Wicked Games: The Complete Wicked Games Series Box Set

by J. T. Geissinger

  That moment never comes.

  With every hour that passes, I die a thousand little deaths until there’s nothing of me left but my shadow.

  Like a ghost, I haunt the port of Vis for weeks, mute and grieving, soaking up every nugget of information that comes in from the various authorities about the explosion—what’s been found, how the cleanup process is going, what they’re trying to do to contain the huge diesel spill from the engines. I stay there long after the news crews have left, long after the rest of the guys from Metrix have returned Stateside, long after logic tells me there’s no more reason to stay, until finally, the reality can no longer be denied.

  Mariana’s gone.

  Again.

  Only this time, she’s gone for good.

  36

  Ryan

  Two months later

  “Tell me you’re eating, at least. Last time I saw you on Skype, you looked like a chemo patient.”

  “Christ, Connor, you sound like my grandma. And that’s not a compliment, by the way. The woman was a giant pain in the ass.”

  His answer over the line comes across gruff. “Brother, tell me you’re eating so I don’t have to ask my wife to hack into the traffic cams in Paris to get me photographic fucking evidence!”

  My lips lift to the closest thing approximating a smile I’m now capable of. I practiced it in the mirror of my hotel bathroom just this morning, aware that people have started to cross the street in apprehension when they see me walking toward them.

  I’m sure it’s the crazy look in my eyes, but it could be the wild hair and scraggly beard, too. I’m starting to look like Armin’s twin. All I need is a rug glued to my back, and I’ll be set.

  “I’m eating. As we speak, which should make you happy.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. He’s worse than my grandmother.

  “Here, listen.” I lean over the table and shove another big hunk of country bread smeared with duck confit into my mouth, chewing into the cell phone as loudly as humanly possible.

  Cows are quieter eaters. Champion pie eaters are quieter. I sound like a blue-ribbon hog at the trough.

  Several people at nearby tables turn to send me outraged stares, like I’ve offended their ancestors with my abominable chewing, but after four weeks in France, I’m used to that. I ignore them.

  “All right,” says Connor grudgingly. “I’m not totally convinced that’s food in your mouth and not a live octopus and a barracuda having a fight, but it sounds disgusting enough that I’m gonna let it go for the moment. Moving on.”

  I swallow, take a big swig of my champagne, sit back in my chair, and close my eyes. Food doesn’t have much taste anymore—not even the ridiculously expensive meal I’m now eating—but sunshine warming my skin is one thing I can still enjoy.

  Every time I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun, she’s there, smiling that angel’s smile, and even though it hurts like fuck, I do it every chance I get.

  “Moving on,” I agree.

  Connor hesitates for a moment. “Got a call from Karpov today.”

  That doesn’t even cause a blip on my radar. “I wondered when that would happen.”

  “Yeah, he’s, uh…a little agitated.”

  “Just tell him, bro. Tell him his big blue diamond is at the bottom of the fuckin’ Adriatic.”

  “No,” he responds sharply. “If I tell him that, you’ll be missing your head within twenty-four hours. I know you don’t use it too often, but still. It’s your head. You need one.”

  I don’t agree. Heads are for people with working brains. All I’ve got inside my skull is a big, moldy lump of mozzarella. “I’ll call him. I’ll give him the coordinates where the yacht sank. He can go deep-sea diving.”

  “That isn’t funny.”

  “It wasn’t a joke.”

  The phone emits a growl that would do a grizzly proud. “You have a death wish now, is that it?”

  When I take a beat too long to reply, Connor curses. “Do I need to be worried about this? I mean more than I already am? Do you need me to come out there? Because I’m on a plane as soon as you give me the word—”

  “Like I told you when I took a leave of absence, I just need some time to get my head straight,” I say quietly.

  I’m pretty sure Connor’s about as convinced as I am that getting my head straight isn’t going to happen, but for now, we’re pretending it is. We’re pretending I’m not completely mind-fucked and useless, that I might one day be able to go back to work.

  I can’t see myself ever doing anything but sitting here at a table on the quaint outside patio of L’Ami Louis under the dappled shade of the trees, eating the meal Mariana and I should have been eating together. I’ve been in Paris for a month and I’m here every night, wasting my savings, wasting what’s left of my sanity, wasting my time.

  I don’t have anything better to do.

  Even if I did, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Part of me keeps hoping she’ll show up one night, sit down beside me, and we’ll pick up right where we left off, as if the past two months never happened.

  As if I’m not a ruin of a man. The zombies on The Walking Dead have more life in them than I do. I’ve seen mummies in better shape.

  If only I’d landed on the right yacht.

  “If only” is my best friend now. We spend a lot of quality time together, beating each other up.

  Connor sighs. I picture him sitting behind his big black desk, running a hand over his big square head. “Okay. Take all the time you need. But don’t take forever, brother. I need you back here at some point. For comic relief, if nothing else.”

  I try out my fake smile again. It doesn’t feel right on my face, so I drop it.

  “Did you see the final police report on what caused the explosion?” I ask, pouring myself more booze.

  “Yeah,” says Connor. “Fuel leak in the bilge ignited by the engines.”

  “And the secondary explosion that caused most of the damage was the missiles blowing up from the heat of the fire.”

  “Fucking antiaircraft missiles on a yacht,” Connor mutters.

  “Apparently it’s not that uncommon on those megayachts. Armin’s has ’em, too.”

  “Your buddy, the Instagram star? Why the fuck would he have them?”

  “Because he’s got too much money and a fetish for things that blow other things up. And things that go fast. And boobs.”

  Connor chuckles. “Yeah, I checked out his site. That dude is living every teenage boy’s wet dream. His father’s some kind of media billionaire?”

  “Telecom and cable. They’ve got all of Europe wired.”

  Armin and I have kept in touch. He keeps pestering me to sail up to Monaco with him, says there’s a lot to distract me there, but I’m not in the mood for the kind of distractions playboy gazillionaires like.

  Connor and I chat for a few more minutes. Neither of us mentions the part of the report about the human remains recovered from the wreckage of the yacht. More specifically, the bits of human remains. They were so badly charred and in such small pieces that the only thing the forensic anthropologists were able to identify was a section of splintered femur bone from a Caucasian male in his sixties.

  That had to be Reynard, considering his age and that he vanished without a trace after the phone call with Mariana. He must’ve been on the yacht, too, Moreno’s surefire lure to get her there.

  Of Mariana and Moreno, there was no trace. One of my recurring nightmares now is of sea creatures munching on barbequed body parts.

  But there’s a lot of ocean out there. I’m bracing myself for the day when I read in the paper that pieces of a female skeleton washed up on some remote Italian beach.

  At least I’d have something then. I don’t even have a picture of her. I’ve got nothing left but memories and a hole in my chest big enough to drive a tank through.

  “Another bottle, sir?”

  The waitress stan
ds tableside, holding up my second empty bottle of champagne.

  I actually hate the stuff, but it’s what Mariana said we’d have when we came here, so I’m having it.

  When I nod, the waitress leaves without another word or a bat of her eyelashes. She knows I’m just getting started. All the waitstaff know me now, and know to put me in a taxi and tell the driver the name of my hotel when I can no longer walk at the end of the night.

  I tip good, so nobody complains.

  “All right, brother, I gotta go,” I tell Connor, squinting into the setting sun. It’s a gorgeous day, warm and clear, a hint of crispness in the air. The leaves on the trees are starting to turn bronze and gold. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glints like a jewel.

  “Go and get drunk again?” Connor asks.

  “Yes, Grandma, go and get drunk again.”

  “I’m worried about your liver.”

  “You’re worried about everything. Stop it. I’m a big boy.”

  There’s a fraught pause. “You’re my best friend. You’re my brother. And I love you, man. Don’t forget that, okay?”

  I love you. Three words Mariana and I never said to each other. Three words I’ll never be able to hear again without being swamped with pain and regret.

  “Yep,” I say, my throat closing. “Call you later.”

  I hang up without saying goodbye, because I know how my voice would crack. He’s already worried enough as it is.

  The waitress returns. She sets a big glass of milk on the table in front of me and turns to leave.

  “Wait.” I gesture to the glass. “I didn’t order this.”

  She shrugs. “I was told to bring it.”

  She walks away without a backward glance, leaving me in a fizzy champagne haze. I glance around at all the tables nearby, wondering which asshole thinks I’ve had too much to drink and should be switching to milk, but no one’s paying any attention to me.

  Then a gentle breeze stirs the leaves of the trees shading the patio, and a ray of light hits the glass in a way that illuminates it from behind.

  I’ve never seen milk sparkle before. Rainbow prisms dance over the white tablecloth before disappearing as the wind shifts the leaves again.

  What the fuck?

  I pull the glass nearer and stick my finger in it. I can’t get all the way to the bottom, so I take my spoon and dip it in. It hits something hard.

  There’s something in the bottom of the glass.

  Something that sparkles.

  I jolt out of my chair so abruptly, it topples over backward with a crash. Ignoring the gasps and disapproving mutters arising around me, I stare at that glass of milk like it’s a bomb. Like it’s going to explode any second, the same way my heart is going to explode inside my chest.

  With a shaking hand, I reach out and tip over the glass.

  Milk sloshes out, spreading over the white linen, pooling around my dinner plate, dripping off the edge of the table until the glass is empty except for the large chunk of blue ice left behind.

  It’s the Hope Diamond.

  “Mariana!” I holler at the top of my lungs, spinning a wild circle, staggering, arms failing as I look for her, for any glimpse. “Angel!”

  Everyone in the restaurant has stopped to stare at me. All conversation has ceased. The only sound is the traffic on the street beyond the patio and the wind gently rustling through the trees.

  I grab the diamond and run into the restaurant, knocking aside everyone in my path. There are shouts, curses, the crash of plates against the floor. When I find my waitress taking an order from an elderly couple at a table near the front window, I fall on her like a pilgrim at the end of a thousand-mile journey through the desert when he catches his first glimpse of the holy city.

  “Where is he? The person who ordered the milk! Who is he, and which way did he GO?” I grip her arm so hard, she lets out a little scream of panic.

  “I don’t know! I didn’t see who ordered it! My manager told me—”

  She jerks her head toward the squat, black-haired man with a beak of a nose steaming toward us from the kitchen. He obviously is not happy with me right now.

  “Monsieur!” he shouts, wagging his finger as all the restaurant patrons look on, agog. “Monsieur, we have had enough of you! Get out! I can no longer tolerate this kind of—”

  I grab him by his lapels and drag him against me so we’re nose to nose. Then I thunder into his face, “WHO ORDERED THAT FUCKING GLASS OF MILK?”

  He blinks, once, exhaling a terrified breath, then blurts, “A woman, a woman in a black veil. She came in and ordered it, she said to send it to your table, she said you would know what it meant, she tipped me one hundred euro—”

  I shake him so hard his eyes roll around in his head like marbles. Pounding through my veins is a drumbeat of a woman, a woman, a woman.

  “WHERE DID SHE GO?”

  The manager points to the front door. “Sh-she disappeared! I don’t know anything else! She didn’t say anything else!”

  I shove him aside and sprint out the door. On the sidewalk, I turn in every direction, frantically hunting for any glimpse of black. Everything is spinning and I can’t see straight. My heart is a firecracker, my pulse is wildfire, and electricity blisters my skin.

  Then, around the corner of a building half a block away, I see something dark billow and snap like a sail in a breeze before disappearing from sight.

  The hem of a long black veil.

  I run faster than I’ve ever run in my life. I’m a bolt of lightning crackling over the sidewalk. I’m a supersonic sound wave.

  I’m Lazarus, risen from the dead.

  When I round the corner, panting and out of my mind, I see a figure draped in black far ahead on the crowded avenue. The figure walks briskly, looking straight ahead, her gait purposeful as she weaves through the throng of strolling pedestrians. She ducks into an alleyway just as I break into a run.

  When I reach the alley, I find it deserted except for a pair of reeking Dumpsters and scattered trash. Windows in the tall brick buildings on either side stare down like blank eyes. A lone pigeon pecks at the ground, wings beating in a panic when I run past it with a bellow of frustration.

  But in my rush, I’ve missed something. There’s a door halfway up the alley, a door cracked open so light from inside spills out onto the cobblestones in an inviting yellow slice.

  My heart in my throat, I slowly backtrack and push open the door.

  I step into an art gallery. It’s bright and airy, filled with stylish couples mingling and chatting, drinking chardonnay. I move like a dream walker through the gallery, gazing in cold shock at all the colorful framed oils hanging on the bright-white walls.

  In every painting, the subject is a dragonfly.

  “Mr. McLean? Excuse me, sir, are you Ryan McLean?”

  I turn toward the voice. It’s a woman I’ve never seen before, an elegant redhead in a tailored ivory suit. She’s very beautiful, with milk-pale skin and secretive eyes, her fiery hair coiled in a low chignon. She smiles at me, waiting for a reply.

  “Yes,” I say gruffly, finding my voice. “I’m Ryan McLean. Who are you?”

  “Genevieve,” she replies, as if the name should mean something to me.

  I swallow, fighting to maintain my composure when everything inside me is howling wolves and hurricanes. “Where is she? Where’s Mariana?”

  Genevieve’s smile deepens. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name. But I was instructed to give you this.”

  She holds out a folded piece of stationery. I take it, my hand shaking like a leaf.

  “Good luck to you both, Mr. McLean,” says Genevieve warmly. “She was always a favorite of management.”

  Without another word, the redhead turns and melts into the crowd.

  I stand with the note in my hand until I become aware I’m garnering a lot of curious glances. Then I unfold the paper and read the words written in precise, slanting black ink.

  I can picture
you there, among the date palms and veiled women. I can picture you stealing into a locked room at dawn with the morning call to prayer echoing over the empty medina, the sun on red-tiled rooftops already hot.

  I recognize the words instantly, because they’re my own. And now I know exactly where I’m going.

  I drop my head back, close my eyes, and inhale my first real breath in months.

  37

  Mariana

  Morocco

  Once upon a time in another life, I was a little girl.

  I had a little girl’s dreams of fairy tales and handsome princes. I had parents and a sister and a scruffy yellow dog named Dog. I went to school in a ramshackle schoolhouse with a dirt floor and woven banana leaves for a roof, and picked avocadoes on my parents’ farm. I didn’t know I was poor, or powerless, or cursed.

  Once upon a time, I was happy.

  Then…I grew up.

  I grew up and learned that happiness is like heaven, a thing everyone yearns for but few ever find. I learned about death and betrayal and sex and longing, about hunger and sadness and fear.

  I learned that dreams are only for dreamers.

  I learned to survive.

  Then one day many, many years later, I learned about love.

  I discovered love was nothing like a fairy-tale. It was more like a bad poem written in indecipherable meter by a drunken poet who couldn’t keep a job, so he lived with his mother his whole life while writing the most outrageous roadblocks and outcomes, based on nothing but the whims of his own inebriated brain. It had an awkward beginning, a wildly improbable middle, and an awful, painful end. And nothing rhymed.