Darker Than Night

by Amelia Wilde

  “Is that what you discuss with me?” She searches my eyes. “I meant to ask you about it last night, but—”

  “You were tired. I don’t hold it against you.”

  I smile at her, but she doesn’t trust it. “What are all the papers?”

  A strange prickling begins behind my eyes. “These are placements around the city for all the women at Olympus. James is already putting calls out to confirm the matches. Everyone will have a safe haven and enough time to find new, secure employment.”

  Brigit frowns down at the stacks on the desk. “That’s good. Right? I mean, they can’t all stay on the mountain forever.”

  “Just for the week. Hades is sending them back on the train and I’m arranging transportation to wherever they need to go.”

  “Okay. Will you come back to bed now?”

  My chest is one giant bruise and Brigit’s question punches a hole through it. For a moment my lungs refuse to take in air. I force the issue. “I’ve also found a placement for you.” I lift the last match I made from the stack, the papers held together with a silver paperclip.

  Brigit doesn’t hear what I’ve said, and then she does, and she jerks back in her chair. “What?”

  I push the paper across the desk to her and she puts a hand on it as if to push it back. “One of Dr. Jain’s friends is a major donor to the hospital. She’s agreed to do me a personal favor. You’ll have the complete use of a private guest house and car. She’s assured me that she can find you a position in managing her donations or, if you’d prefer, in one of her nonprofits.”

  “If I’d prefer—what I’d prefer is for you to stop.” Brigit’s eyes are sharp as razors, wounded as a broken heart. The quaver in her voice is almost enough to make me lose my nerve.

  Almost.

  “It’s the best possible outcome.”

  “What the fuck are you saying?”

  I’m saying I would die for you. I’m saying this will kill me. I’m saying this is already a fatal blow.

  “You’re better off without me.” I fold my hands on the desk to keep from bunching them into fists. “You and the baby will both be better off in a different life.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It’s absolutely true.” This requires a hard swallow to get through. “Whether you believe it or not, I’m too much like my father. He’s embedded himself too deeply for me to cut him out. Of course, you already know this. You’ve met me before.” I try to smile at her and my face doesn’t cooperate. “I can’t allow you to stay, knowing the risks.”

  “The risks of what?” She’s gripping the arms of the chair now, her nails digging in.

  “The risk of repeating the cycle of abuse, sweetheart. Cycles don’t just stop because a man has a few good deeds under his belt.”

  “I don’t want this.”

  I stand up.

  “You can’t do this.”

  I go around the desk and bend down to kiss her. Brigit is stiff, unresponsive, and I hate it, I hate every part of this so much that I wish the bomb had finished me where I stood. It would have hurt considerably less.

  I offer her my hand to help her out of the chair and she pointedly avoids it. “This is a mistake.”

  “I disagree.” Brigit goes along when I usher her to the office doors, but when she heads toward the stairs, I catch her by the elbow to redirect her. The color disappears from her face. “We’re going this way.”

  “We’re going this way or I’m going this way?” She’s crying without noticing. Or maybe she doesn’t care. Her face only shows her horror at the situation. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  She snaps her lips closed, shoulders tensing.

  I take her outside, into the morning sun.

  A car waits by the curb. She doesn’t know this, but it’s been waiting there for more than an hour. I called for them as the sun rose.

  We all have to make sacrifices.

  Pain like a corkscrew burrows into my sternum and all the way through my body. Brigit walks to the street like she’s going to the gallows, her whole body trembling, steps out of sync. At the curb she whirls around, flattening her body against the door. She blocks it with both hands.

  “I won’t make you get in.”

  A flicker of hope. “You won’t?”

  “No. You can walk if you want to.” I press a slip of paper into her hand. “This is the address. If you need to access your money, you can go into any bank branch in the city and give your name. They all have accounts for you.” I’ll be dead soon, I’m already a dying star, so I take her face in my hands one last time and kiss her forehead. “I love you. Don’t come back.”

  If I touch her for a second longer I’ll never leave. My hands leave her skin and the loss of it is a fist to the face, a knee in the gut. It’s a whip. A cane. Glass through flesh.

  I turn my back on her and walk to the house.

  Behind me, a car door opens and closes, and the car pulls away.

  At the door I steal a glance at the street and find it empty.

  The burn in my eyes intensifies, my vision blurring, and I rush into the house and up the stairs. Where did I leave my phone? This tearing sensation in the vicinity of my heart has to be a medical emergency. It has to be the end of me. I’m choking on it. Dying. Dead already. My chest heaves, and the sound that comes out of my mouth is so alien I don’t recognize it as my voice at first. But then it happens again, and again, my lungs getting tangled, abs aching.

  Something drips onto the hardwood outside the kitchen and I put a hand to my face—did she cut me?

  My fingers don’t come away bloody.

  They come away wet.

  I don’t cry.

  It’s happening anyway.

  Warm salty tears running down my face.

  Kitchen. Alcohol—glass. Yes. I find the bottle first, then the glass, and the glass falls from my hand and shatters on the floor. I step over its remains and sit down hard in the corner, my back against the cupboards, and open the bottle.

  It burns. Not as much as the tears.

  “Can a man drown in whiskey?” I ask the bottle.

  I’m going to find out.

  20

  Zeus

  The answer is yes, and no.

  A man cannot actually drown in a bottle of whiskey, or even ten bottles of whiskey, unless he pours them all out into a bucket and sticks his head. I haven’t done that because I know my stubborn survival instincts would kick in and foil the plot. I have considered it.

  A man can drown out the world quite successfully if he has ready access to unlimited sources of alcohol.

  So I do.

  For days.

  Weeks?

  Six of them go by, then eight. I sign papers and pretend to care about the construction at the former site of Olympus. I force James to drive me there every morning so I can drink in the backseat both to and from. He hates me now. I don’t care. One afternoon he turns around in the front seat and levels me with his dark eyes. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

  “Good.”

  He’s been through a lot, and I feel a distant guilt. It’s hidden beneath the monstrous, all-consuming guilt I feel about Brigit, but I can’t ignore it. So I pour out the last of what I have and spend a miserable night cursing every god I can think of.

  Sometime toward dawn, I fall asleep sober for the first time in weeks. Well—perhaps that’s an overstatement. What matters is that I wake up sober for the first time in weeks.

  And it’s hell.

  My stomach is an aching void. I haven’t been eating lately—who cares about food?—but now I regret it. I regret it while I brush my teeth. While I force myself into the shower. While I put on clothes, knowing all the while that each of these actions is pointless.

  It’s almost eleven when I wander into the living room. All these books, and I can’t concentrate enough to read. It’s a miracle I can sign my own name.

  The bigger concern
is that I’ve started hallucinating.

  I can hear Brigit.

  Softly, faintly, through the floor, like she’s in my office.

  Humming.

  I stand near the window and tip my face into the sun, rejoicing in this latest development. This isn’t a concern after all. This means I’ve finally broken with reality, and I don’t have to stay in it anymore. Good for me. I am crazy, but I am free.

  Maybe if I go down there, I’ll actually be able to see her.

  A laugh breaks away as I throw open the office doors. She’s not going to be in there, of course. Or if she is, she’ll be a ghost, an apparition, a product of my imagination.

  I step inside and let the doors close, surveying my office kingdom.

  Surveying Brigit.

  Who is standing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by what appears to be a deconstructed crib. A preconstructed crib. A pile of wood and screws that will become a crib. Her green eyes light up over the top of a folded instruction manual. “Hi. I wondered when you were going to get up. Help me with this.”

  I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. “I told you not to come back.”

  Brigit gathers her hair in one hand and tosses it back over her shoulder. “I didn’t listen.” She folds up the manual and looks around the office with an appraising eye. “For some reason, you don’t have a second bedroom, so this will have to do until we can make other plans. It’s actually big enough down here to divide off a new master and the nursery, and we wouldn’t have to go up and down the stairs when she needs feeding.”

  “This isn’t possible.”

  She peers at me. “Yes, it is. Are you drunk right now? There are rumors that you’ve gone to a dark place. I told them you’d be fine.”

  “I’m not drunk.” Thank Christ it’s the truth. “What I mean is, how did you get in here?”

  “James let me in, but that’s not what you really mean.”

  “I mean—you can’t be here. You know it’s dangerous. I told you, Brigit—”

  A slow smile. “Dangerous? Like you?”

  “Yes, like me.” I growl the words because she doesn’t seem scared.

  “I knew exactly what I wanted when I made a baby with you, Zeus. Maybe I knew it from the first time we met in your office, when I raised my chin and mouthed off to you. You could have beaten me. You could have hurt me in a million different ways, but you didn’t. You saved me, instead.”

  “Don’t make me out to be the hero. You warned me about that.”

  Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “You’re a hero to every one of those women rebuilding their lives right now around the city. And you’re mine. My hero.”

  “Fuck, Brigit—”

  “Anyway, I need to find this certain kind of screw. So far I’ve found three other kinds, but not that one. I’m not entirely sure these directions are for this crib, actually.”

  The elements from dying stars are flung out into the universe and they form other stars. I’m certain that’s what’s happening to me. Nothing else could be this bright. Nothing else could rearrange my atoms the way her words have done. I’m remade. The first act of my new life is to close the distance between us. To end it forever.

  “Brigit—”

  She smiles, and the tears finally fall down her cheeks. “You’re the father of my child, Zeus. You’re the man I love. How can I not believe in you? In us? Against every single odd, despite everything, you made me hope again. Me, a whore.”

  A rough sound tears from me. “You were never that.”

  “I was. I am. It’s just that I’m your whore. I belong to you.”

  “I’m sorry. I should never have touched you.”

  “The whore and the Madonna,” she murmurs. “They’re inside all of us.”

  I sink down to my knees at Brigit’s feet. She’s wearing a soft pink dress that skims the curve of her belly. It’s not hinted at anymore, it’s there, she’s here, and I place my hands on her and press my forehead to the new roundness of her and beg, with all my soul, for forgiveness.

  Her fingers in my hair stroke me so gently, as if I’m made of glass.

  The Madonna, she calls herself, and yes, it’s true. Even as I want to cherish her, I want to fuck her again. It’s a terrible thing, this impulse to defile the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. But it won’t go away. Not ever. No matter how many times I fuck her.

  Maybe I can love her, too. Without hurting her. Without turning into my father.

  She’s warm and solid beneath my palms, small between my large hands. There’s only a small bump where our child sleeps, cherished by her body.

  “What if I hurt you?” I murmur, and I don’t know whether I’m speaking to the child, which must be the size of a grain of rice. Or maybe I’m speaking to Brigit.

  Maybe I’m even speaking to myself.

  “You won’t,” she says, her voice at once soft and sure.

  I look up at her, this woman I admire. Love. Obsession. They’ve burned together into an unholy brew. I tried to push her away for her own good, but she came back. “How can you have faith in me? I don’t trust myself with you.”

  Her fingers clasp behind my neck. She leans down and places her mouth against mine. Not exactly a kiss, more a touch of her lips. “I have enough faith for both of us. Enough faith to last a lifetime, Zeus. Now love me. Prove me right.”

  I swallow hard around the knot in my throat. Yes, I can love her. That’s the easy part. I take her there among the wooden crib pieces and bagged nails. I find every weak spot on her body, every strong link in her soul. She’s the only woman who could have faith in a faithless bastard like me, but she’s right. It’s strong enough for both of us.

  21

  Brigit

  “Are you sure about this?” It’s November, blustery and damp, yet Zeus is insisting on a grand opening for his new brothel. He’s been working with the contractors night and day. “I don’t think this is the kind of thing people want to celebrate.”

  He looks up from the small notebook he’s been writing in and a heat-lightning shock moves through me at the satisfaction in his eyes. “I’m forced to disagree, sweetheart. They do want to celebrate.”

  I keep thinking he can’t be serious, but he is. He’s very serious. This is the opening day of the new Olympus, and we’re both going to be there. I’ll go anywhere for him, including a whorehouse, but he’s so serene about the entire thing it unnerves me. Plus, I already have to pee. The sooner we can get this ceremony—celebration—whatever it is—over with, the better.

  The driver stops next to a freshly paved driveway in the back corner of the lot. Once upon a time, this was where the alleyway used to be. I waited out here in the dark, having a silent debate with myself, until Reya opened the door and everything began.

  Now the loading dock has been moved to the opposite side. I’m not sure how it makes a difference, but it must. Every small change makes a difference to someone, according to Zeus. He’s been spending the last months with his head bowed over construction plans like they’re the Rosetta Stone. I asked him more than once what code he’s trying to break, but every time I did, his golden eyes would darken and heat. The plans would end up abandoned while he reinforced his rules about prying questions. They’re a game, those rules—I can ask him anything. But the sweet sting of his hands and the post-orgasm high—those things are real.

  Zeus helps me out of the car and offers me his arm. Of all the things I imagined about my adult life, accompanying the most powerful man in the city to the grand opening of his brothel didn’t make the cut. I had an unexpected whore-to-princess story, I guess. If the price I pay is getting to touch Zeus whenever I want, I consider that worth it.

  He seems lost in thought while we stroll by the newly finished construction. The roofs have an entirely new gable pattern. Huge windows decorate the side of the building. At first, I think I can see in, but that turns out to be an illusion—they must be made from the same glass as he used to have in his office. The
same glass as he’ll have again, I assume—we can see out, but no one can see in. It’s a strange decision for a brothel. A not-small percentage of the clients there like to add a little voyeurism to their sessions. How’s that supposed to work if people on the street can’t see a woman pressed up against the window?

  What’s the worst that could happen if I ask? He might take me to one of the rooms inside and punish me for prying in public. My skin sings at the thought of that. I open my mouth to ask just as we round the corner to the front of the building.

  “Oh my god,” I breathe. “What did you do?”

  The old facade, which rose three stories up from the sidewalk in an unbroken wall all down the block, is gone. In its place are two three-story wings that flank a courtyard landscape with a wide paved path. Raised gardens, prepared for next year’s bloom. Trees with their strongest leaves still clinging. I only get flashes of the main entrance. That entrance used to be a central feature for the clients who came here. Even if they wanted to be discreet, they still liked those huge doors.

  The doors are smaller now, less intimidating. They’re a cheery blue instead of the imposing, white things they were before.

  And in the courtyard, there are people. Bundled in outdoor clothes and busy. Their expressions are joyful and focused. They’re waiting for something.

  Zeus steps onto the paved path, and oh—that’s what they’re waiting for him.

  All of them break into applause.

  And I—

  What?

  Applause for a brothel?

  We stop at the curve of the path and Zeus waves down the applause. “Not necessary,” he says, “but thank you. Does everyone have their assignment?”

  “Yes,” a woman near the front says, and she looks like she wants to say more but bites her lip, eyes shining.

  “Then let’s begin.”

  They break into twos and threes and most of them hurry to the front entrance. The others scatter around the sides of the building. This courtyard is massive. There’s greenery where the old lobby used to be, and most of the main ballroom.