Bonds of Darkness

by Joyce Ellen Armond

  Apparently Sander Wald could.

  Rage that was not entirely the demon's electrified Paul's exhausted body. He dried, dressed, and took the steps two at a time. He was at the door, his hand on the knob, when the presence of the white flowers and the black envelope reached out and tapped his shoulder.

  Backing up, Paul stared through the kitchen doorway. The white flowers seemed so innocent, so harmless. Beside the tender petals, the black envelope seemed to throb with threat.

  Does it matter what's inside? Paul did not want to give Sander Wald any more time, any more of himself, than he had to. But he couldn't leave without opening it.

  Paul picked up the envelope gingerly, as if it might sprout teeth and snap at his hand. With one finger, he picked open the wax seal, and pulled out a single slice of crisp silver-white stationary, folded over once. He unfolded it. In flowing script, in black ink, one word: Tomorrow.

  Paul let the slip of paper fall from his hands. Tomorrow.

  That was today. Sometime today, Sander would arrive, and Paul would have to pretend to submit.

  Paul's field of vision blazed blood red. Lurching into the kitchen, he knocked over the crystal basket, tore at the flowers. The stems cracked. The petals ripped in his fingers like butterfly wings. He crushed them in his hands, under his feet.

  The overwhelming perfume of the damaged petals cooled his fit of rage. The crystal basket, tipped on its side, rocked slowly back and forth, water still leaking across the table to trickle onto the floor.

  Paul turned and ran out the door, threw himself behind the wheel of the Mercedes. He didn't know if he was running from Sander Wald or running to Kate, and he didn't care.

  Chapter Seven

  Tink.

  The small sound rang through the breathless dawn. Paul stood on the frost-crunchy lawn, watching Kate's bedroom window. Would she wake up? Would the neighbors wake up and call the police? From the demon's visit last night, he was sure it was the right window. And surely after looking so exhausted and so desperate and so stricken, she wouldn't have left the comfort of her bed just yet.

  He chose a slightly larger pebble from the collection in his hand, wound his arm just a little tighter, and let fly.

  Tink.

  He counted six deep breaths, and then tried two at once.

  Tink-tink.

  The windowpane whipped up. “What in the hell...” Kate leaned out, her head whipping from side to side. An unlikely and enraged Juliet with her hair flat on one side from the pillow, she glowed with color: autumn in her hair and spring in her eyes. Gone were the pencil lines and smudges of shadow, the black-and-white dullness of the demon's sight. Paul could see the flush on her cheeks, the tinge of blood running under her skin.

  "Paul?"

  With a guilty start, Paul dropped his arsenal of pebbles around his shoes. “Good morning.” He said it as if he were accustomed to waking her at dawn by trying to break out her window glass. “Sleep well?"

  At first Kate's expression remained blankly confused and then, to Paul's delight, a smile bloomed across her face. She leaned against the windowsill as the smile turned into a teasing grin. “What's so good about it?"

  She didn't seem crippled with grief, so that was good. With a flourish of both hands, he indicated himself. “What's not good?"

  She leaned over the window frame, pretending to inspect him. “The shoes aren't good. I don't like them."

  Without a moment's pause, Paul kicked off the lovely leather loafers and stood in his stocking feet. Cold and damp attacked his toes. “Better?"

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don't like the pants. And the shirt's gotta go, too."

  Paul unbuttoned his jeans and untucked his shirt tail.

  Laughing, she said, “Stop, stop! You can't be naked in my back yard!"

  Paul rebuttoned. He would've gladly stripped on the lawn if it made her laugh. “Come down here."

  "Why?"

  He could see her skepticism even from three stories below. What was it that made her even more wary of love than he was? “Because if you don't, I'll continue to take off my clothes.” He lifted his shirt up over his belly.

  He saw her hesitate for just a fraction of a second before holding her hands to her eyes in mock horror. “Wait, wait. Meet me on the porch. Fully clothed, please.” And she disappeared from the window.

  By the time Paul retrieved his shoes, put his damp feet back into the leather, and climbed the stairs, Kate was already in the open doorway. The nightshirt he'd watched her put on last night hung to mid-thigh, bits of the ragged hem tickling her knees. She looked bed-warm and tousled. Paul almost took her into his arms before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to know that she'd been on his porch less than twelve hours ago.

  "So how was your big day?” he asked, desperate to know what had made her come apart in tears.

  Instead of telling him, she rolled her eyes and produced a wry smile. “Big day, big disaster."

  Paul reached out to brush the cut on her face. Kate turned her head sharply away. She looked down, clearly embarrassed. “What happened?"

  Kate shrugged. “Bad day. No big deal."

  Why is she not telling me? What had changed from last night to this morning? Didn't she need him anymore? No matter, he needed her.

  "Come away with me,” he said. “Just for the day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” At least until the sun goes down.

  She glanced up through her lashes. “I probably should..."

  "...go get dressed, so we can go.” He put a hand under her chin, lifting her face. “Unless you want to go like that."

  Her lips twitched.

  "I could take my pants off, too, in solidarity."

  She crossed her arms, leaned in the doorframe, and gave him a long, questing look. He began to fidget. “What?"

  "How did you know?"

  He created what he hoped was a quizzically innocent expression.

  Green laser eyes examined his face, searching for answers. “How did you know that I needed you today?"

  Paul couldn't look away. His hands were at his sides, her hands crossed over her chest. Even if they were touching, he wouldn't feel this close to her. “Right before the last star faded in the sky this morning,” he said softly, “it whispered your name in my ear. And that's how I knew."

  The expression in her eyes softened. “That's a great line."

  He smiled. “I've got lots of them.” He blinked, breaking the contact between them. “Go get dressed. I'll wait."

  Obediently, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the house.

  Paul sucked in a cleansing breath of cool, morning air, wondering if he knew enough great lines to tell Kate the truth about himself, about the curse, about everything. Because if he was going to try to seduce the name of the demon from Sander, he would need to know that Kate's love was waiting to heal him and cleanse him afterwards.

  He returned to the Mercedes, leaning on the still-warm hood for only ten minutes before the back door opened. He saw Kate dressed more casually than he'd ever seen her, in denim and a white cotton blouse. Was he ready for this? The world was coming apart, and he had to jump from the ledge of his cursed life one way or another.

  As Kate half-ran through the grass, her hair bouncing in the first rays of sunlight, the demon pressed against the bars of its prison. Somehow, they had both fallen in love with her. Paul caught her as she skidded down the dewy hill. For a breathless moment, she leaned full-length against him.

  "Are you sure you're okay?” Paul asked. The cut on her cheek was puckered and red. He wanted to touch it with his lips, smooth away the hurt with a kiss.

  "I'm okay now."

  Her eyes whispered my hero and her body murmured promises. Her lips parted slightly.

  Paul put his hands on her waist and pushed her upright, out of his arms. Truth first. Kissing after. “Miss Kate Scott, will you run away with me for the day?"

  Kate's eyes filled with conspiratorial glee. “Yes, sir, I will."

>   Paul nodded, not trusting himself to do anything at all with his lips and tongue.

  Together they climbed inside the Mercedes.

  "This car,” Kate said, looking around, “is amazing."

  Paul turned the key and the motor purred to life. “This car was a gift,” he said, surprised at the taste of truth on his tongue, “from a man who thinks he's in love with me."

  Kate tilted her head and lifted her eyebrow in a remarkably good imitation of his own expression. “How provocative. You did say you aren't..."

  Paul let his eyes move over her face and body. He remembered her unclothed curves in black and white, elegant and vulnerable. He let his eyes show her exactly how he felt, and was rewarded with her blush. “I assure you, Kate, I'm not."

  Paul felt his heart beat faster, saw the pulse jump in Kate's neck. Then her eyes crinkled and her lips smiled and she laughed, a sound of giddy joy. Paul laughed with her. She rested her head on the creamy leather seat, her eyes still on him as he backed out of the driveway and headed out of town, running away, just until the sun went down.

  * * * *

  When the last gas station marking the edge of Bonaventure fell back behind the gentle rise of a corn field gone russet and gold, Paul began his interrogation. “So, what happened yesterday?"

  Kate looked away and countered with another question. “Where are we running away to?"

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, Paul brushed the cut on her cheek with the other. “Kate."

  She tilted her head so that for a moment his palm cupped her face, until he moved it to change gears. “Telling you about my crash-and-burn will ruin the mood."

  Paul waited, driving in silence until, with a sigh, Kate started her story. “It's the case I've been working on the whole time I've lived here. Ever since I've known you. Her name is Ellie. Her husband is a point man for drug distribution from New York and Atlanta. He raped and beat a competitor's daughter to death, made Ellie watch. That was the last straw for her, I guess, because she came to the police. I had the most experience working with violent crimes, so I got assigned as her advocate."

  Paul looked back and forth from her face to the tricky, winding road. It seemed so incongruous, his Kate with her impossible hair and her soy mocha lattes and the no laughing game every morning, working with rape victims and cops in big urban jungles.

  "I was taking Ellie to the D.A.'s office and bam, the courtroom door opens and he's just there."

  "Who's just there?"

  "Ellie's husband."

  "The drug dealer?"

  "Drug dealer and murderer, in the flesh, no restraints, nothing. He saw Ellie and just ... attacked. I pushed her back, and he tried to go through me to get to her."

  The vision of it jumped to Technicolor life in his head: Kate being struck, Kate being knocked down. The sliver of his awareness still on the road jerked him back to himself. He swerved wildly as he barely negotiated a sharp turn. Kate bounced in her seat as he straightened the wheel and then slammed on the brakes, pulling off onto gravel. He jammed the gearshift, sending them both sliding towards the dash.

  Kate fell back into the buttery leather seats. “What?"

  Paul turned to her, his heart thudding irregularly. “Is this right?” He cleared his throat, forced his voice to a lower, calmer register. “You put yourself in the path of a known murderer and rapist intent on doing violence?"

  Paul felt Kate's hackles go up, a wave of bristling fury spiking from her. “Listen, buster, don't even try to feed me some macho sexist crap about..."

  Paul lifted his hand and placed a finger on her lips, shaking his head slightly. When she calmed and quieted, he traced the angry red cut on her cheek. “Is this the only place he hurt you?"

  A red pick-up rattled by, tossing up a flurry of gravel. They both looked towards the sound. When he looked back to Kate, she looked immediately away.

  "Why do you care?"

  For a moment, shocked outrage echoed through him. Of course he cared. Just because he couldn't save Alina, just because he was a vile, cursed thing, didn't mean he couldn't care. The demon poked him, a reminder that Kate didn't even know about Alina. Her outrageous question could not be aimed at his weakness. A careful study of her profile revealed she spoke from her own weakness. Her jaw clenched and unclenched, as if she were tensing for a blow.

  "Kate.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her in the seat. “Where else did he hurt you?"

  "It doesn't matter.” Her voice sounded dull and far away. Her next words sounded memorized, recited. “You can't hope to save another without sacrificing something of yourself."

  "Kate,” he pressed, giving her no quarter, no escape.

  With a shrug, not meeting his eyes, she twisted in her seat. She slipped her jacket from her shoulder and pulled the tail of her shirt from the waistband of her jeans. She lifted the white cotton and showed him the bruises on her ribs. They looked so different, in color.

  "It still hurts a little.” She quickly tucked her shirt back in. “But I'm okay."

  Their gazes hooked.

  A little shyly, she added, “Thanks for asking."

  Paul looked away first. He put the Mercedes into gear and pulled back onto the road. Inside him the demon fizzed so violently with rage that he was afraid it would show on his face. His own emotional reaction to the bruises was more complex than just anger. Oh, he wanted to kill the man who'd hurt Kate so casually. But mostly he admired her courage. Admired it, and was even a little jealous of it.

  "Kate.” He said the name, rolling it in his mouth like a rich, red Burgundy. He shifted gears, and dared to look at her. She watched him curiously. “I...” I love you even more. But he certainly couldn't say that. He felt as if he was balancing on a sword edge of a bridge. If he could get across the bridge without falling, or cutting himself, he'd finally, after a century of waiting, be home.

  "I don't know you at all.” Her eyes flared with alarm as she misunderstood. Fear of rejection haunted her expression. He calmed her with a smile. “Introduce me."

  She smiled back, tentatively at first, and then with more confidence and trust. “Okay.” She settled back in her seat, pulled her legs up to cross them. “I was born in New Hampshire. My grandmother was a civil rights lawyer during the sixties. My mother was a hospice nurse, and my father was a doctor with the World Health Organization. He specialized in hemorrhagic fevers."

  He saw it immediately, why she wouldn't hesitate to step in front of an enraged murderer. She probably didn't realize she had any other options.

  Kate went on, her voice sliding into a storyteller's rhythm as he guided the Mercedes up into the countryside. She strung together memories of risks taken, battles fought. Never a story about a Christmas or a Fourth of July or a birthday. She presented her growing up as a battle plan, her life as a military unit and not as a family, right up to the moment of her parent's sudden death.

  He interrupted her. “What's your favorite color?"

  She stuttered to a stop. “What?"

  He took his eyes from the road long enough to skim her with a half-smile. “Your favorite color? Your favorite ice cream flavor? Your favorite song?"

  The questions raised a blush on her cheeks. “I ... I don't..."

  "If you say you don't like ice cream, I'll push you out of this car."

  She laughed and said with mock indignation, “I like ice cream, and you wouldn't dare!"

  "Alright then, what's your favorite?"

  He saw her cast around in her mind. “Vanilla?"

  Paul barked out a laugh. Even after one hundred years without the moon, he had lived more deeply than Kate. She'd been so busy fighting battles, she hadn't taken the time to taste and touch and see.

  "Okay, smarty.” Her eyes sparked merrily. “What about you?"

  Paul sat back smugly behind the wheel. “My favorite color is the red of a good, mature Burgundy, when you hold the glass up to a candle flame. My favorite song—I have two: The Letter Duet from Le Nozz
e di Figaro and Everybody Hurts by REM.” He flashed her a triumphant grin. “My favorite ice cream flavor really is vanilla."

  Kate quirked her mouth. “Very charming, but that's not what I meant.” She turned in the seat to challenge him. “I meant what about you? Aren't you going to introduce me?"

  Paul turned his attention back to the road, and kept it there. “I'll tell you when we get where we're going."

  Kate made a show at peering out the window. The trees had thinned into pastures and barns, cows and sheep. “Where are we going?"

  Without a conscious choice, he'd put the car on the path to Mapleton. Much younger than Bonaventure, without the weight of history, Mapleton was a fairy story town built specifically to charm away dollars from patrons of an exclusive resort and spa nearby.

  "We'll know when we get there, won't we?” he teased.

  Kate let out an exasperated sigh, made a show of falling back against her seat. Paul smiled, not only because she was so provocatively cute but also because she had been successfully deflected from her questions. He wasn't ready to start the sordid story of his life. Not yet.

  After a moment, she said, “It's bad, isn't it? That I don't have a favorite color, or a favorite ice cream? You think I'm boring."

  Paul tilted his shoulders in a shrug. “Not boring. Badly educated."

  "And you'll teach me the right way, will you?"

  Paul rolled over in his mind the things he had experienced in his unnatural life, the tastes and the sensations he could share with her. For the first time, he found a reason not to hate his curse. He waggled his brows and leered at her. “Ah, and what can I teach you first?"

  "You can teach me how to feel happy without guilt.” She said the words so softly that he wasn't sure he heard her clearly.

  "First off, you have to keep smiling. I don't want to run out of jokes before lunch."

  Kate's cheeks reddened. Apparently he wasn't meant to hear that comment.

  "Sorry.” She scrunched her fingers in her curls. “I'm not used to this ‘relax for the day’ thing. I'm used to taking charge, getting things done, being on my own."