Love's Sacrifice (14 page)

I feel confused. I wanted to offer Blake as a sacrifice to the phoenix. I wanted to watch his beautiful blue eyes fading, fading. Dead. Damned forever.

He cuts into my thoughts. ‘Let us remain merciful.’

‘
What makes you think I want to hurt him?’

‘
Lady Victoria, you underestimate us. It is not an attractive quality. Do not repeat the mistake. You are categorically denied permission to harm Blake or his son. He will provide the tools of his own demise.’

To cover my frustration I bow my head. ‘What do you seek?’

‘
Power, obedience and access.’

‘
You have all three with me.’

His bloodless lips stretch in a parody of a smile. Cold is what cold-blooded does. ‘Good. What may seem to you like chaos is a carefully coordinated attack. The outcome will follow the design no matter what you do.’ He looks to the window, beyond our conversation, to the overcast sky.

I frown with confusion. The brotherhood is rigorously selective. Blake is not a bloodline. ‘What do you want with a bastard and his little mongrel offspring?’

‘
Unlikely alliances can sometimes be the most productive,’ he says cryptically.

The door opens and a nurse comes in bearing a glass of water on a tray. I look up at her almost gratefully. Just having another person in the room even for a few seconds allows me to compose myself a little.

‘
Here you go,’ she says, and places the glass on the low table.

‘
Thank you,’ he says quietly.

She walks out of the door and it closes after her. I watch him pick up the glass, raise it to his pale lips and take a sip. I watch the movement his thin throat makes. My eyes are drawn to his Adam’s apple. The skin there is so white and stretched so tight it almost glows.

My thoughts whirl in circles. Sucking at me. What the hell? Must I stand by and watch Blake and his harlot prosper…again? I shake my head. Something is not right.

‘
Why? Why do you care so much about a non-bloodline?’

And suddenly his eyes—there is no other way to put it—become alive, as if he was a shell and someone or something had suddenly come into his empty body and animated it. I feel inexplicably exposed and observed, not by passive eyes but by penetrating ones. Eyes that know me. Eyes that are familiar. My hand comes up to my throat. Those cruel lips hardly move, but what comes out of them turns my whole world upside down.

Blake Law Barrington

So it was all a lie. I am not a Barrington. Not a bloodline. Not precious. Not better than all the rest of humanity. It should have been a terrible blow. I should have been numb with shock, or in a rage. My whole life a lie! It’s a strange thing but walking away from Victoria, I feel oddly light and relieved.

Finally, it all makes sense.

My father’s sweaty male skin pressed against my half bare back.

Because he was not my father. The vein of cruelty was not normal. He was my keeper. When I examine it deeper it is not relief, but a kind of dangerous excitement. As if a door that I thought would never open for me has suddenly opened. A new life stretches out for me. Within my grasp. I only have to play my cards right.

But I don’t trust her. I believe she will not be satisfied with such a weak revenge. She’ll want blood. It is our way. Blood to feed the gods. Probably mine. She knows she won’t get away with spilling any of Sorab’s. Her plans must include my death. What a pleasure to turn Lana into a widow.

The first person I call is my lawyer.

‘
Jay, get back to me on the fastest, most efficient way for me to cut all financial ties with the Barrington wealth.’

There is a moment of shocked silence.

‘
Um… I didn’t quite get that. Can you explain in more detail what you mean?’

‘
Let’s say my brother discovers that I am not a Barrington—what paperwork would he draw up to cut me out of the fortune?’

‘
Right… Uh…I’ll…um…have to get back to you on that.’

‘
Call me as soon as you know.’

‘
Right, yes, yes I will.’

I call my secretary and tell her to make arrangements for me to fly to New York that day. Then I call my brother.

‘
Marcus. I need to speak to you. I’ll be there in about ten hours. Can you clear your diary for me?’

‘
Is everything OK?’

‘
Not really. But I’ll tell you everything when I see you.’

After that I call Billie to ask her if she will come and stay with Lana that night. She sounds out of breath, as if she has been running up a flight of steps or having wild sex, but she not only took my call, she also agrees immediately. With that sorted, I dial my mother’s number.

Nine and a half hours later I am sitting in my brother’s mistress’s flat. Nadia is out, and he was close by. I lower myself into a brand new white sofa and look around curiously. It is an odd place. In fact, I think it is the most unlived-in place I have ever been in throughout my life. There is not a spot of dirt, anywhere. It is just white—cold and soulless.

‘
Like a drink?’ he asks.

‘
What’ve you got?’

He holds up a green bottle that he bought at an auction in Bonhams, London. A Special Liqueur Whiskey, from the Glenavon Distillery in Ballindalloch, Scotland. The distillery ceased production in the 1950s. He pours us two glasses of pale gold liquid, and crosses the extraordinarily white carpet to hold a glass out to me. I thank him and take a sip. The two-hundred-and-sixty-year-old smoky liquid slides down my throat tasting of copper pot stills, oak barrels, peat moss, and its own smooth patina. All the people who made it are dead. I only feel the bite when it splashes into my empty stomach and burns.

Marcus drops into a pristine sofa opposite me. ‘So what’s going on?’ So close to me his voice echoes in the disconcertingly empty place.

I take another sip of his fine whiskey. ‘Just found out today that I’m not a Barrington.’

His jaw drops. Well, at least I know now that he didn’t know. ‘What?’

‘
Yeah, apparently I’m not a Barrington.’

He recovers fast, I’ll give him that. He snaps his mouth shut and goes silent for a bit while all kinds of thoughts pass through his head and flash across his eyes. All of them self-serving. ‘Who told you?’

‘
Victoria.’

His eyes narrow. Disappointment? ‘Isn’t she in an asylum for the insane?’

‘
She had DNA results.’

He leans forward, his eyes gleaming. He looks like a man who can hardly believe his luck. I haven’t seen this side of him. ‘Have you…verified the results?’

‘
No need to. I always knew I was different.’

He leans back. His voice is dry. ‘You weren’t different. Quinn was different.’

‘
Anyway, the reason I’m here is because I want to walk away from being a Barrington heir. I want you to take over my portfolios and generally find a replacement for me in the Barrington hierarchy. The only thing I will retain are my own personal investments and Quinn’s portfolio.’

He looks at me strangely, suspiciously. Once, I called this man my brother. Today I am about to see his real face. ‘Why?’

‘
It’s a long story.’

‘
I’ve got hours to kill,’ he says languidly.

I explain what happened so far and as I speak Marcus exhales slowly, looks into his whiskey, shoots it, and goes back to the sparkling chrome and glass bar. He lets his glass hit the surface too loudly and winces. He sloshes whiskey carelessly into the glass, spills it on the gleaming surface. He brings the glass blindly to his lips, takes a sip and swallows. He is drunk on my misfortune.

‘
Any lawyer worth his salt will tell you—any contract you sign under duress can be easily declared null and void.’

‘
That’s just the thing. I want out.’

‘
What do you mean when you say you want out?’ he asks casually. As if I could be spooked into changing my mind.  

‘
I’m walking away from it all.’

He takes a large gulp, swallows and coughs. ‘All?’

‘
All.’ I stare at him curiously. Was I once like this? Was nothing ever enough for my insatiable lust for more? ‘Well, anything that is not already in my name,’ I confirm.

He makes a disbelieving sound. ‘You’ll be a pauper.’ But I notice that he is not trying too hard to persuade me, otherwise. Simply gauging how serious I am.

‘
Hardly.’

‘
Well, you know what I mean.’ There. There is that self-serving smile again.

‘
Yes, by your standards, I will.’

‘
Then you’ll need a job. You can run the business for me.’

Strange, how I never saw the supercilious arch of his eyebrow, that condescending tilt of his chin. For the first time I see what my father or rather my stepfather saw. A greedy, grasping man of dissolute tastes who can’t even pretend to lead. A spineless fool without even a whiff of what it takes to sit at the front of a dynasty as vast and powerful as the Barrington’s.

I smile. ‘No. I’d like to strike out on my own. Do something different.’

‘
You sound like Quinn.’

‘
You’ll manage.’

‘
I really need you, Blake. I’ll make it worth your while.’

I look at him and I am glad that he is not my brother. He wants to hire me as his employee. ‘Sorry, Marcus, but I’m sure you’ll forge new alliances.’

‘
You’re just going to walk away from it all?’ He is pleased with his good luck, but seems angered and irritated by my decision not to work for him. Later, when he is at the bottom of the bottle, it might occur to him to make it all legal as soon as possible.

I shrug. ‘Yeah.’

He frowns, genuinely confused. ‘Why?’

‘
When I was younger, the idea that all of nature—humans, animals, flowers, trees, mountains, rivers, galaxies, even universes—is nothing more than self-replicating fractals of an interactive biological software program based on golden ratio or the Fibonacci spiral was depressing. We are all animated mathematical constructs of great precision. It took the magic out of creation. I understood I was in a geometric prison, but I didn’t know how I could escape it. Until recently. Now I find new beauty and astonishment whenever I act out of autopilot. Whenever I leave the hive mentality, stop being a predator or lead a life of love and harmlessness.’

‘
Because of her?’ he asks, his voice edged with some deep rage.

Ah, that’s where the irritation comes from. He is envious of what I have with Lana. ‘Don’t go there, Marcus,’ I warn, watching him over the rim of my glass.

Blake Law Barrington

“
How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. When, then, did he come?”

—
Sherlock Holmes,
The Sign of the Four
(1980)

My mother lives overlooking Central Park in an apartment that takes up three entire floors. The ceilings are twenty-three feet high, the windows are ceiling to floor, and the endless views are quite literally breathtaking. Darkness has already fallen and the city lies a glitzy carpet of lights below me. I gaze down at the beautiful sight and feel crumpled and jaded.

A maid brings sage tea flavored with honey and warm brioches filled with foie gras and bacon curls. By the time my mother makes her fantastically elegant entrance, I have already been cooling my heels for fifteen minutes. I turn around to watch her sweep dramatically into the room, porcelain white, blonde and flawless, and remember her, when she used to dress in floor-length evening gowns and was what you would call an all-star beauty. Among other things she wore coats made out of ocelots. The memory leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

She smiles ruefully. ‘Have I kept you waiting long?’

My mouth twists. ‘Not at all.’

She sinks languidly onto a sofa, and after dutifully kissing either side of her smooth and perfumed cheeks, I take the seat opposite hers. She curls her fingers delicately into a half fist and lifts it to her mouth to conceal a sigh. Everything about her is designed to disguise the predatory gleam in her eyes.

‘
There is a Byzantine church in Syria, called The Heart of the Almond. Imagine such a name for a church.’

‘
Did Marcus call you?’

‘
What do you think?’

‘
Well, are you going to tell me who my father is? Or are we going to discuss obscure churches in Syria?’

She thinks for a moment, her eyes secretive slits of blue. ‘Have you ever dreamed of a bird or an animal with glowing red eyes?’

I am unprepared for the question. If I had, my reaction would have been totally different. I would have schooled my expression. But as I wasn’t, she saw the unguarded expression of shock. Even though I shake my head, she pins me with her eyes, suddenly avid and glittering with excitement.

‘
You have, haven’t you?’

Why she would be pleased about such dreams, I don’t know, but I consider them nightmares. Since I was a boy I have been trapped in dreams where I am being chased by a massive black horse with red eyes. It chases me through open fields, I can hear it snorting and breathing hard on my heels. Sometimes I will make it into an abandoned house or barn and I will lock myself in there and cower while the horse thunders its hooves at the door. Petrified, I will stare at the door as it rattles and shakes. That is usually when I wake up in a cold sweat.