The Key (Sanguinem Emere) (24 page)

My piece on Dimitri didn’t go down well though, seeing as how we were both in mourning. Alex knew he had something to do with it. And how can I blame him? I made little attempt in my own self-serving misery to hide that fact.

The research material in Levi’s hands is what I fell into to keep from going stir crazy over everything that had happened and the horrible things I saw. But I feign indifference, “Research for a piece I’m writing.”

“Yes, of course. Bourdeaux is well known for its articles on,” He pretends to focus in on the title, squinting his eyes and raising his voice mockingly, “’Truth in the tale of Dracula’ and Bluebeard. Although it does seem a bit of a leap from fluff pieces on the rich and famous, wouldn’t you agree?”

I snatch the papers from his hand and ignore his conceited cackling as I shove the research into a drawer and slam it closed. “So aside from admitting your own unabashed guilt in a scheme to end my relationship with your employer, what do you want, Levi?” The venom in my tone is palpable as is to be expected, but of course my tormentor ignores it as he continues to peer into my life, his hands loosely clasped behind his back.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Eva. I simply thought you deserved the truth, after all this time. And you do seem to be doing better,” He passes a lascivious glance over me, trailing his eyes up and down my body, much to my disgust, “I’ve only waited this long to come clean to spare you some pain.”

Lying fuck. I can see in his eyes that he’s pissed I didn’t curl up in a ball and sob at the news. Or beg to be taken back to Dimitri to clear my name. Or both.

But he won’t get anything out of me in this regard. The truth is that I want to do these things. I want desperately to revert back to the state I arrived back at my apartment in a year ago. When I sat on the floor and sobbed for two days before I managed to pull myself together enough just to bathe and eat. It would be a comfort to regress. But it would also show weakness and I am above that now.

“One thing I do find interesting,” He begins again, his voice oily and untameable, “Is that there is no sign of another lover in evidence.” I flinch marginally, unwilling to give to his cruelty.

There was something. About two months after Dimitri. Bram. Again. He confessed his secret, a rehashing of the original and one that made me ill to the very core of my being.

He had lied to me about Cecily. All because he thought I didn’t love him.

He was right.

A pity he had to drag my baby sister into it, though. Poor thing. Innocent yet deemed guilty by me and my refusal to communicate. Putting it all into perspective, I judged her unfairly.

And now she’s gone. And I can’t make it right.

I’d shut the door in his face that afternoon.

“So you helped Miss von Hagt in a smear campaign against me by… What? Stealing the key and opening the door?”

His eyes glint at mention of the door, but he reaches his fingers towards the key still dangling from my neck as I step back out of his reach. He curls his hand into a fist and hitches a false smile to his lips, “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I did see some beautiful things in your room that night.”

His voice breaks into a gruff expression of desire as he steps closer to me, breaking the distance between us and I cringe inwardly at the memory of being with Delilah. The softness of it all. Now utterly ruined in the knowledge that he witnessed the entire act and debased it for his and Melinda’s own ends. I must be honest, I had begun to think that the entire affair had been a ploy on Delilah’s part to get me out of the way. I mean, she would have had plenty time to take the key while she was distracting me.

Or it could even have been a sick joke Dimitri employed, all on his own.

Levi runs a finger down my cheek and I slap his hand away, my flesh meeting his with more disgust than intended.

He narrows his eyes, but his composure recovers quickly. “Of course, you must understand that Miss von Hagt is a tortured soul,” There is nothing to indicate any sympathy for the little witch in his voice. Rather he seems to enjoy the prospect of her misery. Just as he is now relishing in my discomfort at his sudden reappearance after a year of nothing. “You are well within your rights to resent her, but she just had to have you removed from the equation. She thought you were a threat to her position,” He pauses to look into my eyes pointedly, “You being Dimitri’s favourite and all.”

I steel myself. Quickly. I refuse to let him see the effect his words have on me. The grinding desire to please my master, the bashful flush of pleasure at knowing that I am his favourite.

“Huh. That of course would be why it was so easy for him to exile me.” I can’t stop the words from rushing out in an accusatory tumble, trembling just barely at the emotion I can’t contain.

He smiles, “Oh, it wasn’t an easy decision. He was quite enamoured with you. But he felt you were too prone to fits of irrational hysteria,” He glances quickly to the drawer I’m hovering protectively in front of.

“Whatever, Levi. Look, you’ve said your piece now just go, okay?”

I turn away from him, trying to maintain my perfectly crafted mask of ennui, but I can feel it slipping.

And then he places a warm hand on my waist, “Why, Eva?” His voice is too quiet for anything other than bedroom talk. The old weakness comes pounding back through my limbs.

And then I remember why.

My hands whips around before my body has time to turn the full 180 degrees and connects with his face, so reminiscent of the sharp fleshy collision I recall him receiving at Dimitri’s own disapproval so long ago.

He glares at me in shock, his cheek reddening furiously.

“How dare you?!” I spit the words into his expressionless face. “You think I’m like one of those desperate little girls that will do anything for you? I am not your fucking whore! Get out of my house!”

This time he does not argue, or hedge, or cover the tension with his hissing words and slithering caresses. Levi turns for the exit and picks up his coat.

As he opens the door he fishes in his pocket for a small cream envelope which he places reverently on the entrance cabinet. He turns back to me with real awe on his face, “He wanted me to give you this.”

With that, Levi steps out and clicks the door quietly closed behind him.

The envelope looks back at me as I stare with quashed incredulity. On its back is my name written in a painfully familiar script.

THURSDAY 5 November 2009… 13:26

My Lamb,

I miss you.

Yes, I know it’s cruel of me to say this now. You might say that I’m being selfish and unkind to come back into your life like some hurricane, disturbing your hard-won peace of mind. I’m certain you must be furious at me for the way I treated you. But please try to understand, it was for your sake, not mine.

I am afraid I have had a negative influence on you and your well-being. And the thought of hurting you, in any way, hurts me. But now I find myself indulging. I need to know – do you miss me too? Or is it too late? Have you closed that door and locked it forever?

If (as I hope) there is still some chance of your forgiveness then I would invite you to join me at dinner tomorrow evening. If the answer is yes, call Delilah. She is expecting your correspondence.

Always,

Dimitri.

The words play over and over in my head like a ditty to a rhyme that I can’t stop humming. And again I can feel invisible insistent hands pulling me down into the dark murky depths that was my mind during those brief few days of happiness, of excruciating joy despite all the misery. The letter fills the empty blackness in me, the hole that had begun to colour my pallor and mock me in the night when I could not find the reprieve that I needed from my own damn thoughts.

The article I wrote, cut-out of its glossy pages and slipped into the envelope with the letter… That’s a different matter. A message. A sign of approval?

It was harsh and cruel. And deliberately unforgiving of a man that I think I love. But it was needed.

Delilah sits across from me in stony silence. Crème has bottomed out to some extent. Though the music still plays as loud and boisterous as ever, the clientele has changed drastically. No longer does the piquant mix of light and dark attract those of higher standing, now the night creatures inhabit the bar, all kitted out in black with matching make-up and heavy silver chains, earrings, piercings and tattoos. The girl’s favour lace, the boy’s leather. Maybe even pleather. Delilah is a shining beacon of colour in the midst of it all and she doesn’t seem to mind the drastic shift in atmosphere of her club.

In fact, she hasn’t even looked around or sighed as is her way, in the last hour. She’s just been staring at me.

And I can’t be one hundred per
cent certain that the look in her eyes is a happy one.

“You heard from Cecily?” She mutters distractedly and I have to pause to take a breath, to stop from wincing at the flat accusation behind her words. But I let my defence mechanism trigger, I allow all the emotion, the outpouring, the misery to be seen through my eyes. So that she can see I am not heartless. I still miss my sister. And I am afraid for her.

But even as I allow these things to flow I know I’m lying to this woman who was once my friend and to myself. All those feelings may be valid, but they are all for someone else. The only person left in my life that I can possibly feel this strongly for. Dimitri.

It’s how I’ve survived this long. Letting everyone believe I am grieving for a sister gone missing over a year ago. Not even Alexander saw through it; even though he tried.

Delilah buys into it. I think. I hope. As she softens around the edges despite hardness still making a calculating mockery of her once piercing glance. She starts to stutter something and then takes another swig of the beer in front of her. Another sign that not everything is as okay as it should be. Delilah and beer have never been a combination I could get used to seeing.

“What?” I prod her into it as gently as I can, despite being near to absolutely sure that I do not want the answer as to what she was thinking.

“Well, it’s just – I’m sorry for the part I played in what happened with Dimitri,” She pauses and bows her head, muffling her next words. But not enough to prevent me from hearing the tremulous, “Oh god, am I sorry.”

I put a hand on her knee, strange to have close contact with her after everything we shared and kept from each other, “It’s okay, Plum. You had to.”

“I guess. Doesn’t make it any less vile though, does it?” She graces me with a sad, little, wan smile. But at least it’s something. A sign that my friend is still in there somewhere.

My patience is slowly slipping though. I can’t help it. The note replays its jaunty tune in my head, reminding me why I am here. Uplifting the sadness that has shrouded me for too long.

“So,” I begin in much the same tone of voice she used to use so wantonly on me and her eyes snap up. I tried to make it casual, but it’s clear she’s not falling for it. She knows I’m rushing for the reunion with him.

God, even I know it and I’ve become incredible at ignoring anything of introspection.

She glares at me, blame and shame once more colouring her cheeks.

Well, then I suppose I had better continue. A traitorous little voice whispers to me that I have fallen into the trap of being cold and calculating. Reminds me that I deserve every vicious look she throws at me.

I ignore it. I deserve this, dammit.

“You want to talk about him?” She snipes with a little too much venom and tart.

Doggedly, still trying to undermine the voice of treachery clouding my thoughts I flake over her tone, “Yeah, his note said I should speak to you.”

“So that’s why you’re here?”

I pause. And then, “It’s not like that, Delilah.”

“Then, please, tell me. What is it like, Eva?”

“He said I couldn’t contact you. Or Melinda. Or Cecily, even. If she’s still alive.” My face falls for effect, but even I am starting to have difficulty telling if it’s sadness over something pertinent or over Dimitri.

Delilah scoffs, “Because being told you can’t do something has always stopped you before?”

I hedge. “I was afraid he would take it out on you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yes.”

She sighs and leans back in her pouf. Slumping her shoulders forward and grabbing at her neck to try and ease the tension. Whereas before she incessantly glowered at me, now she isn’t looking at me at all.

It’s not that I’m not feeling guilty. I do feel it, honest. But everything is so heightened, so empowered by the memory of him that anything besides the memory of our time together feels faded like an old watercolour. Irrespective of how good – or bad – it feels.