The Secret Night

by Rebecca York

  The face that peered back at her from the mirror was taut with anxiety, and Emma struggled to coax a dreamy look into her blue eyes. She’d seen that look often enough among the women, her sister, Margaret, included, who drifted like Stepford wives around the Refuge.

  Her own mind was still functioning independently, but the place was getting to her in insidious ways. Not a night went by now that she wasn’t waking from the same shockingly vivid dream. At first, she’d had only nightmares, most of them about her own death—at the hands of Damien Caldwell.

  In the past week, though, a new dream had replaced the nightmares. A dream about a darkly handsome man she had never met, yet he knew her, mind, body and soul, as no one else ever had. Her dream lover came to her out of a misty darkness, taking her into his arms, kissing and caressing her and soothing away all her fears—until he vanished, leaving her hot and frustrated.

  She dragged in a breath and let it out slowly and evenly, reminding herself why she was staying in this scary little community.

  A month ago she’d gotten a letter from her twin sister burbling about how she’d come to the Refuge for a self-actualization seminar and decided to stay. Emma knew it shouldn’t have surprised her. Their own mother had been a dud at raising a family, and Margaret was always searching for a sense of stability, of security, of home. Joanie Patterson had been married four times and had lived with more than a dozen guys. Luckily for her, only one of the marriages had resulted in offspring—twins—so she’d only had two daughters to neglect while she focused on the series of men in her life.

  With the uncanny intuitive bond identical twins often shared, Margaret and she had taken turns mothering each other, with Margaret far more likely than Emma to get the laundry done or a hot dinner on the table when Mom failed to show.

  The lack of actual parenting had made Emma independent, self-reliant, freewheeling. She’d been in and out of so many brief relationships that Margaret had warned her she’d end up like their mother if she wasn’t careful. The warning had brought her up short, and she’d been cautious—and unsatisfied—ever since.

  She and her twin might look alike, but their personalities were very different. In fact, their home life had had just the opposite effect on her sister. Margaret was always solicitous and caring, but introverted and a bit insecure. While Emma had pursued her dream of becoming an artist who created beautiful pieces of silver jewelry, her sister had worked summers and afternoons in the quiet of a health food store and, later, as an accountant. And she had never stopped looking—unsuccessfully—for a father figure in the men she dated.

  So at first Emma had been delighted to find out that Margaret was attending a self-actualization seminar in Maryland. It sounded as if her twin was branching out, and her latest enthusiasm wasn’t simply another inappropriate older man.

  Yet something about her sister’s letter, saying she was staying indefinitely at the Refuge, had triggered Emma’s “twin intuition.” She had sensed that not all was well with her sister, so she had looked up Damien Caldwell on the Internet.

  What she’d learned about him had made her stomach clench, starting with the title he’d made up for himself—the Master. She wanted to know where he had come from and how he’d become so successful so quickly, but there was no information about him prior to two years ago, when he’d bought the Refuge after the millionaire who owned it had died.

  Since then, it appeared that Caldwell had run the estate—really, more like an entire enterprise—as a cult or a commune, using his self-help seminars as a lure to rope in converts. Apparently if the people who attended the seminars were susceptible to his…his what? Charisma? Mind control? then he would invite them to stay on.

  Unfortunately, Margaret had turned out to be one of them. No surprise, really, given that the Master exuded “paternal” authority.

  Worried about her sister, Emma had signed up for Caldwell’s weekend-long seminar. She’d hoped that, face-to-face, Margaret would respond to her, as she always had. But their former connection seemed to be lost, replaced by her twin’s devotion to Caldwell.

  Worried sick and unable to abandon her sister, Emma had managed to come across as “worshipful” enough to be asked to stay at the Refuge—at least on a trial basis.

  But this was the second time in the past few days that the Master had asked to see her alone. Why?

  Did he know that in the middle of the day, when everyone was busy, she’d been sneaking around the mansion, looking through his private papers? Lord, if someone had seen her and told Caldwell, she was a dead woman. And she feared that was no exaggeration. People had disappeared from the Refuge. Usually it happened in the middle of the night, when everyone was sleeping. The next day, it was as if the person had never even existed, as far as the zombies living here were concerned.

  Knowing she couldn’t keep Caldwell waiting any longer, she splashed cold water on her face and dried off with a paper towel. Then she hurried down the hall to the stairs.

  The Master’s study was at the back of the mansion. As she stood before the closed door, she ordered her heart to stop pounding. It failed to cooperate.

  “Come in,” his deep voice called out in response to her knock. “And close the door.”

  As she stepped into the room, her gaze focused immediately on the man’s broad shoulders and shaggy dark hair, which he wore at shoulder length. That and his black coat made him look a little like a taller version of Johnny Cash in his prime. But there was nothing folksy about Damien Caldwell. He radiated a malevolent power. At least that was how he came across to her. A lot of other people, including her sister, obviously saw him differently.

  He was standing by the French doors, gazing out across the manicured lawn that sloped down to the Miles River, but he turned from the window, fixing her with his penetrating gaze—more intense than the eyes of any other man she had met. She knew many people—both men and women—had lost themselves in their fathomless depths.

  To distract herself, she focused on a tree outside the window.

  “Thank you for coming, my dear. I know you must be eager to get to breakfast,” he said in the gravelly voice that grated on her nerve endings. His accent was strange—not anything she could identify except to know that it wasn’t American.

  “I’m always glad to see you,” she answered.

  “But you’re nervous,” he countered.

  “Yes. Your personality is so…magnetic. When I’m with you, it’s hard for me to think.”

  “Just relax. I wanted to compliment you on your work. How are you getting on with the other silversmiths?” he asked.

  “Very well,” she answered, hoping it was true, now that she had tamped down her creative flair for design.

  Caldwell had a genius for discovering people’s talents and putting them to work for the good of the commune. Some Refuge residents traveled to Baltimore every day to work in offices and bring their paychecks “home.” Some ran his e-mail-based publications business. Others did publicity for his seminars. Margaret was kept busy doing his bookkeeping. And still other residents, like her, had special talents that Caldwell could exploit.

  Emma had learned her craft from Betty Blanchard, a master silversmith in Manitou Springs, Colorado. Two years after starting to work with Betty, she’d begun supporting herself on the sales from her original jewelry, first as an employee, then as a partner. Thank God Betty had been okay with her rushing off to Maryland. She understood the twin thing.

  Caldwell moved from his place beside the window, gliding toward her almost as if his feet didn’t need to touch the floor. He stopped directly in front of her.

  When he reached out a hand, she looked down at it. To her surprise, his nails were yellow and brittle, with grooves running from the nail beds to the tips. Even though his skin was smooth, those nails made him look a hundred years old.

  She stood very still while he stroked her shoulder-length hair, her cheek, the side of her neck, her back.

  Closing her eyes, s
he endured his touch. But when his hand drifted to the top of her breast, she took a quick step away.

  “Don’t,” she said softly.

  “You don’t enjoy intimacy?”

  She had heard the women talking about their sexual experiences with Caldwell and had considered what to say if he put the moves on her. “I’ve had some bad experiences with men. That makes me cautious—even with you.”

  He tipped his head to one side, studying her. “Speaking your mind is one of the qualities that makes you stand out.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “If you meant it as a compliment.”

  “I’m thinking about how I mean it,” he said with a chuckle.

  But she wasn’t fooled. He truly was weighing her merits, and she was sure her very life hung in the balance.

  “You should go on, before you miss breakfast.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and she exited the room.

  She had to get out of here. But how could she leave Margaret at this place?

  She couldn’t. Not alone.

  It was extremely hard for Emma to admit she needed help. If her mother’s example had taught her anything, it was that the only person she could rely on—besides Margaret—was herself. Now Margaret was lost to her. And every day she spent at the Refuge had driven her closer to the conclusion that this was a situation she couldn’t handle on her own.

  So she had come up with Plan B.

  The star of the not-fully-formulated plan was a man named Nicholas Vickers. She didn’t know him, but she thought he might help her. During her snooping in Caldwell’s office, she’d found a thick folder on Vickers, containing a lot of notes about his job as a private detective, as well as his personal life.

  Reading between the lines, she’d gathered that Vickers and Caldwell were mortal enemies. She didn’t know why, exactly, but she had the feeling the animosity had something to do with a woman. Maybe someone Vickers had loved had come to the Refuge for a weekend seminar and had been brainwashed into staying. Whatever the case, she knew something bad had happened between the two men in the past. And she knew that Caldwell considered Nicholas Vickers a threat. Coming from the Master, that was a powerful endorsement.

  She’d begun thinking of Vickers as a possible ally. As her own sense of helplessness had grown, she’d started pinning her hopes on him, praying he could help her get Margaret out of here. Maybe because she was stuck in such an untenable situation, she’d actually started daydreaming about his charging in here on a white horse and sweeping her and Margaret to safety.

  Caldwell hadn’t included a picture of the man in his files, but she’d made up a persona for Nicholas Vickers. And she was pretty sure she had started dreaming about him, too. He was totally appealing with his dark good looks, quick mind and muscular body. A dangerous opponent, yet a man with compassion. An expert lover, knowing and strong, able to bring her both intense fulfillment and complete contentment. Not a bad man to have around to help her forget, for a little while, about this horrible place she so desperately needed to escape.

  There was a flaw in her scenario, of course. She always awoke from the dreams sweaty, tangled in her sheet and unsatisfied.

  And then she’d tell herself sex wasn’t the important issue. The important thing was convincing him to help her rescue Margaret. Was that crazy? Pinning her hopes on a man she didn’t know? Maybe she was just as wacky as everyone else here. She was sane enough, however, to realize that Nicholas Vickers could never live up to her fantasies about him, either as a lover or a rescuer of deluded women like Margaret. But he was the only hope Emma had, so she’d memorized his name, address and phone number.

  A man passed her in the hall, giving her a speculative look, and she realized she was standing like a statue in the corridor.

  Ducking her head away from him, she hurried to the communal dining room. Relieved to find it almost empty, she grabbed a piece of toast from the buffet—then hurried out to the workshop.

  Chapter Two

  At the end of the day, Damien Caldwell stood at the open French doors, watching the sun set across the river, admiring the glorious pinks and oranges of the sky. The sunset was a gift of nature, as were the green lawns and the flower beds his workers tended so diligently.

  Long ago, he had thought he would never see the daylight again. But his skills and endurance had given it back to him, and it had never shone on a more lovely, bucolic setting than the one where he’d founded his latest commune.

  There had been many such enclaves over the years—in France, Germany, Corsica, Italy, Turkey. He had lived in many lands. And he had amassed great wealth and power.

  He chuckled. For a boy who had been born a slave, he’d done very well for himself. That long-ago boy had dreamed of changing the rules, of being the one to crack the whip and make the life-and-death decisions. Fate had given him the chance to realize the dream. Of course, his methods weren’t exactly politically correct by modern standards. He lived by rules he’d learned centuries ago. His hero was still that shining example of despotism, Machiavelli. And nobody had ever given him a reason to change his philosophy.

  He’d come to the United States—the land of opportunity—early in the nineteen hundreds and settled in Pennsylvania. From there, he’d moved to northern California, then to southern Georgia. He always kept his eye out for property that suited his needs. As it happened, he’d heard the Refuge was for sale at a time when Georgia had become…uncomfortable for him. And so he’d become a resident of Maryland’s quaint, easy-paced eastern shore.

  The fifty-acre estate was very private, yet close enough to both the Baltimore and Washington metro areas that his followers could keep their jobs while they served him.

  A deferential tap on the door brought Damien out of his musings. “Come in,” he called.

  Henry Briggs entered, closing the door behind him. Briggs was one of his most trusted lieutenants—trust being a relative term.

  “What about Emma Birmingham?” Damien asked.

  “She did her work all right,” Briggs replied. “But all day she was jumpy as a bullfrog on a griddle.”

  “I was afraid of that. She’s been pretending to fit in, but she’s not really one of the chosen.”

  “No.”

  “Doubtless, she’s here to try to convince her sister to leave.”

  Henry made a sound of agreement. He was the perfect yes man.

  “I’m going to hold one of my special ceremonies tomorrow night. The lovely Emma Birmingham will be the sacrifice.”

  “You want me to scoop her up and put her in a holding cell?”

  Damien shook his head. “Not yet. Let her make her beautiful jewelry one more day.” He waited a beat, then added, “And, Henry, make certain you get the right woman. Emma looks very much like Margaret.”

  “I know which is which. Emma’s the one with the crafty eyes.”

  “Yes.” Damien nodded toward the door. “Leave me, now.”

  After Briggs left, Damien moved restlessly around the room. He would take Emma Birmingham’s life. First, though, he wanted to take her sexually. She would never come willingly to his bed, so he would wait until she was in the holding cell. Then he could do anything he wanted.

  EMMA STOOD in the darkness outside Caldwell’s office, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She had to struggle not to sprint away like a frightened cat. If she did, Caldwell was sure to hear her.

  When she’d seen where Henry Briggs was going, she’d ducked around the side of the house and crept up to the open French doors, praying that Caldwell wouldn’t step outside and catch her.

  The conversation she overheard confirmed her worst fears. She hadn’t been fooling anybody. Caldwell knew her devotion to him was faked, and he’d made up his mind what to do about it. Unless she got out of here before tomorrow night, she was a dead woman.

  She’d never been to one of his special ceremonies. They were attended only by his inner circle of fol lowers. Once, when she was standing on the dock
by the river, she had heard an eerie chanting coming from the grove in the woods where everyone knew the ceremonies took place. The sound had raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Something dark and ugly went on at those so-called ceremonies—she was sure of it. Now she knew it for a fact.

  And she was slated to be the main attraction for the next one.

  She had to get out of here. Now.

  But how? How would she get past the guards and the electric fence? The chances were slim, and with Margaret in tow, they plummeted to near zero.

  Emma’s fingers knitted together until they hurt as she tried to figure out what to do. Fantasies of being rescued by her dream lover, Nicholas Vickers, were just that—fantasies. She had to get herself and Margaret away from here on her own. And while she stood there in the gathering darkness, hidden by the shrubbery, a desperate plan began to form in her mind.

  The question of whether it was hopeless to try to convince Margaret to leave had become irrelevant. She’d run out of time. Somehow she’d have to trick Margaret into leaving. The alternative—escaping alone—was…well, she just wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she abandoned her sister.

  At dinner, Emma slipped away early, pretending she had to go to the bathroom. Then she hurried to her room and grabbed her purse.

  Downstairs again, she waited for Margaret to come out of the dining room with the rest of the crowd.

  Her sister spotted her immediately. “You were gone a long time.”

  Forcing a little smile, Emma replied, “Yes, I stepped outside to admire the view.”

  “It’s getting dark.”

  “And it’s a lovely night. Let’s go down by the river, Marg.”

  Margaret looked over her shoulder at the people headed for the common rooms inside the mansion. In the evening, they usually listened to music or played games like checkers and Monopoly, or they went to lectures given by Caldwell.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to go out?” Margaret asked.