Transcending Darkness

by Airicka Phoenix

  “It was my great, great grandmothers,” he murmured at long last. “My great, great grandfather had bought it during a trip to London and thought his then pregnant wife would like it. She brought it with her from Ireland and gave it to my great grandmother, who gave it to my grandmother, who never had a daughter and gave it to my dad.” He paused to touch the jagged frame around the girl. “He got it engraved and gave it to my mom when she had me. It was her favorite piece.”

  Warmed by significance of such a treasured item, Juliette settled her hand over his and caught his eye. “Are you sure you want to part with something so precious?”

  “Aye.” Fingers still caught in hers, he turned his wrist a notch and lightly traced the line of her throat all the way to the hollow with just his thumb. “I wouldn’t want it to be worn by anyone else.”

  Words failing her, Juliette reached for him when a light cough from the doorway broke through the moment, shattering it.

  “Forgive my interruption, sir.” Frank stayed on the threshold, hands clasped at his back, his expression professionally blank. “Your sister is in the kitchen and she seems to be having some … difficulties.”

  Killian checked his watch. “It’s only nine. She ought to be comatose for a few more hours.”

  A muscle twitched in Frank’s jaw, the only outwards show of his barely suppressed irritation. “That doesn’t appear likely, sir.”

  Helping Juliette off the desk, Killian led her after Frank to the kitchen where Maraveet stood in all her barely clad glory, rifling through his cupboards once more.

  She wore a nightgown of purple silk and lace so fine, it was practically transparent. The thing clung to her generous breasts by dainty cups about two times too small. It cinched at the middle before flaring out in shimmering wave. Her long, slender arms were bare beneath the thin straps keeping the entire ensemble in place. She was muttering to herself and slamming the cupboards hard enough to rattle the others along the row. Her three inch slippers skidded and cracked against the floor with her uneven movement. Her unbound hair fluttered down her back in a curtain of glistening auburn.

  She looked gorgeous … and pissed.

  “Looking for something?” Killian hedged.

  Shutting her most recently opened cupboard, Maraveet turned. She pinned groggy, green eyes on Killian and bared her teeth.

  “It’s nine in the bloody morning,” she stated as though that were somehow Killian’s fault. “An ungodly hour for any type of person and yet…” She threw open her arms to indicate all her near nakedness. “Here I am. Awake.”

  “Most people are at work,” Killian countered.

  Without makeup, Maraveet appeared considerably younger, which was why, when she batted her eyes rapidly, she reminded Juliette of a confused baby owl.

  “I work nights!” she snarled. “Something I can’t do here, which would be fine if the person who made me swear not to liberate the city museum of its precious items had the decency to stock a proper box of tea!”

  “Not the bloody tea again!” Killian groaned. “For Christ sakes, Mara, send one of your men to get you your blasted tea.”

  “You’re a robber?” Juliette blurted without thinking.

  Both sets of eyes rounded on her as though the wall had started speaking. Their undivided attention was unnerving, but not nearly as terrifying as the look on Maraveet’s face when she spotted the pendent still visible between the V of Juliette’s coat.

  “Is that…” She blinked and squinted like that would somehow make it less true. “Is that…” She couldn’t seem to bring herself to say the words.

  “Mom’s pendent,” Killian finished for her. “Aye.”

  “But I don’t…” she trailed off, resembling someone who just got smacked in the face with a dead fish.

  “I think we ought to deal with one problem at a time, which currently seems to be…”

  It was Killian’s turn to falter mid-sentence. But it wasn’t just his unexpected silence that had Juliette turning her head; he’d gone rigid. His gaze had fastened to the fridge. His face had taken on that look of intense concentration, like there was something about the appliance that he was supposed to remember and he couldn’t bring it to the forefront of his mind.

  “Killian?”

  Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and marched to the doorway, calling Frank’s name.

  Frank, who had been just outside, stepped into view.

  “Sir?”

  “When was the last time Molly was here?”

  It was only when mentioned that Juliette realized she hadn’t seen the woman in a while. The previous three times, Juliette had been at work and Killian had mentioned it in passing that Molly had swung by to drop off his care packages. The last little while, they hadn’t stayed home to eat so she hadn’t even thought of the neatly boxed meals or the lady who delivered them.

  But Frank pulled out his phone, flipped through it carefully before responding.

  “My records show two weeks, sir.”

  Killian’s head drew back slowly. “Call her, Frank.”

  With an inclination of his neck, Frank left the room, phone already at his ear.

  “You’re still talking to Molly?” The hardness in Maraveet’s voice surprised Juliette, but it mirrored the taut darkness that had settled over the woman’s face. “What were you thinking?”

  Killian said nothing, but Juliette could see the hard lines of his jaw bunch as though Maraveet had punched him in the gut.

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Juliette broke in. “Molly stayed with him and took care of him. He’d have to be a selfish asshole to toss her aside after that.”

  Maraveet’s green eyes burned into hers. “Don’t talk of things you don’t understand,” she ground out through straight, white teeth. “You’ve barely been here a week and no doubt spent most of it in his bed.”

  “Maraveet!” Killian rounded on his sister. “Enough.”

  That only turned her wrath on him. “If something has happened to Molly, it will be on your head, Killian. You know that.”

  With that, she stormed from the room with a vengeance that made every retreating stride crack through the house like gunfire. The vibration echoed all the way to the top of the stairs before carpet muffled her heels. Then there was silence.

  “She’s wrong, you know,” Juliette murmured to the quiet man standing a few feet away. “It’s not your fault. Molly’s probably gone on vacation or she’s been sick. There’s a bad flu—”

  “She’s not wrong.” Killian raised his head and she struck by the force of his anguish. It roiled in a dark tangle across his face. It creased the lines around his mouth and settled ruthlessly on his shoulders, stooping them. “She warned me years ago to cut ties and I didn’t listen.”

  “That’s insane, Killian!” She hurried to him. “You can’t cut people from your life. You need people. You need family.”

  He didn’t seem to be listening to her anymore. There was an unfocused glaze over his eyes as he stared unseeingly across the room. The hands tucked absently in his pockets bulged through the fabric in tight fists. Juliette ached seeing him that way and having no idea how to fix it. She wanted to touch him, her hands ached with it, but he didn’t seem like he wanted that.

  “Killian…”

  Frank returned to the room, phone in hand. His grim expression closed an icy finger around Juliette’s gut.

  “There was no answer, sir.”

  It was as though someone had let all the hope out of Killian. His body sagged forward, taking his chin to his chest. One hand lifted to close over his eyes. His shoulders rose once before settling.

  “Get the car, Frank.”

  There was nothing in his voice. The hollowness of it sent a cold chill through Juliette. His hand lowered and the emptiness in his eyes was even worse.

  Frank left without a word and Juliette was left to find a way to pull Killian back from the chasm only she seemed to be able to see looming wide and open mere inches from hi
s toes. He was teetering so close she was afraid to breathe in case it startled him. The helplessness closed around her chest with an intensity that made her ribs hurt.

  “Killian…” Moving with the restrained hesitance of one trying not to spook a frightened animal, Juliette edged closer. Her hand lifted away from her side and gingerly reached for him. “It’ll—”

  “You should go home.”

  Her fingers lightly grazed his arm. When he didn’t pull away, she closed them around his hand. The coldness of his clashed with hers, but she held on.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

  Something in her words seemed to finally register. His eyes slid to hers finally and stayed. The face around them seemed permanently etched in blankness, but his eyes gleamed. They roared and clashed with every emotion she could feel thrashing around inside him. It took all her willpower not to reach out to him, to not soothe the torment twisting him up.

  “Molly’s dead,” he stated with a bluntness that made her flinch. “You don’t want to see that.”

  Her fingers tightened around his. “You can’t know that. It’s insane to think just because someone doesn’t answer their phone—”

  “She’s dead,” he repeated more slowly, like she needed to understand and accept. “I’ve known Molly since before I was born. Not once in twenty two years has she ever missed a Saturday and she hasn’t been here in two weeks.”

  Maybe it was the enormous gap that separated their worlds, but in hers, people went without talking for months and it didn’t mean they were dead. It just meant they were busy. But she wasn’t entirely schooled in his world rules. Maybe he knew something she didn’t.

  “I’m still not leaving,” she whispered.

  He didn’t try to talk her out of it. They walked silently to the foyer. Frank stood with Killian’s coat tossed neatly over one arm. Juliette relinquished her grip on him just long enough to allow him to throw it on before reclaiming his hand. He let her, although she wasn’t entirely certain he even noticed. He seemed so lost in the swirl of guilt and grief that swept around him.

  They made a path to the SUV and climbed in. The door was shut behind them and they were off with Marco behind the wheel and Frank next to him. A secondary SUV rumbled along behind them with a small army of men. She wasn’t sure what they expected to happen. No doubt they’d give Molly a heart attack when they stormed into her house for no reason.

  It was the thought she clung to as they tore through the city. It was the image of Molly giving Killian an earful for being so neurotic and paranoid, not to mention for thinking she was dead without a shred of evidence.

  Nevertheless, she held on to his hand, gripping it tight in case he even considered breaking away. But he didn’t. He sat in rigid silence as the scenery changed from towering skyscrapers to neat little homes tucked against a gloomy backdrop of white and gray fields.

  Molly’s home was a two story colonial revival with a built in garage surrounded by a crisp blanket of snow. Juniper bushes hugged the sides, running beneath wide picture windows and complimenting the mint green shutters and door. It sat alone on a strip of road miles out of the city overlooking a rolling field. The closest neighbor was a tiny hint of a roof in the far distance. Juliette guessed about a fifteen minute walk. Not exactly far, but when it had been snowing nonstop for days, no one tended to notice that there was a mountain of ice and snow blocking visitors from the pathway leading to the front door, or that the two cars parked in the driveway were practically buried. It could have meant anything, but Killian’s fingers nearly broke hers.

  “Tactical formation,” Frank barked to the men scrambling out of the second SUV. “Secure the perimeter. Red team, flank rear. Blue team, take the front.”

  It must have been something they did often, because they moved with the precision and grace of a very deadly ballet. The group of six branched off at the front curb. Three immediately started around the side while the rest climbed over mounds to reach the front door, guns Juliette had only ever seen in movies lifted to their shoulder. Frank stayed by the first SUV with Juliette and Killian. Marco remained in the car, probably waiting for Frank’s orders to take Killian and leave immediately. Juliette stayed close to Killian’s side, her fingers laced tight through his. Her insides writhed with a force that terrified her. It didn’t seem to matter how many logical explanations her mind came up with as to why the snow around the house was undisturbed or why Molly wasn’t answering the phone. All Juliette knew was that Molly had to be okay. She had to. For Killian’s sake.

  “Red team, report.” Frank’s gruff voice made her jump.

  Her head snapped back to the house to watch as the team in front paused on the front steps. One pulled away from the rest and edged along the side, to the window. He paused at the corner and peered carefully inside.

  “Repeat, red team,” Frank said. Red team must have been the one at the back, Juliette realized, because the men at the front of the house weren’t talking. “Blue team, prepare to intercept.”

  The guy at the window scrambled back to the door. The two covering him pivoted to flank either side of him as he hopped back onto the front step and reached for the doorknob.

  Juliette held her breath. She prayed to God this was where they would barge in and hear a deafening scream from Molly. Then outraged cussing for barging into her house.

  There was nothing.

  Silence descended around them with a force that was definitely impossible. Everything from the wind snapping bare branches to the hum of traffic several streets over stopped. There was nothing but the murmur of her own prayers repeating inside her head.

  “Sir?” Frank glanced at Killian. “The backdoor is open. It looks like forced entry. Would you like us to proceed?”

  Killian didn’t move. He didn’t utter a word. Had his coat flaps not been trembling under the wind’s vicious attack, she would have thought he’d frozen to the spot. But he must have given Frank some kind of signal, because Frank brought his wrist to his mouth and gave the command.

  The front door was kicked in and the team charged.

  Chapter 21

  Sixteen years ago…

  “I told you to get the hell outta my house!” Desperation cracked his voice, making him sound as young and ridiculous as he felt trying to be something he had no right being. “Your services are no longer required.”

  The steady chopping continued without pause. Whole bushels of parsley disappeared under the knife and came out perfectly minced. It was scooped up by capable hands and dumped into the pot.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Molly sighed. “Darling child, I’m old. Not deaf. Of course I heard ya. I just chose to ignore it.”

  Irritation prickled the back of his sweaty neck. The kitchen was a sauna, sweltering and nearly unbearable thanks to the four pots boiling steadily on the stove and the red hot oven baking bread. She’d been at it since dawn, cooking and baking as though preparing some lavish feast for a king. All the gleaming pots and platters lined neatly along every available stretch of space perfumed the air with their delicious aroma, and all Killian wanted to do was upend the lot of it across the floor. He wanted to stomp everything into the ground. But he refrained, not because he was better, but because, despite his rage and need to tear that entire day to pieces, Molly would be upset and he couldn’t destroy all her hard work.

  “I’m your employer,” he shot back. “And I am ordering you—”

  Molly scoffed. “Orderin’ me? Don’t forget, it was only yesterday I was cleanin’ your nappies. I don’t take orders from the likes of you.”

  A mortifying truth.

  “I pay your salary—”

  “You haven’t paid me a shilling in your sixteen years, boy. Now quite wastin’ my time. I’ve got guests arrivin’ within the hour.”

  Heat swelled beneath his cheeks. “My parents hired…”

  Molly looked up for the first time and only when his voice had cracked. Her stern features s
oftened.

  “Go get your clothes on like a good little lamb, eh? You’ll want to look your best.”

  The hands he’d set on the counter between them balled. The whitened knuckles blurred behind the tears he’d been fighting for the better part of the day. All he kept thinking was how he wasn’t ready. He was supposed to have years before becoming the master of the McClary Organization. He didn’t know how to be an adult and that was what all those people were looking for.

  “They only want to come and gawk,” he muttered. “They don’t care. None of them. He hasn’t been buried a day and the vultures have already started picking at whatever part of him they can get.”

  “That’s the way of things.” Molly went to the pot and quickly stirred whatever was bubbling over the rim. “Only people who will mourn ya are the ones who have stood in the fire by your side. Your da was a good man. Plenty will miss him for that alone.” She wiped her hands on her apron and faced him once more. “Where’s the girl?”

  He hadn’t seen Maraveet since the afternoon he’d come home covered in his father’s blood. She’d taken one look at him and ran from the room. He hadn’t seen her since and that was nearly a week ago.

  “Still refuses to leave her room.”

  Molly sighed. “Well, let her be. You go on and get out of those clothes. I want you here in ten minutes looking like your da would want.”

  His feet began to take him away. He made it all the way to the doorway before remembering why he’d been there in the first place.

  “You’re still fired,” he told her.

  She speared a loose fist against her hip. “And you’re still not dressed. Be gone with ya before I get the spoon.”

  Damn woman refused to listen to reason, but he would make her. He would get her out of that house one way or another. He couldn’t risk losing her too.