Innocently Evil (A Kitty Bloom Novel)

Innocently Evil

A Kitty Bloom Novel

By Felicity Beadsmoore

Copyright © 2013 Felicity Beadsmoore

All rights reserved.

Bound by darkness, cold shadows walk the land

Over rolling hills and empty streets,

Silently stalking the pathways of man,

And snuffing out light, wherever they meet.

But, in the distance a war has begun

Between the early beginnings of light,

Preceding the pure bright strength of the sun;

And the possessive darkness of night.

Brightness spears shadows with sharp golden rays;

The sky's at war, clouds reflecting the pain.

Light leads the duel keeping darkness at bay;

Night chooses retreat, while light chooses to remain.

With victory won, the sun rises high,

And day begins, as if no war went by.

‘Victory At Dawn’

– By
F. K. B

One: Bearing Gifts

It was my eighteenth birthday and we were moving again. We had only stayed two months in London this time. I’d woken up in early morning darkness to gentle words and a nudge in the side. Moving made me grumpy and I refused to acknowledge the cheerfulness my mother was radiating. After some best wishes, a poor apology for the day and a whispered attempt at happy birthday, my mum placed a plate on my lap. She’d painted the number eighteen on my fruit toast in jam. I screwed up my face. It was not how I’d expected an eighteenth birthday to begin.

“We leave in one hour,” she told me sweetly with a kiss on the cheek.
She disappeared into the light of the hallway, leaving me to get ready.

I left the
room dark, with only the tiny flower lights above the bed to guide me as I threw the last of my things into a duffle bag. The pretty, little lights themselves would be one of the last things to pack. Then, I headed for the shower.

I’d never been much of a morning person. My mum knew that.
So unlike all the other days when she’d decided to perform a last minute move, I couldn’t just smile and let it be. It was my birthday after all and I had wanted it to be special. The thought of spending the day sitting on a train bored me out of my mind. I was sick of my mum’s constant need for change and some days I just wanted to run out the door and leave her. Today felt like another one of those days, but I knew I couldn’t. She couldn’t leave me either. For all her faults, it had always been her and I together against the world from the very beginning. We would be lost without each other. We were family after all, down to the very last drop of blood and we were the last of our kind, all our other relatives had perished.

Like the bedroom,
I’d chosen to leave the bathroom dark. There was a small window above the basin that let some of the light in from the streetlamps outside and that was all the light I cared for. Darkness had always comforted me, calmed me. It seemed to have the power to drain all the hard truths from reality and enable me to imagine life was as I liked it. I closed my eyes as the warm water hit my face and I let myself believe, just for a moment that everything I wanted to happen was about to happen. Moments passed and my thoughts drifted on until I’d totally lost all track of time. There was a hard knock on the door.

“Twenty minutes,” Mum yelled over the
deafening drone of falling water.

              I stepped out of the shower, dried myself and then dressed. Once finished, I went to the basin, brushed my teeth and then looked up at my reflection in the mirror. In the blue glow of darkness my usual peaches and cream coloring now appeared luminous and my sapphire blue eyes seemed too large and dark. I had a seductive face, like my mum – big eyes and lips with a button nose – but that’s where our similarities stopped. Unlike her short, skinny shape, I had grown tall, busty and toned.

She liked to remind me how fort
unate I was to be blessed with Grandma’s genes rather than hers. While I, in turn, liked to avoid any conversation to do with dead relatives. There seemed to be enough unhappiness in our present without adding to it by conjuring up memories of the very few relatives we might have once had. All we had now and all I had ever known was the two of us, and that was all I cared to know. I needed at least a small fragment of stability in my life, and the knowledge that the two of us would never change, while our surroundings and experiences might, was just enough to keep me sane. For the moment anyway.

Taking
a small comb from the shelf above the basin, I swept my long, burgundy black hair up into a messy bun. I straightened my scarlet singlet and brushed my hands over my tight blue jeans. For a ten hour train ride, I looked pleasant enough.

Back
in the bedroom, I put on some shoes and then did a final check through the shelves and cupboards, and under the bed. It wasn’t hard to make sure that I had all my belongings. I’d never fully unpacked since our move here. So, most of my things were already boxed up. In all honesty, I didn’t have that much. We’d been moving from country to country since I could remember, following my mum’s muse and inspiration, and then returning to London or New York to sell her new works of art. There was never much room for more than just the bare minimum of belongings in our lives. New stuff was usually more of a burden than a privilege.

Grabbing the duffle bag and my backpack off the bed, I headed for the stairs. I paused in the hall to let my eyes adjust to the bright fluorescents
that my mum couldn’t live without wherever she went, and then I stumbled downstairs. I could hear her banging away in the study as I reached the final step, no doubt fiddling with the last of her art supplies and starting to fret about being late for the train. Tardiness was always my fault.

I
had begun to be a bit of a disappointment to her, because I no longer enjoyed the travel. It had lost the wonder it had held for me years ago. Now, all I really craved for was to settle down somewhere for more than a few months. To actually have a home.

Mum didn’t seem to understand that. She’d tell me
stories about us being the descendents of gypsies and that moving from place to place was in our blood. She constantly hoped, in vain, that one day I would see and understand the world from her perspective. That our moving wasn’t so much a desire for constant change, but was instead, more of a necessity for our survival. Even now I still couldn’t see things through her eyes, no matter how hard I tried. Normal people just didn’t move around from country to country to survive. They bought a house, settled down and started living their lives. A wish that I just couldn’t seem to have answered.

As today was
my special day, I wanted to avoid an argument for as long as possible. Moving days were often tense times where Mum and I usually offered each other words we’d later regret. So, instead of helping her pack, as I normally did, I dumped my final two bags next to the front door, grabbed a jacket and stepped outside. The icy, fresh morning breeze caressed newly formed goose bumps on my chest and I hugged my black leather jacket closer around me.

Although our street was
near the constant hustle and bustle of Oxford Street, it was considerably quiet. This was probably due to the fact that most normal people at half four in the morning are either asleep or getting ready for work, not on their way to another new town in another country. A loud crash came from inside the unit behind me, shortly followed by a muffled curse, and the peace of early morning was ruined. It sounded like Mum’s easel wasn’t happy about coming quietly either. As I opened the front door to go back inside and reluctantly offer Mum some help, a taxi pulled up to our front walk.

I stuc
k my head inside and called to her. “You might want to get a move on,” I said, unable hide the amusement in my voice. “The taxi’s here”.

              There was another curse from the study, but I ignored it. I slung a bag over my shoulder, grabbed one of the larger boxes and went down the front steps to greet the driver.

With the taxi driver’s help, even with
my mum making a fuss over her disobedient easel, we made it to the station with a half hour to spare. We checked our luggage and then settled into our seats until the train was scheduled to depart. At sunrise, the train’s horn sounded and we began the journey towards our new place of residence. Another artist colony. This time, in France.

Saint Jean
was a medieval town high up in the mountains of southern France, just an hour or so away from Cannes. My mum had spent some time there shortly before I was born. She’d told me that my father had been an artist residing there and that soon after she’d found out that she was pregnant with me, he’d gone missing. She’d said we’d come back to help her reclaim her muse. I believed she’d come back in the hopes of finding him.

We ha
d switched trains in Paris shortly before lunch and by early afternoon the journey was already beginning to get to me. Mum had dozed through most of the trip and I’d read my favorite novel, cover to cover, three times. I didn’t want to sleep, even though I was feeling the strain of the ride, too. It was my birthday and I didn’t want to waste it sleeping. We had a few hours left until we arrived at Cannes and then finished our journey by bus. So, I only had a limited amount of time left to get up and stretch my legs before being confined to yet a smaller travelling space. I touched my mum on the shoulder and told her I was going for a wander. She nodded her acceptance and then wiggled into a more comfortable napping position.

By now most of the passengers in the train were either sleeping or trying to. The train attendants had automatically lowered the blinds on either side o
f the carriage soon after lunch to block the sun from the weary travelers’ eyes. I made my way quietly through the connecting doors and into the next carriage, and then into the next. Soon I had passed through four carriages and still found nothing new to hold my interest and keep me awake.

At the end of the fourth carriage the connecting doors looked different. Somehow larger and cleaner than the others b
efore them. I was much too blasé to care about the difference and instead of following my gut and turning to head back, I opened them without so much as a regretful thought. As I entered the fifth carriage I knew I’d made a mistake. I hadn’t thought about the fact that any of the carriages on the train would be private. But surprisingly, this one fit the profile.

The whole space was like a lounge room and bedroom all in one. Although the satin curtains had been drawn, the lights had been left on, forbidding my eyes to miss the large amount of gold trimmings decorating the walls and furniture. Two embroidered lounge chairs and a day b
ed sat at the end closest to me, with a heavy wooden coffee table at their centre. At the other end was a large bed that, to my relief, appeared to be empty.

I wandered
instinctively into the room, helpless to stop myself caressing the top of the daybed and from leaving my mouth hanging open in awe. I turned in a small circle, taking in everything in the room until my gaze was firmly back on my exit.

“Can I help you,” asked a
deep, English-accented voice behind me.

I jumped at the sound and made an embarrassingly high pitched gasp.
“Sorry,” I said as I turned around. “I was just leaving.”

At the other end of the carriage in front of a now open door that I had unfortunately missed during my study of the room, stood a tall, half naked young man.
He scrubbed gently at his thick, damp, black hair with a white towel, while a second towel clung tightly to his waist.

My eyes caught the glisten
ing droplets of water on the tight, tanned skin of his chest and I had to physically turn my head to stop from staring. “Well,” I said awkwardly, “goodbye then.”

I turned again and headed for the carriage doors. But
, before I’d managed to hit the release button I felt a warm hand on my arm.

“Wait a minute,” he said, pulling me t
o face him. “I know you.”

I looked at his perfect
features, his swollen lips and stubborn jaw, and then into the depths of his warm, amber eyes. “I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that face if I had.

His
eyebrows furrowed and his mouth tightened as he studied my face. Even in thought he had sex appeal. My mind raced with thoughts of movie stars and male models. I could feel the warmth of his shower radiating out from his skin, while his hand, still on my arm, held me close in front of him.

His dark eyes returned to mine and a hint of a smile touched his lips.
“You’re Angelica’s daughter. Angelica Bloom, the artist. Am I right?”

              He was, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted him to know that. I hadn’t the faintest clue who he was, even if he was beautiful.

With my lack of an answer he tilted his head slightly and gave me a friendly smile.
“I’m Max. Max Tiennan. My father, Louis, is the patron of the artist community near Cannes. I believe that you and your mother will be joining us there for a few weeks or so.”

My eyebrows furrowed
at the coincidence, but I decided let it slide and smiled back at him instead. “Yes. That’s right.”

I was starting to find his closeness intimidating and his hand kept sending shivers up my arm from where he held it. I decided to take a step back.

“So, you’re little Kitten Bloom,” he said as his eyes watched my retreat.

“Kitty,” I said.

“Kitty,” he repeated in a slightly deeper tone.

I took another, this t
ime smaller, step back and Max released his hold on my arm. His eyes never left mine as he did so and the hair on the back of my neck began to rise at the thought of how very alone we were.