But she still has strength of character and raw courage that astound me. I’ve known a shit load of people in this world who won’t take responsibility for anything. Who always have some excuse why they’re never to blame no matter what harm they do or how much havoc they wreak.
Hell, I’ve put some of them in the ground.
And this woman--this beautiful, brave woman--stands right in front of me and apologizes because I’m the dark, deeply flawed bastard that I am?
Hell, no. No way she gets to do that.
“Listen to me,” I say. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re the innocent party in all of this. You have been from the very beginning.” Completely innocent as I would have realized before that first night with her in the golden bed if I had been thinking straight. I should have taken it a hell of a lot slower with her or better yet kept my hands off her entirely. If I were remotely the man she thought I was, I would have. Instead, I’m--
“I may be inexperienced, Ian,” she says softly. “But I’m not a child to be protected from unpleasant truths. Please don’t treat me like one.”
If the suddenly steely glint in her eyes is anything to go by, she means it.
“All right then,” I say, regrouping rapidly. “Tell me the truth. How are you really?”
Reluctantly, she says, “I breathe. I eat after a fashion. I would sleep more but when I do, I dream. How are you?”
What’s wrong with her dreams, unless she means that they’re nightmares? I want to ask her about that but I’m scared that she’ll say I’m in them. Instead, I say, “I bench pressed four eighty the other day. That’s a record for me.”
She nods, smiling like that’s great. “So you’re working out. That’s good…healthy.”
It beats pacing the floor at night, my body feeling like it’s been twisted into knots with longing for her and my skin burning for her touch.
“I’ve been playing a little handball, too,” I add. In between interrogation sessions and only with the rapidly shrinking pool of guys willing to get on a court with me while I’m in the mood that I am.
“How is Hodge?” she asks suddenly. Amelia and the combination steward, jack-of-all-trades and voice of my conscience who pulled me out of the hell my father had consigned me to took to each other right from the start. Hodgkin--Hodge--has been giving me the fish eye ever since I got back and not because he gave a shit about what I was doing to the HPF assholes. He thinks I’m nuts to have parted from Amelia, which makes no sense at all given that he should know better than anyone how bad I am for her.
“And Gab?” she adds. “How is she?”
Oh, yeah, Gab, who’s happily hitched to her beloved Daphne and these days just gives me pitying looks.
“They’re both good. Edward says you’re back to dancing.”
Polite chitchat isn’t part of my usual repertoire but I’m willing to do it if it distracts her and makes her even a little less sad and anxious.
She nods. “Sergei is very good about making time for me. Especially considering how busy he is putting together a production of ‘Medea’ for Carnival.”
The Russian, a mad woman who kills her kids, and the city-wide insanity that descends every year with Carnival. Perfect.
“He’s a prince.” I have no doubt that good old Sergei would like to be doing a hell of a lot more than just taking Amelia through her dance steps. In my perfect world, he wouldn’t get within a mile of her. But no matter what the law says, Amelia is her own person, fully capable of making her own choices. I wouldn’t have it any other way. At least the rational part of me wouldn’t.
Unfortunately, it’s not totally in control at the moment.
I take a step closer, knowing I shouldn’t, unable to stop myself, and frankly bewildered by what’s happening to me. I’ve never been in a situation like this before, not remotely close. Amelia undoes me in ways that I can’t fathom. With her, I can feel the coils of pain and memory that entwine so deeply inside me beginning to loosen. Far in the back of my mind, I can’t help wondering what will happen if they unravel completely. Will she know how to gather them up and reweave them into something new and better? I sure as hell don’t.
Her breath catches but she doesn’t move. As though I’m detached from it, I watch my hand rise, the fingers curled. My knuckles brush very gently along the arc of her cheek. I savor the touch of her skin, the small tremor that runs through her, the sense, however brief, of being connected to her.
Her eyes close for a moment. When they open again, I see the desperate longing that mirrors my own. “Ian--”
The sound of my name draws me back into the here-and-now. What the hell am I thinking? I came out here to keep an eye on her, protect her, not to remind myself of how much I want to be inside her, filling her with incandescent pleasure, savoring the exquisite sight of her as she comes.
My hand drops. I take a step back. Whatever small victory that may represent is drowned in the sudden sense of desolation that sweeps over me. I’m swamped by the bleak reality of what it really means to face life without her.
Neither of us moves. We just stand there, staring at each other until, without warning, I feel a familiar prickling between my shoulders. Instinctively, I turn, putting myself between Amelia and whatever danger I’ve suddenly sensed.
But there’s nothing. Only the glittering Crystal Palace, the light and music pouring from it, and the softly bobbing lanterns casting their glow across the reflecting pool.
Or so I think until a shape moves in the shadows to the side of the entrance. For just an instant, I catch a glimpse of silver hair and tanned, patrician features. I don’t need to see more.
My hand closes on her elbow. I feel her start of surprise but ignore it.
“You should go back inside now,” I say, my tone making it clear that I won’t tolerate any argument.
I want her where I can keep a close eye on her and I need to have a quiet word with Edward. He won’t be any more pleased than I am to learn that Charles Davos, a man we both have the darkest suspicions about, shows no sign of having gotten over his unhealthy interest in Amelia. He’s there, in the shadows, watching her. Watching us.
The grim certainty settles over me that one way or another this evening is not going to end well.
Chapter Five
Amelia
The young man I’m dancing with is going on about something to do with his family’s investment firm. I nod with what I hope is an appropriate degree of interest. The truth is that I scarcely hear him. I can’t focus on anything other than Ian.
The shock of being in his arms again, surrounded by his strength and protectiveness has blasted apart the façade of calm I’ve only barely managed to maintain since we parted ten days ago. I am standing, I am breathing, I must appear normal enough because no one is reacting to me oddly. But it all feels as though it is happening to a stranger. I am outside my own body, staring at myself, wondering who that woman is who manages to look so composed when everything inside me is in turmoil.
I can’t be wrong that Ian was also affected by our encounter. The way he looked at me curls my toes in my satin heels. For a moment, I indulge in the wild thought of what it would be like to be with him again, our bodies touching, entwining--
“Of course, it was an enormous coup for us,” my dance partner says. “I almost felt sorry for the poor bastards on the other side. They never saw it coming.” He chuckles.
“Fascinating.” I speak by rote, too pre-occupied staring over his shoulder to be more than barely aware of what I am saying.
Ian is standing off to one side of the ballroom, an aloof presence whose manner is guaranteed to discourage anyone tempted to engage him in conversation. Earlier, I saw him speaking with Edward but since then he’s done nothing other than watch me. That should be unnerving or annoying but for the first time in ten days, I feel a stirring of hope.
I cherish it even as I know that it’s misplaced. Nothing has changed. I’m no better for Ian than I was t
he moment I awoke. If not for me, he could have gone on with his life without having to confront the demons of his past. I can’t bear what my existence has cost him.
Any more than I can bear being without him.
The dance ends. Another eligible young man appears to sweep me away. I wonder vaguely how many of them there are but nothing about them can really hold my attention. They are more or less interchangeable, some slightly taller or shorter, more or less graceful, chattier or not. One has particularly sweaty palms, another holds me too tightly, making me glad of the added protection of the corset I’m wearing. But apart from that I notice very little about them. I’m functioning on automatic--dancing, speaking, smiling without any thought except for Ian.
At last, blessed relief, the chime sounds for supper. There will be more dancing later, followed by the fireworks that conclude the evening but I have a brief respite. Edward appears to escort me to our family’s table. To my surprise, Ian is already there with his mother and sister.
The thinned, stern line of his mouth takes me aback. He was so gentle outside but now he seems anything but. Is he displeased that we’re seated together? Or has something else angered him?
My grandmother is chatting happily with Helene Slade. Although Ian’s mother is several decades younger than Adele, the two are good friends. Meanwhile, lovely, blonde Marianne is looking a bit flushed. I notice Edward’s gaze on her and wonder who exactly arranged for our two families to be seated together.
Ian holds out a chair for me next to Marianne. As I sit, the backs of his hands brush the bare skin of my shoulders. I close my eyes for a moment against a wave of yearning that robs me of breath. When I open them again, he has taken the other seat beside me.
“Enjoy the dancing?” he asks with an edge in his voice that throws me further off balance. It sounds strangely like… jealousy? Is it possible that the sight of me in the arms of other men is responsible for his mood? I flush at the thought. We were only dancing, for heaven’s sake! Strictly proper ballroom dancing, and I was barely conscious of doing that because all I could think of was him.
Belatedly, I remember what his own sister told me about him. Ian is highly possessive, at least when it comes to anything--or anyone--he really cares about.
A giddy recklessness sweeps over me. Throwing self-preservation to the winds, I say, “I love to dance, so much so that I’ve overdone on occasion. But you know that already, don’t you?”
His lean cheeks darken at the reminder of an episode that occurred shortly after I awoke, when we were both still at his estate north of the city. Reeling from his revelations about how we had come to be together and anxious to discover what abilities Susannah had given me, I attempted a grand jeté without being properly conditioned for it. The agonizing cramp that resulted all but crippled me. Fortunately, Ian was on hand to soothe my injuries in the most effective way possible.
“I know that you need someone to rein you in,” he growls.
I glance around the table nervously, hoping no one heard his suggestive tone. I needn’t have worried. Adele and Helene are still chatting happily. As for Marianne and Edward…
At first glance, she appears to be looking at him as she would any man she has known all her life and regards as a friend. But I catch a glimpse of more personal interest in her gaze that surprises me. In contrast, Edward’s expression gives away nothing. I can’t help wondering why he is being so guarded. Marianne is lovely, Ian would surely approve, and society in general would consider them an excellent match. What then stands between them? Or is it who? I know nothing of my brother’s personal life but my instincts tell me that there is far more to him than he shows to the world.
When I look away from them, my gaze falls on Ian’s hand, lying on the damask tablecloth. The knuckles are scraped. My throat tightens as I wonder how that happened. My thoughts leap to his confrontation with the HPF, the danger he placed himself in, the acts he has committed in order to protect me. I try to force my gaze away, anxious that I’ll make a spectacle of myself. But instead, I find myself remembering how that hand feels on my body--stroking, teasing, taking, his long fingers sliding inside me, unerringly finding that spot where I am so exquisitely sensitive.
My breath quickens. I reach out for the crystal water goblet at my place setting and almost knock it over. My face flaming with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal, I catch it and manage to take a small sip before the waiters arrive with the first course.
The food is superb, as it always is at such events. To my surprise, my appetite has returned. I eat but I skip the various wines that are poured for each course. If I’m certain of one thing. seated as close as I am to Ian I need to keep a clear head.
That’s easier said than done. No sign of his displeasure remains as he morphs into a charming and attentive dinner companion. He listens with apparent interest as my grandmother describes the goings-on at an artists’ colony that she supports. The mix of partner swapping, petty sabotage, and grandiose rivalries sounds like it would make a good basis for one of the reality shows that dominate the video stream.
I watched one the other night when I couldn’t sleep yet again, something about people competing for a shot at a personal assistant job. Some of the tasks they were given seemed deliberately demeaning--cleaning a bathroom with a toothbrush and cotton swabs, carrying a tray of drinks over a swaying bridge that dumped the unlucky into a vat of mud, and so on. But the winner--chosen by a panel of prospective employers--was thrilled to the point of tears.
“What’s wrong?” Ian asks.
Belatedly, I realize that I’m frowning. With a quick shake of my head, I say, “I was just thinking. It’s so hard for people to find work without a patron or mentor to smooth the way for them. Doesn’t that mean that a lot of human potential is going to waste?”
He turns further in his chair and studies me. I only just manage to hold myself still and not look away from him. The thought goes through my mind that he’s taking what I said seriously and weighing his response.
After several moments that seem to draw out forever, he sighs. “That’s the central problem of our age. We’re learning that it isn’t enough to meet the basic needs of human beings--food, shelter, and so on. Without a sense of purpose and the self-worth that comes from it, people flounder. Some escape into gaming, drugs, cults, whatever. Others get caught up in outfits like the HPF.”
At the mention of the terrorist organization, I stiffen. I want to know more about the people who would have destroyed me and everyone like me. But I feel guilty enough about what Ian had to do for my protection without asking him to revisit a subject he may want closed forever.
Even so, he did bring it up and this may be the only opportunity I will have to learn more. Tentatively, I ask, “They really believed that the ability to imprint one person’s neural pattern on another is a threat to the survival of the human race?”
I do understand their fear to some extent. The replica technology could enable very wealthy people to achieve a kind of immortality by preserving their own neural patterns through generation after generation of replicas. They could achieve a suffocating stranglehold on society, preventing any change that didn’t serve their own purposes. But there are billions of human beings. How can anyone possibly believe that a handful of replicas could drive them into extinction?
That’s bad enough but Ian has a different and in some way even more terrifying perspective. “The replica technology has enormous potential for misuse,” he says. “The ability to customize replicas only makes that worse. If it hadn’t been destroyed when the Institute was blown up, that process could have been used to produce individuals denied the free will that makes us human and condemned to a form of slavery worse even than any that has ever existed before.”
The thought horrifies me, both for the sake of the poor creatures who could suffer such a fate and because Ian himself is clearly repulsed by the very idea. For the first time, I have to confront the fact that he has a highly negati
ve view of the technology that made me who I am. What does that say about how he views me? Of our time together and the intimacy that I thought we shared?
My throat tightens. I only just manage to say, “It almost sounds as though you’re defending the HPF.”
He dismisses that idea out of hand. “Then I’m not being clear. Nothing excuses terrorism but in order to combat it, we have to understand its roots. As crazed as the HPFers were, they tapped into a fear that’s shared by many. Technology was supposed to empower people. Instead, it’s made far too many of us obsolete. Species that don’t earn their own way don’t survive for very long.”
I’m struck by his use of ‘we’ and ‘us’, as though he can empathize with people who will never achieve anything in their lives remotely like what he has done. I can’t help wondering how many of the other attendees at the Crystal Ball could do the same. The sense of privilege and entitlement is overwhelming among the very select group of individuals who are the winners in this brave new world. The problem is that makes everyone else losers, something people are bound to resent, if not worse.
“When you put it like that,” I say, “I have to wonder why there isn’t more unrest.”
“People who commit what the government classifies as crimes lose their benefits,” Edward says quietly. I hadn’t noticed that he was listening but now I realize that the others have tuned into Ian and my conversation. Our table is an island of seriousness in a sea of frivolity. “With no other way to survive,” my brother adds, “they have to become scavengers.”
“That’s a fate that anyone would fear,” Marianne says softly. “I imagine that most people just accept their lot rather than risk having that happen to them.”
“And to their children,” Adele adds. “People who lose their benefits also lose their children. Minors in those circumstances become wards of the state unless their parents go underground with them.”
I think of the ragged, hungry children I saw earlier and a surge of anger fills me. Dimly I realize that this is the emotion that has been building in me ever since I arrived in the city. I’ve fought against it because more even than my yearning for Ian, it frightens me. By any measure, I can be considered naïve, having been awake such a short time, but I am coming to appreciate the advantage of seeing with new eyes, not jaded by experience. Eyes that increasingly view the world with painful clarity, cutting through the façade of beauty and luxury to a far uglier reality.
Anew: Book Two: Hunted Page 5