Page 42 of Once an Angel
Chapter 8
Despite the similarity in our ages, he has been more
son to me than brother. . .
Justin had walked the twisted corridors of the Victorian mansion hundreds of times, first in childhood, then in dreams. The plush burgundy carpet unrolled at his feet. He was a boy again, hurrying past dim passages drenched in the shadows of flickering gaslight. Tall doors flanked the hallway, dwarfing him
with their mahogany splendor. He was late again, always late, and he knew his father would be displeased.
His thin legs would not carry him fast enough. The corridor stretched into infinity. He began to try
doors, afraid they'd be locked, but more afraid they wouldn't be. He rattled each crystal knob with shaking fingers. If he made too much noise, his father would lock away the piano and send him back
to his room without supper. His stomach knotted with hunger.
Light blazed at the end of the corridor. His steps slowed, mired in some unspeakable dread. Now the carpet was unrolling faster, dragging him into the widening air of light against his will. As the light
engulfed him, he swallowed a scream.
Thank God he had. There was nothing to be afraid of. He was standing inside the dining room, where
his family had gathered around the long oak table. He scooted into his seat, perplexed by the empty
chair at his side. They were all there. His mother. His three sisters, demure in their ruffled frocks. His ancient grandmother, nodding in her pudding.
Glowering, his father lifted a carving knife and pulled the covered warming tray toward him. The light from the gasolier burnished the keen blade. Justin glanced again at the chair beside him, haunted by its emptiness.
His father's fingers curled around the handle of the silver lid. Justin's stomach spun. He slammed his
chair back, overturning it. He had to warn his father, to somehow stop him from lifting that lid before it was too late.
His father shook his head. His mouth didn't move, but the unspoken words pounded through the
room in bass counterpart to his sisters' soprano giggles.Don't be so sensitive, boy. You're too damned sensitive for your own good.
With a terrible grin his father lifted the lid of the warming tray. Justin screamed. Then he was alone in
the dining room, alone with the shadowy figure in the chair next to him. The figure turned, basking in
the glow of the gaslight.
Nicky.
Nicholas in all of his dark beauty, his hair slicked back at the temples, his teeth flashing white against
his swarthy skin.
He pointed a tapered finger at Justin. "Your father was right, my boy. You always were too goddamned sensitive for your own good."
He threw back his head in a burst of baritone laughter. t Justin clapped his hands over his ears and
backed into the corner until his own screams faded into the bright, tinkling notes of a child's laughter.
* * *
Emily sat straight up as a hoarse whimper arrowed through the darkness. She rubbed her eyes, disoriented. How late was it? she wondered. Exhausted by the playful beating her body had taken from sea and sun, and unable to endure either the false cheer of Penfeld's prattling or the sight of Justin's empty pallet, she had crawled to her own blankets after dinner and collapsed in a dreamless heap.
Her eyes adjusted slowly. Pale wisps of moonlight drifted through the window. Penfeld's comforting
