attempt to blame them for the Crystal Palace disaster.
But I’m not kidding myself. I can only hold the line for so long. Something has
to change, and sooner rather than later. The problem is how to make that happen
without turning the streets red with blood.

“They shouldn’t have been there,” I say. “If they’d been
caught--”