Nikolai: A Dark Light Novella (Dark Light #2.5) (6 page)

She shakes her head. “No. No one. I was taught to never tell anyone - that it could be dangerous.”

“Yes, it is. You mustn’t disclose that information. Understand?”

She nods, chewing slowly. I launch into my next question. “When you got sick, how old were you?”

Grabbing a bottled water from the tray, she takes a swig before answering. “I was eight.”

“So that would make you…”

“Eighteen. The day your men came for my father - the day they brought me here - was my birthday.”

I mentally summarize the last forty eight hours. Hard to believe that, in the span of two days, my life has been completely tipped off its axis by this mysterious, captivating, utterly infuriating creature. Seems like so long ago. The women I’ve had in this very bed have been long forgotten, their lives only a mere whisper of a memory. When you’ve lived as long as I have, fucked and killed through nearly two centuries, it all becomes a blur. Faces begin to blend together. Even sex feels the same - almost choreographed. I’ve done it all, I’ve seen it all. Nothing surprises me.

Except Amelie.

Her scent, her soul, those uncanny eyes tainted with Light magic … it’s a dangerous concoction that draws me to her, pulling me deeper into the unknown. Maybe it’s the thrill of chasing death. Of diving into my inevitable demise and ending the monotony of this life. Because when you have it all, there’s nothing else to live for. Nothing to strive to achieve. Your story has already been told, over and over again.

“That was your birthday?” I can’t even hide the scowl painted on my face. Fuck it.

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “But it’s ok. Not like my father remembered or anything.”

I shake my head in disgust. “The Light have a thing for significant dates. Pretentious assholes,” I mutter. “My apologies.”

Amelie frowns, and I feel the sudden urge to wrap her in my arms and kiss the little lines in her forehead. “For what?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “Your father. The Light imposing on your eighteenth birthday. Me being a fucking prick and not feeding you. Take your pick.”

“Not all of those things were your fault.” She fingers a wayward dark brown curl. “I’m sorry, too. For saying those things about you. You obviously had no idea that I was cursed. And honestly … not everything I saw in those dreams was bad.”

My eyebrows reach for the crown of my head, and I swear, my voice goes up an octave. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, the sex and stuff was pretty gross, especially when I was a kid, but sometimes you seemed…nice. Normal. And a little bit lonely.”

I bite back a snort of protest. Me? Lonely? How the hell can you be lonely when you’re constantly surrounded by people that need you? Want you? Crave to be near you just for a tiny slice of the royal pie? I roll my eyes and give her a playful smirk.

“Except … except when you were with this one guy,” Amelie continues. “He cared for you, looked after you. You always seemed happy when he was around. Maybe even a bit relieved, if that makes sense. He looks like you, a little older. Like maybe a brother or cousin. And he’s, uh, really,
really
good looking.”

That empty, hollow ache returns, attacking my chest with the frigid chill of remembrance. Amelie may have shared my memories, but she will never understand the pain of abandonment that haunted me for decades after Dorian left. He could have taken me with him - shit, I practically fucking begged him to - but he was too far-gone to even think about what he was leaving me with. The weight of our father’s expectations now rested solely on my shoulders. He was determined to create the perfect heir with or without my brother. And he wouldn’t stop until he accomplished just that … or until I broke.

A soft, delicate hand grazes my arm, kindling the surface of my skin, before swiftly pulling away. Amelie looks at me with an embarrassed gleam in her eyes. “Who is he?” she whispers.

“My brother.” The words are out of my mouth before I think to stop them. “Dorian. But he’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, regret painting her face. “When did he die?”

I shrug and shake my head simultaneously, unable to come up with a logical explanation. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if he is dead. I just know that a long time ago, he left and never looked back.”

“And you miss him.” It’s not a question. The answer is already written on my face.

“Everyday.”

“You’ll see him again,” Amelie states with certainty as if she knows the first thing about me or my family, or the curse of being birthed into this life. I want to tell her that she’s wrong, that she’s no more than a stupid girl who doesn’t know a goddamn thing about the Dark. But the hope that shines so bright in those peculiar eyes keeps me from refuting her blind faith. It’s what keeps me hanging onto that beautiful lie, in hopes that her ignorance will not be in vain.

Her dreams brought her to me. Maybe they’ll bring Dorian back home. Hell, maybe they’ll even give purpose to the shallow carcass of a man that is me. Either way, this girl was sent for a reason - sent to
me
for a reason. I just don’t know if it’s to kill her or fuck her. Hurt her or heal her. Hate her or lo…

Never mind.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” I blurt out, quickly changing course, tugging at the long layers of my hair in frustration. “I don’t think your illness was spontaneous. It seems very meditated … deliberate.”

Amelie frowns. “What? You think someone purposely made me sick?”

“Definitely. It wasn’t random. Choosing you - the descendant of Marie Laveau - was no accident. They knew what they were doing.”

Amelie fondles the bottle cap of her water, chewing her cherry red lips in deliberation. “And by
they
you mean the Light, right? But that doesn’t make sense. Aren’t they known for healing and goodness? And why sicken an innocent child just to heal her?”

I stifle the sardonic chuckle building in my chest. “Isn’t it obvious? So you’d be in their debt. The Light aren’t the righteous fuckers they’d like everyone to believe they are. They’re no different from the Dark. We’re just more honest.”

“I don’t believe that,” she says shaking her head. But the doubt is already written on her face. She knows there is some truth to my explanation.

“Tell me, pretty girl, what do your Voodoo ancestors believe they know about the Light? What is their theory on your mysterious illness?”

“They believe I was cursed,” she shrugs, rolling her eyes. “My mother refused to fully accept what they stood for and my sickness was the result of her betrayal. All bullshit if you ask me. Marie Laveau was known as a saint. Why would someone that stood for good be ok with hurting a child? They worshipped her memory, yet they had strayed so far beyond her teachings that she’s probably rolling in her grave.”

I raise a cocky brow and lean forward. “You do know that’s a crock of shit, right?”

“What?”

"Oh dear, sweet, naive Amelie." I realize it's the first time I've uttered her name aloud, and the impulse to do it again is undeniable. I can’t fight it- I don’t want to. It’s stronger than me, penetrating skin and bone and guiding my tongue like a marionette.
"Amelie."

"Oui, Oui, Monsieur Nikolai," she jibes in perfect French, a ghost of a smile on her lips. Suddenly, I can't even remember what I was saying. All I can see, all I can even focus on are those lips. How they curve as they wrap around my name. How they feel, how they taste. How badly I want to feel them against my skin, burning straight to my soul.

“Did you dream about me? Before I woke you?” My voice is low and raspy, and I can’t help but move in closer to her. My eyes tingle with cold, but every other part of my body is warm with expectation.

“Yes,” she utters, her own voice a mere husky whisper.

I move closer still. “And what did you see?”

Amelie chews her lip, those magnificent eyes lowered in apprehension. She looks so innocent. Girlish and pure.

“You, here in this room, in this bed … with me.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Amelie says, holding up the black and white frilly frock. “I’m not wearing this.”

I recline on the king sized bed, trying not to laugh as Amelie assesses the French Maid outfit. It’s mid morning, three days after she was brought to me. Three days after my very existence was altered.

Yesterday, we spent almost the entire day talking. She told me about the life she left behind, her family, her friends. I gave her vague explanations of Light and Dark magic as she listened intently, her eyes bright with curiosity. She didn’t seem afraid, nor even one bit repulsed. Even as I explained how we survive, she simply nodded, taking it all in. It was … odd. Different. And exhilarating. I had never spoken to another human for more than a few moments, and usually only to command them to do what I wanted.
Get on your knees and suck. Bend over. Spread your legs.

I had never had that with … anyone, I realized. I only consorted with my own kind so I didn’t have the need to explain shit to them. And I wouldn’t dream of even hinting at my true nature to a human. But Amelie was different. I felt at ease with her. Hell, I felt safe with her, yet I knew I could destroy her without even trying. And in the back of my mind, buried under denial and secrets, I knew that was still a real possibility.

I watch as Amelie turns the racy garb from front to back, searching for the rest of the fabric, and I can’t help but chuckle. “Standard uniform, sweetheart.”

Her eyes grow wide with disbelief. “Are you serious? Why? Who in their right mind would think this is appropriate to wash clothes and mop the floor in?”

I look around the room with raised brows. “Um, you do remember where you are, right? This is a place of fantasy and illusions. A depraved charade. Everyone has a part to play, and we always stay in character.”

“Bu-but … this is just so … wrong,” she pouts.

“Hey, the other girls wear much less. Shall I grab one of their getups for you?”

“No! No, that won’t be necessary,” she huffs. “And I suppose the high heeled Mary Janes are all part of the fantasy too.”

“Obviously,” I reply, running a hand through my hair. Amelie tips her head to one side and appraises the movement through narrowed eyes.

“You’d look better if you cut your hair.”

“Excuse me?” I ask in mock offense.

“I mean, you, uh, I … never mind. Forget I said anything.” She goes back to fiddling with the costume in her hands, yet her rosy cheeks tell me that she’s far from over the comment.

“No. I want to hear it.” Without thinking, I gently graze her chin, guiding her head up to meet my gaze. The burn is there, yet it pales in comparison to the other parts of me that are on fire. “Tell me, please.”

She shrugs but makes no move to remove herself from my touch. Instead, she takes it a step further, and reaches her hand up to my head to softly run her fingers through my hair. “It’s just, you have great hair and all, but it’s always in your face. And it ages you. You should trim it a bit or brush it back. Let people
see
you.”

See me?
Why the hell would I ever want that?

“I’m not so sure people would like what they see,” I reply quietly, instantly regretting it. It’s too personal, too … honest.

A genuine smile graces her lips, making those ethereal eyes sparkle against the backdrop of her dark, lush waves. “I find that hard to believe, Nikolai.”

“Well, maybe you’re just gullible,” I reply, feeling the corners of my own mouth pull into a sincere grin. “And I told you yesterday - call me Niko.”

Dropping her hand, she bashfully shrugs away from my touch, and I instantly feel the coldness return. Damp, dark emptiness. In the span of a few short days, Amelie has become as warm and bright as the sun to me. She’s become my light, and I never thought in a million years, in an eternity of existing in the dark, that I could ever crave that.

I know this feeling isn’t real - it can’t be. It’s a trick, a lie. Even still, I want it. I want to step into the sun with her. I want her smile to warm me from the inside out. I want those bright eyes to pierce into my soul and see … more … in me. I’ve barely touched this girl, yet she knows more about me than anyone in this entire world. She’s has ten years of memories - my memories - to prove it. And, in that fact, I find comfort.

“Niko, huh? Are there a lot of Nikos in Greece?” she asks folding her tan, bare legs on the bed. The edges of her tiny, silk sleep shorts ride up her thigh a bit, and I silently thank Nadia for providing such fascinating sleepwear. I’ll have to give her a raise.

“There are, but none quite like me,” I reply, forcing myself to divert my appreciative eyes. What the fuck? Me practicing restraint? Talk about turning over a new leaf. Uprooting a giant oak is more like it.

“I’d say,” Amelie blushes. “So … will I be moving into one of the other rooms now that I officially have a job here?”

I train my face to wear the same passive, easygoing expression, though inside I’m a fucking mosh pit of misplaced fury. I don’t want her to leave my room. Fuck, there’s no way I can breathe without knowing she is here, safe with me. The past few days have been some of the most enlightening, meaningful days of my life. And while we haven’t done much more than talk and sleep side by side – well, she’d sleep and I’d watch like some pathetic, pimply-faced kid that jerks off to his mom’s lingerie catalogs - I couldn’t imagine not having her in my bed. I’ve never felt such peace, such … happiness. Knowing that she was just inches way, dreaming of
me
. I’d drive myself crazy with the possibilities. What did she see when she closed those mesmerizing eyes? Did it make her want me, just as badly as I want her?