Page 40 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
The question made Christian chuckle. “That would be a no.” After a brief pause, he said, “Why, do you think I seem like I can’t take care of myself?”
She laughed out loud. “That would also be a no. But he does seem very…protective of you.”
Christian’s silence seemed fraught. After several moments, he said, “Corbin’s a good man. He’s known me a long time, since I was a boy, actually. He worked for my father—”
He cut off abruptly and Ember turned to him, remembering with a pang the story Christian had told her about how his parents had died. “Oh no. He wasn’t your parents’ driver, was he?”
Christian shook his head. “My father’s valet. Then my brother’s, then, after my brother married, mine.”
“All in the family, huh?”
Christian glanced at her, his expression giving nothing away. “Precisely. When I moved here, he insisted on coming. I have a feeling even if I’d said no and left without him, he’d have shown up at my door within a week.” His voice grew dark. “That kind of loyalty means everything to me. Especially now.”
They were in Gràcia, a colorful, artsy part of the city known for its nightlife, exotic restaurants and trendy bars. In spite of the chill in the air and the thunderclouds looming ominously overhead, the streets were crowded with pedestrians. Artists with easels were clustered under awnings on one side of the palm-lined boulevard, hawking oil and charcoal portraits to tourists. They were flanked by kiosks selling food, fruit, and T-shirts, interrupted constantly by tiny cafés with patios and upscale clothing boutiques and coffee shops. On their side of the street, there were people painted as statuary who would move in infinitesimal increments if they received money in the can at their feet, and street musicians who would play whatever you asked for the same.
With the Carnaval atmosphere infecting everyone, the streets held a buzz of excitement that warmed the cold air. It was a cacophony of noise and color and motion, and Ember was glad for the distraction from the man walking silently at her side.
She was just about to ask Christian what he meant by “especially now,” when she saw the woman with the cello.
Seated on a chair in front of a jewelry boutique, the woman had her eyes closed, her fingers poised on the strings. Before Ember could turn away or scream the “No!” that automatically rose in her throat with the hot, gagging acidity of bile, the woman lowered the bow to the strings and began to play.
As the first swell of notes rose into the night air and Ember recognized the piece she used to play so perfectly—Kodaly’s Sonata for Solo Cello, the piece that had won her scholarship to Juilliard—she felt a crushing sense of claustrophobia, along with an anguish so fierce and burning, so encompassing and incandescent, it was as if she was standing on the surface of the sun.
A cellist had to have the right combination of passion and steel to meet the extreme demands of Kodaly’s masterpiece. In live performance, when done well, the ear is fooled into thinking multiple players and instruments are at work. There is an orchestral timbre to the double-stop trills and pizzicati, to the haunting and brilliant czardas.
When played well, it is like hearing the voice of God.
The cellist in front of the jewelry boutique was playing it well.
With a choked sob, Ember turned and ran blindly away, shoving though the crowds, her left hand shaking so badly it felt palsied. She heard Christian behind her, calling her name, but she didn’t look back because she didn’t want him to see her face. She didn’t want him to see what she knew was looking out of her eyes, the thing like a hunted animal that would be staring back at him. She’d seen it for too many years in her own face in the mirror; she knew how wretched, how ugly a thing it was.
She ducked into a side street, and then into an alley, hoping she’d lost him in the crowd, and collapsed against the rear wall of a restaurant, trembling and gulping air. But he was on her in an instant, his voice as worried as his eyes.
“What is it? What happened? Are you all right?”
Not all right not all right dying dying dying dying. Trembling, feeling panic and pain wrapped around her with the clammy dark finality of a shroud, Ember squeezed her eyes shut and gasped for air.
He took her in his arms and rocked her gently back and forth, murmuring into her ear. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. Just breathe, Ember. Just breathe.”
She curled her hands around his jacket and buried her face in his shirt. Inhaling deeply, she fought the panic, willing her heartbeat to slow and her body to stop shaking, drawing his smell into her nose, that wild, night-scented spice so unique to Christian.
“Easy, little firecracker,” he whispered, sliding one hand beneath her hair to cup the nape of her neck. “I’m right here. I’m not going to let you fall apart on me.”
Too late, she thought, tears slipping from beneath her closed lids.
Still with one strong arm wrapped around her, Christian took his hand from the back of her neck and tipped her face up to his with his fingers under her chin. “Hey,” he said softly when he saw the tears on her cheeks. “I know you didn’t like the foie gras, but you don’t have to cry about it. My feelings weren’t that hurt.”
His gently teasing tone brought a weak smile to her face. “You could tell, huh?” she whispered.
He wiped her wet cheeks with his thumb then threaded his fingers into her hair. “You’re not exactly what I would call poker-faced, Miss Jones.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “Prime example: the woman with the cello.”
She bit down hard on her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut again.
“I meant what I said before; we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about. But I’m here if you change your mind. Okay?”
She nodded silently and put her face against his chest again. He held her like that for a while, the night music of the city sparkling bright in the air all around them. A bark of faint laughter, the bickering of car horns in traffic, a covey of crooning pigeons sent into shrieking flight by a child, squealing in glee. In her nose the scent of the man who held her and the sweet, pungent bite of caramelized onions from the restaurant kitchen, on her face, cool air that soothed the flushed skin like a balm.
In her heart of hearts, Ember was quaking apart. She was very good at smothering her feelings, even better at keeping anything resembling happiness away, because she didn’t deserve it. Day after week after month after year, she had chosen to stay alive when she knew it would be the right thing to do to kill herself, to take a knife to her wrists or swallow a bottle of Asher’s prescription anxiety medication.
