Serenade (The Nightmusic Trilogy Book 1)

by Heather McKenzie

  Guilt consumed me as stomach acid rolled up into my throat.

  “And what if Henry found out?” he went on, “you’d end up chained to the floor, quite literally. Is that what you want?”

  “No.” I pulled my housecoat tight and stared at the logs smoldering in the fireplace. The room was always cold, but today it was freezing. Stephan shook his head and leaned down, speaking quietly in my ear like the walls were listening.

  “I know how Oliver feels about you, Kaya. We all see it. So I am telling you the honest-to-God truth when I say you have to be very, very careful. Your father is a clever and devious man. If you reciprocate Oliver’s feelings, and those feelings were discovered, he would think nothing of using it against you.”

  “What do you mean?” I croaked.

  “I am saying love is a wonderful thing, but it can also be a person’s greatest weakness. If you truly care about Oliver, you’ll do your best to hide it.”

  He was right, of course. Henry used to threaten me with Stephan’s welfare when I was little to get me to behave. I always thought he was slightly kidding, but now I know he wasn’t.

  My inevitable tears caused Stephan’s anger to melt away. He enveloped me with fuzzy, sweater-covered arms, and I melted into his chest, safely tucked under his beard, where I could hear his still-healing heartbeat.

  “I know this last while has been really tough on you, kiddo,” he said. “Just know I am here for you, all right?”

  “I love you, Stephan,” was all I could manage to say.

  His arms tightened around me. “And I love you too, kiddo. And hey, I promise that if I find anything about your mother, I will tell you. You have my word. We haven’t talked about it since that day—and…” he gulped, the sound of it loud in his chest, “Anne may have been right, but I can’t say for sure. That’s why I never said anything. There is simply no evidence, only speculation. Now I know I should have shared these suspicions with you, even if that’s all they are, and I’m sorry. So, listen, no more secrets from me, and none from you either, okay?”

  Yet again, I pledged my allegiance to the No More Secrets Club, but I did so with my fingers crossed. I couldn’t tell Stephan that I would soon inherit the estate and Henry’s precious company. For all he knew, Henry’s visit to my room after Anne died was just a father checking in on his grieving daughter. His true intentions were ones I would keep to myself. For now.

  A light knock at the door interrupted our hug, and an irritated Stephan opened the door. New Guy was standing there, cheeks flushed and eyes bloodshot, and for the first time, there was no smug smile on his face. Up until that moment, I’d forgotten I’d involved him in my late-night activities.

  “I have something for you,” he said with a look of regret as he brushed past Stephan and handed me a brown paper bag. “Sindra wants you to open this right away.”

  Sindra was my father’s bronze-skinned, doe-eyed assistant who was also his right arm. She ran the estate and his life, and she organized my world. I didn’t like her, I didn’t trust her, and I certainly didn’t want anything to do with her. By the look on New Guy’s face, he didn’t want anything to do with her either. He was only charged with delivering a message from her, and he couldn’t get out of my room fast enough.

  The paper bag rustled in my hands. Whatever was inside was squishy and soft. I thought of a teddy bear Sindra had one of the guards deliver years ago as a birthday present, but this time I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like this gift. Reaching in the bag, I pulled out a very familiar white shirt. It didn’t make sense; it was the one I threw in the garbage last night—the one I wore to Angela’s—and then it hit me. My knees went weak with realization and the room started to spin. Oh my God, Angela…

  Stephan reached for a note neatly tucked into the front pocket. Unfolding it carefully and eyeing my panic-stricken face, he read it aloud.

  Kaya,

  I will not inform your father of the events that took place last night. It would only worry him needlessly and inhibit your freedom even more. However, consider this a warning. If Stephan and Oliver are unable to manage you, they will be replaced with guards who can. Don’t let anything like this happen again. I don’t appreciate having to clean up after you.

  — Sindra

  Stephan tossed the note into the fireplace. Flames swallowed it up and it disappeared, just like I knew Angela had. Just like I knew Stephan and Oliver would if I snuck out again. With a single letter, my walls closed in, and my cage got smaller.

  While Stephan stood by the fireplace shaking his head, a maid burst in with clean sheets, and then a porter arrived with the usual tray containing breakfast. My personal space became crowded, and when Oliver appeared in the doorway with the new French tutor, looking like he hadn’t gone to bed, my cheeks became hot, feeling like they had caught on fire.

  “I need to be alone,” I said, and I bolted past all of them, running through the sitting room and out into the hallway.

  New Guy was parked on the couch, the window behind him safely closed. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes followed my every move as I paced up and down the hall, the thick red carpet under my feet not making a sound, which was oddly infuriating. The sound of my loud, stomping footsteps would have added some validity to my angst.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about your friend,” New Guy said when I’d marched past him for seemingly the hundredth time. Obviously he’d read the note and knew exactly what Sindra meant by “cleaning up” after me. I dejectedly plunked down on the couch beside him, and he pulled a small flask out of his jacket pocket in response.

  “Brandy?” he offered with a grin, “I’m off the smokes now, at least for a bit.”

  The emotional turmoil I felt pounded relentlessly in my head, so I took a long swig. It was almost as awful as I imagined the bathroom cleaner to be. “I really liked Angela,” I said, feeling my throat tighten around the words. “I felt like we could have been good friends.”

  “Yeah. You don’t really have any pals besides us dudes, do ya?” he said.

  “Nope.”

  “Hey, why don’t I go to that bar later and see if I can find her? Get a cell number or something. But just keep it between you and me, all righty?”

  I looked into his brown eyes, which I had never done before, and was shocked by the kindness in them. His presence had calmed me somewhat—or maybe it was the brandy—but in any case, the compassion he showed did not go unnoticed. Maybe New Guy wasn’t so bad after all. “Thank you,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  “I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,” I said, feeling like an idiot.

  “It’s okay. No one really said anything to me except Oliver, and he only went crazy and threatened my life, so I just told him you drugged me.”

  I laughed. “Thanks for that.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  “Ugh, please don’t call me ma’am,” I said in annoyance.

  The smile left his face. “Oh, okay.”

  He was just trying to be kind, and I was doing the same thing to him that I had done to Oliver for years; I was being a complete bitch.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. Listen, I know I haven’t been all that nice to you. It’s just that a lot of people come in and out of my life, and I don’t want to get attached to the ones who… uh, don’t stick around, or—”

  “Or die.” He grinned, hitting the nail smack dab on the head.

  “Uh, yeah, that too.”

  I kept track of everyone I had lost through the years, and the number was now at fourteen, including Anne.

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere. No one besides your crazy father would hire me, and if a life and death situation occurs, I’ll just get Command at Starfleet to beam me up.”

  His goofy sense of humor made me feel even more terrible about the way I’d treated him, and he must have seen the guilt on my face.

  “Hey, Kaya, it’s all cool. I didn’t really give you a fair shake, either. I just automatically assume
d you were a spoiled, little, rich bitch. But, you’re not… spoiled,” he said with a wink, and then he held out his hand. “Whadya say we start over?”

  I liked this. I needed this. “Sure,” I said, putting my hand in his.

  “Hello, I’m Davis.” He gave me a polite handshake.

  “Nice to meet you Davis, I’m Kaya.”

  “Cheers, Kaya. To new friendships.”

  We fist bumped, sat back on the couch, and shamelessly drank the rest of the brandy.

  Davis kept his word and searched for Angela—her apartment was empty, her employer had never heard of her, and her landlord wouldn’t answer a single question.

  Davis then searched for Barry… he was gone too.

  It was as if neither of them ever existed.

  Snow covered the ground. For most people, this was an invitation to jump around and play in it like the world had become a giant feather pillow. To me, it was a devious ice monster with teeth, trapping the unguarded and either freezing or smothering them to death. I hated winter. Storms and howling winds turn me into a fruitcake, and not the yummy white kind soaked in amaretto, but the gross molasses-and-currant kind with green bits of mystery fruit. Add some messed-up feelings for my bodyguard and the constant desire to be as close to him as possible, worry for Stephan every time he coughed, a zillion unanswered questions about my true birth mother, and the super-solid realization that Anne was gone and Angela was missing into the mix… and voila! It was the recipe for a full-blown anxiety attack of epic proportions. The first of many to come.

  After being coddled, held, pleaded with, and eventually drugged, I woke in the sitting room adjacent to my sleeping quarters on a bitterly cold morning snuggled next to Oliver on the couch. I had no recollection of how I’d gotten there. His breath was slow and even, and his warmth was absolutely blissful as the storm outside began to subside. I was half awake, still partly living in a wonderful dream—running through the forest in bare feet among green trees and blooming flowers—but in reality, it had been two whole months since I’d stepped a foot outside.

  “I need to run,” I mumbled into Oliver’s shirt.

  I felt him jerk awake and pull me in closer. His arms were comforting and suffocating all at the same time. The fireplace crackled, and I realized Davis was next to it with a cup of coffee, propped fully upright in an armchair, still sound asleep.

  “Yeah, I could use a workout myself,” Oliver said with a yawn.

  My hand was on his stomach. I moved it slightly, feeling the ripple of his taut muscles under my fingertips. It made me catch my breath. I heard him gulp.

  “I need to run. I need…” I paused, unsure what my sleepy head was trying to say. The Death Race. That’s what I needed to do—run in The Death Race. It had been on my mind since meeting Barry at the bar, and I had been dreaming of entering ever since. It was a solid desire, as was the need to feel Oliver’s lips on mine again—

  “I need to…” I tried again.

  “You need a change of scenery,” Oliver said, sitting up. He didn’t want to let me go, but he did, and I pried myself away because I didn’t trust my hands.

  “Ever seen the north section?” I asked deviously.

  After a surprisingly small amount of persuasion, we snuck into the boarded-up and strictly off-limits north section of the estate while Davis and Stephan snored longer into the morning. Oliver had never seen the portraits depicting the generations of Lowens in the marble lobby or John Marchessa’s face without the slightest trace of warmth hanging beneath the stained glass windows. Our breath made icy clouds in the air as we both stared up at Lenore’s thin lips painted red and her corkscrew curls that matched her mother’s in the portrait next to her. All the Marchessa women looked the same.

  And then, there was me.

  A photo from years ago hung slightly off balance. In it, my hair fell down to my waist and had been brushed into shiny, black waves. My eyes were slightly puffy from an allergic reaction I had from strawberries the day before, and Stephan had painted my mouth with deep red lipstick. Where I was fine-boned and pale, the Marchessas were stocky and covered in golden freckles. I was small-nosed and busty, even at fourteen, and the Marchessas had slightly upturned noses and very flat chests, except for Martha, who’d been generously enhanced in her teens.

  “You look nothing like any of them,” Oliver said, and his voice echoed throughout the vast space.

  “I know. Anne was telling the truth.” I dragged my feet through the dust on the marble floor, making a huge heart shape, and then I plunked down in the middle. The paintings stared at me while I stared at Oliver.

  “Kaya, what do you remember of her?” Oliver asked, still standing before the portrait of Lenore.

  “Truthfully? Nothing. Just what Stephan has told me.”

  While he had his back to me, I let myself freely ogle him without an ounce of shame.

  “That’s sad,” he said, and then he wandered into the middle of my dust heart and sat down next to me. “And the necklace? Wonder what that’s about,” he said as he reached for it. “Stephan’s never said anything?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  Oliver’s breath caressed my forehead as he leaned in to inspect the pendant, his fingers grazing my skin purposely. He seemed lost in thought, staring at Lenore Marchessa’s initials etched into the silver. I took in a deep breath, and before I could catch myself, I was running my fingers up his forearm. His muscles felt so different than mine—hard, tight—and the skin stretched over them was so smooth—

  “I can’t take it any longer,” he said, and before I even had a chance to react, his mouth was eagerly on mine. His hands moved from my face and down the sides of my body, setting every speck of it on fire as I was pushed down against the cold marble. His breath was heavy as his hand glided over my stomach. I felt like putty beneath him, all my bones melting to jelly against him. His lips moved over mine urgently, roughly, as if no amount of kissing was going to satisfy his intense hunger. His hand moved higher, and then he stopped at my ribcage, his fingers digging in, almost painfully. “I have to stay in control, and it’s damn near impossible,” he said, breathing hard, and then he pulled away and sat up. I could hear his heart racing—or was it my own?

  “But I want you, too,” I said, and I crawled onto his lap, draping my arms over his shoulders. All my thoughts foretold one thing: desire. He bent his head forward, and his mouth moved over mine once more, but this time more carefully. He was holding back.

  “I love you,” he said.

  I couldn’t say it. I loved him too, but the words seemed to be stuck. Instead, I responded by putting my mouth to his neck and exploring the soft skin there, letting my hands wander over his cheekbones, and then the short hair in tight little curls on the back of his head. He tilted his head back in bliss, and a soft moan came from deep in his throat. I grabbed his shirt and tried to pull it up over his chest.

  “No, no Kaya, we can’t,” he said, catching my hands.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that—we can’t do that yet… I want to—believe me I want to—but we have to wait a bit longer. You’re not ready.”

  “But Oliver—”

  He put his finger to my lips. “Patience,” he said, “not yet.”

  I jumped to my feet, hurt and angry. If I couldn’t have him now, maybe I didn’t want him… ever. I turned away so he wouldn’t see the look of childish disappointment on my face, and I skulked over to the lobby desk to hide my red cheeks. As I pretended to busy myself with fixing a dustsheet that had slipped off and exposed the corner, I realized something: we’d be breaking the law. I was still a minor. Also, since he’d subbed for Stephan during my last checkup with the family doctor, he knew everything about me—like the important fact that I wasn’t on birth control… yet…

  Well, at least one of us had some common sense.

  I tried to collect myself by staring blankly at the small section of wall devoted to displaying pictures of ce
lebrities, politicians, and famous artists who had come and gone, but my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. I took in a deep breath, trying to quell my emotions from boiling over into what could be another anxiety attack and tried to pull myself together. I counted to ten. I thought of swimming in the lake or anything that might calm my mind, and readied myself to leave. But something caught my eye.

  A picture of a woman.

  It stole my breath away, and not just because the face staring back at me was so beautiful, but because it was eerily familiar. Also, it was the only one that had been polished. It was without a single speck of dust. Intrigued, I moved behind the desk, reaching for it. The woman smiling down from the wall had pale skin, green eyes, and dark hair—features that matched mine exactly. “Oliver—?”

  I didn’t have to finish; he was already standing beside me.

  My hands started to shake. I pulled at the frame, but it wouldn’t budge, Oliver tried as well, but it seemed cemented to the wall. I had the heavy, iron key to the valet door in my pocket, and I held it like a dagger. Before he could protest, I jabbed at the glass as hard as I could, and fragments fell around our feet as the glass instantly shattered. I carefully tapped away the remaining shards and slid the old photograph away from the frame. Oliver smiled, completely amused.

  The picture was old. Bits of yellow were creeping in from the edges. As I stared, it suddenly seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. I turned it over, hoping for some sort of clue as to who she was, and found flowing handwriting in indigo ink.

  Dearest Henry,

  Thank you for the hospitality!

  Much love,

  Rayna

  “Rayna,” I said aloud, and my voice echoed back to me.The connection I felt as I held the portrait was deep. Soul jarring. I knew this woman once. I could feel it in my bones. “It’s her, Oliver, I know it. She’s the one who named me Kaya.”

  The early morning sun didn’t do much to warm the hallways of the estate, so I held Oliver’s hand for warmth—at least, that was my excuse. At the far end of the main lobby, one hundred and seventy-six steps from the big, metal-door-opening guards, was the security room and Old Carl’s home away from home. He’d been in the exact same place, every single day, for over forty years. Through renovations, a flood, and a measles outbreak, he hadn’t budged. He saw me approach, so I pushed my lips up against the bullet- proof window and made the ugliest face I could. It left behind a greasy mark, earning a scolding from an irritated man who wiped the smudge away.