The Mephisto Mark: The Redemption of Phoenix (14 page)

When I made no reply, because I was trying to process that she’d just summed up over a century of misery in one sentence, she said, “She was perfect for someone else. That’s why you feel guilty. She loved you and you didn’t love her. God sent her to you and you accepted it, but way deep down in a place you never acknowledge, you wondered, why her?”

I knew I should let go of her, stop stroking the smooth curve of her cheeks, drowning in the scent of heather, wishing I could kiss her. “
I did love her, in my way.”

“Now who’s lying? You said we had a bargain.”

“Not lying.” I travelled back in time and remembered the look in her eyes, her complete heartbreak. No one knew, no one saw. Just me. “I did love her. I
did
.”

“
I’m sure you felt affection, and that other thing guys feel, but it obviously wasn’t enough, because here you are, unredeemed. Now you have another Anabo, and this time, God sent me.” She gave me a sad smile. “Poor Phoenix. You just can’t catch a break.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I’m not being self-deprecating, if that’s what you think. It’s just that I can see who you are and what you’d need to be mad about someone, and I don’t have it.”

I slid my hands further back, into her hair to hold her head.
“You don’t know me at all, so how could you have a clue what I need? It doesn’t matter anyway. This isn’t about me. It’s about you, and what’s ahead, and I’m going to help you through all of this so you can be happy.”

“I’m not a weekend project, Phoenix. You can’t fix me and lay out a golden path of perfect happiness for me and redeem yourself for whatever you did wrong with her. It doesn’t work like that.”

“How does it work?”

She grasped my shirt in her hands while she looked up into my eyes. “Don’t try so hard. Don’t push. Let’s just agree that we’re going to be friends.”

“I don’t have any friends except my brothers, and Sasha and Jordan. If I did, I suspect I wouldn’t want to kiss them the way I want to kiss you.”

Her gaze went to my mouth again. “I’ve never done it, and you’re so out of practice, it’s certain we’d both be bad at it and disappointed.”

“Guess it’s a good thing we can’t.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, “I guess.”

I dropped my hands and turned toward the door but stopped when there was a knock. Quickly turning back, I saw something in her eyes before she could hide it. I wasn’t absolutely sure, but I thought it might have been desire.

T
his was going to kill me.

Chapter 7

~~ Mariah ~~

Viorica loved the photos. She teared up several times, her small fingers tracing the outline of one picture in particular. We’d fallen asleep on the braided rug, her clutching her bunny, me clutching her. I suppose our mother thought it was cute, and so she snapped a picture.

I told her all I could remember about them
, and I know she wanted to feel some connection, but she’d been barely four when they died. They were strangers to her.

Just before she left, she hugged me close and whispered, “I love you, Mariah. I wish we’d . . . thank you for what you did.”

“There’s no call for gratitude, Viorica. I did what I did and now we’re together again. Let’s look forward.” I knew I wasn’t leaving and so did she, but she didn’t know that I was aware. I wished she’d tell me the truth.

She smoothed my hair, probably because Phoenix had mussed it – he had a thing for my hair, it seemed. “You’ve known me all your life as Viorica, but it sounds strange to me. Would it bother you an awful lot to call me Jordan?”

If I didn’t know I was staying, this would have been a clue. Why did it matter what I called her if I was gone in a week, never to see her again? I nodded and smiled at her. “Of course I’ll call you whatever you like. Jordan, it is.”

She left then, on her way to the second floor to see Key. I wondered what they did when they were alone. Was she marked? I had an instant reaction to the thought. I wanted to go downstairs and punch Kyros in the nose.

I was alone again, but everything was changed. I tried to read more of the King book, but my mind wandered away from the words on the page. Uneasy and restless, I wasn’t ready to turn in. I needed to let go. I hadn’t done it in a very long time. There hadn’t been the need.

Sliding into my coat, I took a candle from the candelabra, left my room and went to the stairs, climbing to the fourth floor. Inside the attic, I flipped the light switch and blew out the candle, then walked behind the rows of shelves with boxes to a door I’d noticed earlier. It opened onto a tiny terrace, covered in snow. It took me a while to shove all the snow through the stone posts beneath the railing, and dragging an antique French chair through the shelves and the door wasn’t easy, but I finally had a place where I wouldn’t be disturbed.

I sat for a long time and stared out at the moonlit, snow-covered mountains without really seeing them, my breath visible in the frigid night air. Hands clenched into fists inside my coat pockets, I whispered, “Not fair, not fair,
not fair
.” All my hopes and dreams – gone. Everything I’d thought to be – gone. My hard won independence – gone. Bending forward, I buried my face against my thigh and screamed until my throat was raw, and repeated in my head, over and over,
Not fair.

Viorica who wasn’t Viorica; my baby sister who
I didn’t really know at all, a girl named Jordan who was strong, sure of herself, and capable, and she’d chosen to be here with these ghosts of humanity. I didn’t choose this, yet here I was. I never chose to take Nadia’s place in Emilian’s twisted world of pain and cruelty, but for two years of my life, that’s exactly what I was. I didn’t choose to cook and clean for Marta and Gustav, but the alternative was to be on the streets, to starve and sell myself.

Not fair!

I screamed harder and my hands bled from my nails digging into my palms.

Why did my parents have to die? Why did Emilian have to be an evil bastard? Why couldn’t Nadia have been kind? She was my
family
, and she treated me like dirt, like I was less than dirt, and never once tried to stop Emilian.

Then
she died and left me alone with him.

I stopped screaming and sat up quickly, sucking in deep breaths, forcing my mind to stop. I had to stop. I couldn’t think about it. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined the shelves and the boxes, all of them neatly stacked, all of them holding those memories I couldn’t remember without losing myself completely.

The past six months had been hard, so hard, but they’d been
mine
. I’d had my own space, my own money, my own plans. University would never happen. I’d not be a doctor. I’d be a drudge and work for the Mephisto. And Phoenix would feel sorry for me, and I’d hate it every day of my life. Which would now last forever.

I slumped
over and stared at the flagstones of the terrace, at the snow caught in all the cracks. I was enraged at God, at Lucifer, at Mephistopheles, at Kyros and every soul who lived on this mountain. How could I ever find peace of mind or a solid direction when nothing I did ever made any difference?

Maybe this was penance for what I did to Emilian. Maybe this was God’s way of telling me I had to repent, had to forgive Emilian.

I shifted in the chair. No way. I hated him as much in that moment as I had the night he died. I remembered watching him burn. My joy was enormous. Joy. Over a man’s death.

God would never forgive me and I’d never forgive Emilian. I still had a date with Mephistopheles. It’d just be much further in the future, when the end of the world came.

I realized suddenly that I’d slid that box right off the shelf, removed the lid and examined the contents, all without panicking. For the first time since the night Emilian died, I could remember it and not be afraid. I’d never admitted my part in his death to anyone, until tonight. Until Phoenix. I still wasn’t entirely sure why I’d done it. He’d just told me life as I knew it was over, that I was stuck on this mountain for the foreseeable future, and even when I’d be able to leave, it’d be for short periods. I’d live here for the remainder of eternity. Then he told me I was incapable of sin and I knew he was so wrong. I wanted him to know, wanted him to understand that whether I was Anabo or not, I killed somebody and that was a sin against God and humanity. It didn’t matter who Emilian was or what he did. So long as he was alive, he had the opportunity to ask forgiveness, to redeem himself. I had no right to interfere by helping his life end.

I knew all these things, but I couldn’t be sorry.

Maybe I’d wanted Phoenix to fully realize why I’d never be with him, why I’d never be with anyone. I was nothing of the light he spoke of – I was dark, dirty, damaged. If he couldn’t love Miss Perfect, he’d never, ever love me.

Not that I wanted him to. It was better this way. Less complicated. But I did feel a little bad for him because he had no choice at all – just me. And I was a thousand times less worthy than the other girl.

I supposed whatever subconscious reason I’d felt compelled to tell him didn’t matter. My confession had given me the ability to remember without being petrified. He’d said we’d be friends, and I was okay with that. I wasn’t afraid of him. I actually liked him quite a lot. It wasn’t his fault everything had changed – he was simply the messenger.

A slip of paper appeared from below and twirled in the wind, round and round until it landed at my feet on the terrace. It was a
fortune from a Chinese fortune cookie. In English, of course. I slipped it into my coat pocket, thinking I’d translate it later, wondering who had take-out Chinese. I was hungry. I thought about the chocolate cake we’d had at dinner. Maybe there was some left.

Nothing was
different than it had been an hour ago, but I did feel somewhat better. Letting it go, screaming into myself while I sat on the roof of Emilian’s house had been my only way of dealing. After Nadia died and he found a new way to torture me, I was angry and scared and I fought, and it was a long time before I learned that to be completely still didn’t excite him as much as my anger. He got off on my fear and fury, and once I realized it, I never again got angry in front of him. I climbed on the roof and screamed into my legs.

I got to my feet, washed my
bloody hands in the snow, then dragged the chair back inside and made my way downstairs, tricky because there was very little light on the upper staircase, just what filtered up from below.

In the grand hall, Deacon was nowhere to be seen, and I took the opportunity of solitude to look at all the portraits. Sasha had said they were Luminas. Each gigantic gilt frame had a small, brass plate at the bottom with names and dates. I wondered if the date was the
year of their birth, the year they became immortal, or the year the portrait was painted. The clothing ranged from Elizabethan, with ruffs and funny men’s pantaloons, to early twentieth century, with white linen suits and big hats. The most beautiful of all the women was a blonde who sat next to a dainty secretary, a spaniel at her feet. I moved closer to see what she held in her hand. A gold chain dangled from her slender fingers, and at the end, against the skirts of her blue silk Victorian dress, was a bejeweled golden bird. A phoenix.

I looked at the name plate.
Lady Jane Rutledge 1888
.

She was an aristocrat. She must have come from a wealthy family. She wore big, beautiful pearl drop earrings
, a sapphire and diamond pendant, and her spectacular dress matched her tranquil, lovely eyes, the color of spring crocuses.

I stared up at her for a very long time, wondering why Phoenix hadn’
t loved her. I grew sad for her. It had to be terrible to love someone when they didn’t love you back.

Turning away to head for the kitchen, in hopes I could nab a piece of cake, I was glad of my certainty that I’
d always be alone. I would never be in Jane’s position because I would never be romantically in love. And I’d never be unwise enough to fall for a guy like Phoenix. He had heartbreaker written all over his handsome face.

As I crossed through the dining room to the kitchen, I
remembered with perfect clarity just how much I’d wanted him to kiss me. I was curious, and he was the first guy in my entire life I’d ever wanted to kiss. But that was nothing like love. It was lust, which came out of nowhere and surprised me, but I couldn’t deny it. Maybe Sasha’s romance novel had opened a tiny door somewhere in my soul.

Didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to kiss him, ever. I didn’t want to be Mephisto. I could never capture a human being and send him to his death. The fight alone would bother me, but knowing I was about to kill someone . . . never happen. Emilian’s death had altered my entire life, and not all to the good. I was done with death.

Hans was in the kitchen. It was a quarter to midnight. I said hello and he beamed as if very pleased to see me. “Why are you still here?” I asked. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“No, we Purgatories have no need of sleep, or food.”

“How do you cook such delicious things without eating any of it, without tasting?”

He pulled a jug of milk from one of three gigantic refrigerators and set it on the island in the middle of the huge kitchen. “I
have many volunteers among the Luminas who taste for me, but mostly, I cook from memory. When I was alive, I was a chef in Cologne. Then there was the war, and I died and was sent here, to cook for the Mephisto.” His blue eyes sparkled. “Because of the need to feed their strength, they eat a lot and often, and always appreciate what I prepare. Except Jax, who refuses to eat sauerkraut.”

“I love sauerkraut.”

“I think maybe you enjoy all food. This is why I love to cook, to sustain the soul as well as the body.” He turned away and when he turned back, he had the cake in his hands. He set it down and said, “You’re here for a slice, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

He became serious and nodded as if it all made perfect sense. “For a while, you’ll eat too much, especially the sweets. You come to my kitchen at midnight, there can only be one thing you want.” He cut a slice and was just handing it to me when Zee walked in, barefoot, wearing a pair of ratty sweatpants and a faded Aerosmith T-shirt.

He saw me take the
cake and laughed.

“It’s a good thing I don’t have an eating disorder. Every time I turn around, you’re laughing at me
about food.”

Sobering instantly, he said, “Have I been a jackass? I do that a lot
.”

I smiled at him. “It’s all good, Zee. I was teasing you.”

“Ah, okay. Well, then, let’s both have some cake and laugh at each other.”

Hans cut him a slice, handed each of us a glass of milk, then shooed us out of the kitchen.

In the dining room, I was about to sit at the table, but Zee nodded toward the hall. “Let’s go watch some TV while we eat.”

I followed him across and down the wide hall
way to a door that led into a candlelit room with a huge flat screen TV, several black leather couches and deep club chairs with ottomans, a white rug, and a treat bar at the back of the room with fountain sodas, baskets of boxed candies, and a popcorn machine.

He took a seat on one of the couches and set his
glass and plate down before he chose a remote from a basket of them on the coffee table. He looked at me, still standing slack-jawed in the doorway. “Have a seat, Mariah. What would you like to watch with your cake?”

I wasn’t altogether comfortable being alone with him, but he seemed completely focused on cake and TV. Perceiving no threat, I
took a seat at the other end of the couch, set down my plate and glass, and slipped out of my coat. “I mostly watch sporting programs and news because that’s what Gustav always has on at the pub. I don’t have a TV at home.”