The Key (Sanguinem Emere) (10 page)

But essentially, the most striking moment was not when the warm, broth-like liquid settled on my tongue, but the moments thereafter. A well of emotion flew through me, striking out first at my fingers, which curled into cinched balls of pins and needles. Then it travelled up my spine, locking it into rigid place and attempting to force a bend all at once as the flesh there rippled unpleasantly. Finally it made its way to my eyes where, despite my discomfort at allowing them in present company, tears freckled my lids again.

And every inch of this bodily invasion screamed Dimitri’s name.

It consumed me for uncountable seconds. I curled up on the bed and allowed myself to cry as I had when Logan, my first ever boyfriend, kissed Monique Farringdon at my fourteenth birthday party. But this was so much worse somehow, as though I would never be close enough to Dimitri, not even if I climbed inside his skin.

When I realised the insanity of it all in a moment amidst the blind adoration, my tears only fell faster and I allowed Cecily to curl up along my spine, her body perfectly moulded to fit mine. She wrapped her arms around my middle as she had when we were kids and placed her face beside mine, whispering nonsensical, soft cooing sounds to shush me.

Sleep teased the edges of my mind and now still I lie here with my sister having given into her need for rest hours ago.

No, I can’t sleep.

But I understand now that my decisions are no longer my own.

I nearly jump and disturb Cess as the door creaks open.

Dimitri’s face peers in and I can feel every inch of me soften. A smile betrays me.

“Hey.” He whispers and beckons with a small gesture.

I slide carefully out of the bed and pad to him, allowing him to slip an arm around me as we exit the room.

He seems grateful that I don’t pull away.

“I’m sorry about earlier, My Lamb.” He’s still whispering, but his tone has returned to its more natural state.

“Yeah, I have to be honest, I don’t get it.” I try and keep myself at a distance, but my feelings keep letting me down. I know my body language is responding to him, I can’t keep my arms crossed, or my shoulders straight, or my chin down.

“Come, let’s walk and talk.”

We head outside of the house into the back garden. A Bermuda-shaped pool shines with its night lights in the darkness. Set into it are tall marble pillars, tall enough to lean on in the deep end. Arrayed around the marvel are yet more plants in varying shades and sizes. A line of neatly trimmed rose bushes makes me smile as I remember the twelve.

Dimitri, to my intense disquiet, strips off his clothing and dives unceremoniously into the glistening water. He surfaces and smiles at me, water pouring from his hair and a mischievous smile on his face.

I toy with the notion of following him, but opt for the coy root. Though it is blisteringly warm enough for such an excursion. But oh, do I desperately want to follow him into that damnded pool.

“You said we were going to talk?”

“And we will,” He winks, “Just as soon as you come on in.”

I shake my head playfully.

“Don’t make me come fetch you, Miss Wright.”

A twitch of excitement tickles my belly; that does sound fun. But I pull at my clothes, taking longer than I should, lingering over my underwear, my bra, my panties.

I step gingerly in, relishing the swirl of weightlessness and cold around my legs. But Dimitri sweeps over, too quickly and pulls me in, pulls me to him, drags me into the water where my feet can’t tough the bottom.

Pressed up this close to him, I can’t resist the look in his eyes, the feel of him thrumming against my thigh, but I do. I pull back, just enough to be at arm’s length.

“So?” I let the question hang.

“The library?” He deflates.

“Of course, the library.”

“Well,” He pulls me to him again, chaste this time, “I run a business, first and foremost.”

“You do know the expression about business and pleasure, right?”

He smiles, “Yes, but with you I’m weak.”

I scoff, “So you’re trying to tell me that that kitten display of adoration from Cess, D and Melinda was completely unfounded? That you only have eyes for me? You seriously expect me to fall for that?”

He frowns, “I can’t change how they feel, Eva.”

My voice raises bit by bit as my blood pressure climbs, “And the bracelet? It was Melinda’s, wasn’t it?”

He sighs. I can see him shutting down on me, growing cold again. Aloof.

“Dimitri, please, talk to me.”

“You honestly want to know what’s going on here?”

“Yes!”

“Then listen to me,” I raise an eyebrow in mock anticipation. “I am weak with you. For you.”

It’s as if it’s unintentional on both our parts. I wrap my thighs around his hips to keep afloat. Mentally, physically.

With one movement he’s in me.

Shudders trickle through me as he whispers in my ear, “With you it can work.”

TUESDAY 18 November 2008… 08:18

Grant Helmsley glares at me from three desks away by the exit to the elevator. I can see him trying his damndest to get past Miriam, the features sub-editor who is discussing what looks to be her little grandson’s latest escapades. There is much laughing and cooing; insubstantial comments drifting through the buzzing office.

Helmsley’s objective is clearly my station and as much as I feel like trying to make a quick getaway, I know I shouldn’t. Dimitri gave me a task to complete and offered a fair amount of cash for it. And I must do everything in my power to attain my objective. Even if that means waiting for the dragon to corner me.

I scraped through my last deadline and even I have to admit, I put minimal effort into it.

What can I say? I was distracted.

Suck it up. Here he comes.

“So, Eva…”

For the hundredth time since I started working with Grant, I have to marvel at his secret ability to fill voids of silence with unspoken accusations. I have seen writers crumble beneath his scrutiny and mumble their ways out of his office when the only words he had uttered through the entire conversation of over ten minutes had been “I see.” I found that most people tried to fill up the absence of actual reprimands with excuses and explanations that had not been requested by the boss.

Of course, I will not sink to his level. But since he is just standing there, his elbow casually leaning on the edge of my cubicle and his eyebrow raised as if waiting for me to apologise like some naughty toddler caught with mommy’s perfume, I will take the opportunity to pitch my story.

“Hey, Grant. Listen, I’ve got this idea for a piece.”

“Oh? You mean like the one on the Hilton party which ran so late we had to hold up the print run?”

Cringe.

“That. Yes, I am sorry about that. I had-” I fumble for some excuse to make him stop staring at me as though he is picturing the words EX-EMPLOYEE hanging over my head.

And then it hits me.

“Actually, that is part of what I wanted to speak with you about. I have recently made contact with Dimitri Kron. He would like us to do a story on him.”

Silence inches out from our private circle like a ripple effect, but for once, the silence emanating from Grant is not deliberate. He stares at me with a disbelieving, almost sneering expression colouring his features. But beneath his distaste of my commentary, I can see he is, at least, a little unsure of how to proceed.

“A story?”

“Yes. He’s concerned about his reputation following that scandal of two weeks ago. You know, the one with the girl that left the suicide note implicating him.”

“Yes, yes,” Grant brushes me off like a fly and I have to suppress a smile from creeping to my face. If he is getting annoyed with me for distracting him from his thoughts, then he has been given something to think about.

“Here,” he motions with his hand as he steps aside, finally allowing me movement out of my cubicle, “Why don’t we talk in my office?”

On auto-pilot I follow the direction he points, as though I have never been in his office before, as though I am not being showered in death stares from some loitering about aimlessly and being nodded at by others like I have just achieved the mantle of ‘personal hero’. As though I have any clue as to what I am going to say to my boss when we get there.

As I step foot inside Grant’s office, my skin, which has been growing unbearably moist in the heat the entire morning brushes over with chilled goose-bumps as the AirCon – always maintained for Mr Helmsley’s comfort – breathes down on me like the breath of a yeti. In the entire city, currently sweltering in the humidity and breath-stealing heat of summer, this office must be the only place which offers any sort of solace. This and Dimitri’s home.

My stomach twists in odd, discomforting ways as Dimitri’s face swims to the surface of my mind with no warning. Somewhere between a threat and a temptation.

Grant offers me a seat which I take with trepidation. At the thought of my master, a certain urgency has set my extremities to tingling.

“Master?”

I glower at Shane, my expression belying all the aggravation in me. “I can’t tell the story properly if you interrupt me at every interval.”

He smiles condescendingly, “My apologies. Continue, then.”

Master? Where the hell did that come from?

“Tell me,” Grant suffers no delays as he sits opposite me, interrupting my thoughts with an expectant, pursed-lipped countenance.

“Well,” I try not to stumble, but the task proves difficult as he creases his brow at my almost stutter, “I met with Dimitri about a month ago through a friend of mine. I have been trying to cultivate a companionship, of sorts, with him in order to further my chances of garnering an interview. You know how private he is. I can think of only one publication that has achieved the one-on-one after over a year of hunting him down.”

Grant’s face clouds over, “Yes. Of course, I remember it well.”

He pulls a glossy from his draw and deftly opens it at the first try to the article in question. Issue 12 of
Bordeaux
. A fairly new publication, but an instant rivalry for our
Reflections
. We had been entirely unsuccessful at swiping a glance into the life of the infamous Dimitri Kron, but the new kid on the block had achieved the impossible after a mere year of publication.

And there he is. Thankfully, Grant is far too preoccupied in glaring at the three page layout to notice the way my face must have softened, or the moisture on my lips.

Dimitri looks up at me expectantly with intent, grey eyes. His dark waves falling over one eye as the midnight wolf-fur on his face paints of him a metro man in shades of wilderness.

“If I recall,” I begin, trying to distract my boss from what I can see is about to become a discussion on the failings of our reporters (me included) for not beating these young upstarts to the punch, “That piece was sheer fluff. Nothing more than one or two insights into what the esteemed Kron playboy enjoys partaking of in his spare time, mingled with a list of all the charitable and novel efforts he has made towards improving the lives of those less fortunate.”

Grant glances up at me from his musings, a calculating look to his eyes.

“So, Eva, you are suggesting that we pick up where these idiots left off and grasp at the truth about what goes on behind closed doors? And Kron has agreed to this?”

“Yes,” I can hear the treble in my voice disappear as relief courses through me that Grant seems so pleased with my efforts, “Dimitri has instr- asked me to write him an article to gloss over recent events. You know, something to boost his rep with the flappers.”

It sounds cruel even to my ears, but Socialite women flap. There is definitely no other description for them.

“No.” Grant interjects, his fist crumpling up the magazine still clutched in his hands. “If we do this, we do it right. I want all the dirt on him. The public does not want to hear about the miraculous work done by the ‘esteemed’ Mr Kron. And neither do I! I want the dirt. I want to know what really happened with Addison Fleur, the suicide girl, and I want to know the truth about the girls he is said to keep.”

A faint ringing sounds low in my ears as the panic wells up in my chest.

“I can’t do that, Grant.”

Silence again, and this time Grant’s eyebrow raises in intrigue. Dammit! Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?

“Come again?”

“I think it would be better to write what he wants us to. That way we can still cash in on the foot we have in the door later on. If we put too much pressure on him, he may just pull our rights to run the story due to ethical disputes.”

“So make sure he doesn’t notice the rules of the game until it’s too late! You can do that, can’t you? I keep hearing about the magnificence of your interviewing skills,” He sneers, “And here’s your chance to prove it. If you blow it, you’re out. I want a slag piece. Now get to it!”