“You’re a bastard, Niklas.”
“I know,” he says, looking up. “I’m a bastard in the technical sense, too, because my brother killed our father. Can you kill someone you love? Can you let Dina Gregory die? Because it’s in all our best interests that she does, and you know it. This never should’ve happened, Izabel. Family members and ex-wives—ties to the outside are just weaknesses.”
“You would know,” I shoot back icily, referring to Claire.
I never would’ve used something like that against him, stooping to his heartless level, but it just came out like word vomit.
His eyes harden around the edges, but he doesn’t let my comment faze him enough to unravel him.
“Yeah, I would know,” he says with a nod and leans forward. “Claire was the biggest mistake of my life. I loved her. I’ll never deny that to anyone, or sugarcoat it—I fucking loved Claire and I would’ve died for her. But that was my moment of weakness, Izabel. I guess we’re all fucking entitled to at least one. There is no such thing as love, or happiness, doing the shit that we do. My brother may love you, I can’t really say that he doesn’t, but that makes you his only weakness. And you know Victor. You may be delusional thinking that this kind of life you somehow fit into, but you’re not a stupid girl. You know that my brother is less human than I am. How long will he allow you to compromise him?” He points sternly at me “Victor is experiencing his one moment of entitled weakness right now, just like I did with Claire. Just like Gustavsson did with Seraphina. And look at what love did to Flynn, right in front of your eyes. It’s my brother’s turn now, like a rite of passage, but how long will it last?”
I look away from him and back at the screen, finding more comfort with Nora than with the sonofabitch sitting in the room with me. How can I hate him now more than her?
“But in some fucked up way,” he says as my focused gaze penetrates the glowing veil in front of me, “you’re sort of my weakness, too.”
I stop breathing for a sharp second.
“I guess I feel responsible for you,” he goes on. “And I guess I feel like I owe you because I tried to kill you once.”
I look over, but I say nothing.
Niklas shakes his head, and the boot propped on his knee bounces up and down a few times.
“How the fuck does that work exactly?” he asks; his eyes hard around the edges, his brows drawn.
I still don’t say anything. Because I don’t know. And I don’t think the question was really for me as much as it was just him thinking out loud.
“Aftereffects,” he answers himself. “I guess Claire left me with a conscience. It’s like a scar. Once it’s there it’s there forever. Unless you try to cut it out. But that only makes it deeper, so you leave it the fuck alone.”
Niklas lets out a heavy breath and stands up. He brings his cup of coffee to his lips and takes a small drink.
“Well, you don’t have to feel responsible for me,” I shoot back, “and I sure as hell don’t want you to be. So wipe your hands clean of me, Niklas, and do us both a favor. Besides, it’s not me you have a weakness for; it’s your brother. And we both know the only reason you put up with me, the only reason you told Nora about Claire to help Dina, was because of Victor.”
He takes the cigarette from behind his ear and pops it between his lips with a slim smile.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says.
I look back at the screen, intent on dropping this.
Then something he said before suddenly catches my attention out of nowhere—‘but you’ll never be on my brother’s level, or on mine, no matter how much you train because you weren’t born into this life.’
“Nora was born into this,” I say, staring down at her. “There’s no way she’s that good as young as she is unless she was born into it.”
I look over at Niklas.
He shrugs; the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Yeah, I guess that’s logical,” he says, “but that still doesn’t tell us much.”
“Not much, but something,” I say. “I’m going back in to talk to her.”
Niklas shakes his head and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, wedging it between his fingers.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Iz.”
I stand up and go over to the area where the coffee pot and microwave and mini-fridge is kept, popping open the door of the fridge and retrieving a bottle of water.
“Well, I’m doing it anyway,” I tell him. I stop before I get to the door and look right at Niklas with an intent gaze. “I may never be as good as Victor, or you, or as technologically smart as James Woodard, or as frightening as Fredrik, but there is one thing I know I’m good at because I’ve been doing it practically all my life, even since before my mother took me to Mexico—adapting. I learned to read my enemies, anyone who could do me harm, whether it was one of my mother’s drunk boyfriends or drug dealers, I learned how to survive without turning out like her.” I point my finger at him. “And when I was in Mexico, I survived by turning my enemies against each other. I wasn’t Javier’s favorite when I first went there”—I shake my head and drop my hand back at my side—“no, I was like all of the other girls, beat to near death by Izel on a daily basis, raped by the men—yeah, I was raped by them, I admit it. But I adapted to survive. I made Javier trust me. Trust became protectiveness. Protectiveness became love. Love became obsession. It was because of me that Javier turned on his sister.”
I step right up into Niklas’ face, looking up the few inches I need to see his eyes as he looms over me in his tall height.
“I was born into this,” I say to him sternly; my finger pressing into the center of his chest, “to adapt to my enemy—that is my weapon.”
And then I storm out and head downstairs to prove to him and to myself—maybe more to myself—that I’m just as valuable to this organization as any of them are.
13
Izabel
Walking straight over to Nora at the table, I crack the seal on the water bottle and twist off the cap.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask with no emotion on my face.
Nora smiles slimly and just looks up at me from her ropes and chains and cuffs.
“Are you playing the good cop?” she asks with mock humor. “Is this one of your last resort cards, coming in here with a kind gesture to get me to trust you so I’ll take pity on your loved ones and tell you where they are?”
“No,” I say straightaway, unflinching, “I’m facing reality. Dina and Tessa and Woodard’s daughters are as good as dead as far as I’m concerned because my gut tells me that Fredrik’s not going to get here in time. Or at all.”
“The pleading card then?” Nora presumes.
I shake my head.
“I’m not here for them at all,” I say straight-faced and then gently wave the water bottle side to side in my hand. “Do you want it or not?”
Nora looks to and from me and the bottle suspiciously, but then she gives in.
“Yeah, a drink would be nice.”
I place the opening to her lips and tilt it up carefully so too much doesn’t pour out all at once. When she’s had her fill, I set the bottle on the table and then take the seat across from her.
“What makes you think he won’t come?” she asks.
“Because Fredrik is a different man,” I say, “a very different kind of beast than he used to be. And he doesn’t play games anymore. Trust me; Seraphina Bragado was much better at them than you are.”
Nora smiles close-lipped.
“I guess she was,” she admits. “But she was also out of her mind—quite literally, in fact—so she certainly had an advantage.” She pauses, sighing in a lamenting manner. “It is a real shame what happened to her, to Fredrik. Even I was a little brokenhearted when I found out, and it’s not an easy thing to do, to break my heart.”
My brows crease with confusion.
“How did you know about Seraphina and Fredrik, anyway?”
Nora’s lips turn up at the corners, and a look of conjecture appears in her enigmatic brown eyes.
“So it’s information that you want,” she accuses.
I sigh and shake my head, looking downward at my lap briefly before raising my eyes again.
“Look, Victor doesn’t even know I’m in here,” I say, “Niklas knows because I told him I was coming. He was against it, but I didn’t give a shit. I’m here for reasons of my own. They have nothing to do with Dina or with this whole situation, all right? Believe me or don’t, I don’t care either way.”
She looks at me in a subtle sidelong glance, observing me; my expression, my body language and my mood, searching for the smallest shred of deceit which she won’t find because, in a sense, everything I’m saying is true.
In a sense…
There’s a long moment of silence and then she says, “How I know things really has no bearing on any of this, so I’ll tell you how I knew about Fredrik and Seraphina—just for the conversation.” She smiles. “I followed you just like I did Dorian Flynn—following someone really isn’t all that difficult, unless it’s Victor Faust; I found that out the hard way. But you were easy, especially whenever you’d go off on your own.” She pauses and looks up in thought. Then her eyes fall on mine again. “Think back to the meeting you had with Fredrik in Baltimore. The conservatory, particularly the Desert House where you sat with him and talked about Seraphina and Cassia.”
Holy shit…I know what she’s going to say. Suddenly her face does pop into my mind, a flash of her from the past that I tried desperately to find before, but couldn’t.
I remember her now…
“You were the woman with the man and child who walked up when I was talking with Fredrik outside.”
She smiles faintly, more proud of me than herself, it seems, which is odd.
“And when we went inside to get out of the cold, you showed up in the Desert House with us, looking like a normal family.”
“Very good,” she says. “I was in many places following you around that time: the coffee shop where you later met with Fredrik to give him the documents James Woodard found on Cassia Carrington—I actually read the documents before Fredrik did.”
My eyes crease with confusion.
“You left them on the front seat of your car,” she reveals. “I popped the lock on the driver’s side the night before you met with Fredrik while you were snug in your bed with Victor Faust. You didn’t even turn the car alarm on.”
I try to swallow down the humiliation of my mistakes, but the lump is too large in my throat.
Nora looks at me with a strange expression of empathy.
“I would tell you what I told Dorian Flynn, not to be so hard on yourself, but the truth is—and I only say this because the truth is what you need to hear—but you should be embarrassed. I didn’t tell you that you were in over your head because I was only trying to get under your skin, Izabel. You really are in over your head. And sooner or later, you’re going to get yourself killed. Or someone else.”
I look at the wall behind her head, silent and motionless, lost in thought.
“But you haven’t been the only one out of the six of you who was at times easy to follow, easy to fool. Can you give me another drink?” She glances at the water.
Absently, I stand up and take the bottle into my hand, reaching over the table and putting it to her lips. She drinks and then I sit back down, still lost in my own deep thoughts, but at the same time listening to every one of her words and absorbing them.
“Fredrik was a mess,” she says. “For a long time, actually. The whole time he had Cassia in his basement. I couldn’t find much on him before he found her. But once he did it was like he began to lose himself. He started slipping up, not covering his tracks. He wasn’t on alert anymore, looking over his shoulder like Victor Faust does every second of every day. Fredrik was blinded by his love for Seraphina. And for Cassia. Love makes a person vulnerable, even the most skilled, most intelligent, most unbreakable human being. It’s just how things are. None of us can help it. Some are better at controlling it than others—Victor Faust, for example. He loves you and hasn’t slipped up too much. But that’s not to say he won’t in due time.”
Just like with my conversation with Niklas earlier, every one of Nora’s eye-opening words cut me to the bone.
“James Woodard,” Nora goes on, “the only kind of love that man has is for his daughters. He’s incapable of loving a woman, but it’s still love, and it still made him vulnerable. Dorian Flynn—classic case of wanting what you can’t have. Poor guy. And Niklas? Well, that one is on a whole other level. He is Victor’s brother, after all, and they’re alike in many ways.” She tries to lean forward instinctively, but ends up just dropping her head somewhat because of her bonds. “Between you and me—unless of course he’s listening”—she glances briefly at a camera—“Niklas didn’t break. Oh, I do believe that he would have to protect Dina Gregory for you, but he didn’t break like that. He didn’t have to. Do you want to know why?”
I don’t respond, but she knows my answer is yes.
“Because Niklas wanted to tell me about Claire,” she answers. “I imagine he’s been keeping her bottled up inside for so long that it was slowly killing him. I don’t know for sure, but it’s human nature and to be expected. We can’t hold that kind of pain inside forever. But Niklas didn’t break.” She shakes her head. “And yes, he wanted to throttle me, but because of what happened to Claire, not because I was forcing him to talk about it.”
“How do you know so much?” I ask. “And before you start accusing me of trying to get information—I am for fuck’s sake, but it’s only because I genuinely want to know for myself. I…I may not be able to help Dina, but…,” that lump finally goes down my throat. I pause and say instead, “You’re right, Nora; I’m in too far over my head. A part of me wants to fucking kill you—and I still might, don’t get me wrong—but another part of me…” I can’t bring myself to say it.
I look away.
“You want advice,” she says, knowing. “You feel like the little girl sitting at the adult table in this Order. And you resent me because I’m everything you want to be.” She catches my gaze, holding it there without effort. “And you’re beginning to feel threatened.”
And she would be right.
Before Nora, I was the only woman. Not the only woman in Victor’s organization, but the only one on the inside, in the Inner Circle. With Nora here, I can’t help but feel threatened, and for the life of me I don’t understand why. Because she’s the enemy.
Suddenly, I wish I had come in here without Niklas knowing because I don’t want him to hear any of this.
“Maybe I am,” I say—we both know it’s true, but we also both know I’m too proud to outright admit it. “And maybe I just want to understand you, how you can be the way you are, know the things that you know.”
I pause and then lower my voice to a whisper, leaning over the table. “How the hell did you know about…Mexico?” I don’t want to say the incriminating keywords—baby, birth, etcetera—because I know Niklas is listening. “I highly doubt you were following me back then, much less knew I existed.”
A cunning smile appears on Nora’s lips.
“I’m not giving away all of my secrets,” she says simply and leaves it at that.
I didn’t expect her to, but it was worth a shot.
“Tell me this,” she says suddenly, “did you love him?”
“Who?”
She tilts her head on one side, a look that reads you-know-who plain on her face.
“What does that matter?” I say evasively.
“It’s just a question,” she says. “It was the past. Did you love him?”
Slowly, I nod.
“I’m not sure how it happened,” I begin to explain, looking at the table, “but yes, I did for a time. There were days I couldn’t be without him, not because of Izel, but because…I ached inside. Javier was a cruel and
brutal man, but he did love me and he was kind to me.” I raise my eyes and look right at Nora. “This may be hard to believe, but Javier never once hit me. At least not out of violence or anger. He did punish me…did things to me…sexually, that some might think is violent, but I didn’t. At least not after a while.”
“You liked it,” Nora says evenly.
“I did.”
Feeling uncomfortable and too exposed, I snap back to the previous topic, not wanting to go deeper into this aspect than I already have.
“But yes, there was a time that I loved Javier. It’s sick, I know. I don’t need you telling me that, or looking at me like I’m some kind of freak. You can’t understand unless you’ve lived it, and your words and opinions and accusations mean jack-shit to me. Call it Stockholm syndrome too if you want—whatever—but yes, I loved him for a time.” I taper down when I realize how overly defensive I had become.
“I would never judge you in that way,” she says. “I know what it’s like to be grounded in a life not of your choosing.”
She doesn’t offer any more than that.
“But you keep saying ‘for a time’,” Nora goes back. “When did you stop loving him and why?”
I smirk at her and cross my arms, leaning back in my chair.
“I’m not giving away all of my secrets,” I say.
She smiles with a nod. “Fair enough.”
Then she tries adjusting herself on the chair, finally displaying a look of discomfort, but it doesn’t last long.
“You shouldn’t feel threatened by me,” she says and has my undivided attention. “I didn’t come here for that. And I’m not showing off; I was made like this. I’ve been doing it all my life, Izabel, from the moment I was plucked from between the legs of a mother I never knew. It’s like learning your native language—you grow up fluent and it can never be forgotten or erased, and you speak and write and hear it with a perfection that those who don’t speak your language can only envy. They can try to learn it later in life, but very few will adapt to it so well that they lose their accent entirely. I was made this way. And I know nothing else. And you, no matter how hard you train, or how good you get, will never lose your accent.”