Page 63 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
Clare nodded. “My abuelito’s new friend. He’s my friend, too. He said little girls should always have a best friend they can tell all their secrets to, and since I spend so much time in the hospital I don’t really get to have so many friends. So he gave me Peter Parker so I could talk to him if I ever got lonely.” She cocked her head and looked at Ember, her expression now very serious. “I don’t ever get lonely, though. I have Roberto and my abuelito and Bieber my dog. And God. I talk to Him, too.”
There was a winch slowly tightening around Ember’s chest, closing her throat and causing her stomach to flatten. Behind her eyes she felt the hot prick of tears but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to smile.
“Does God talk back?”
Clare said, “All the time.”
“And what does He say?”
Clare smiled a smile then of such loveliness and innocence it literally stole Ember’s breath. She said, “He says I shouldn’t be afraid. So I’m not, because God can’t lie.”
She couldn’t look at Dante. If she did, Ember knew she would burst into tears. She simply whispered, “That’s good, honey. I’m glad you’re not afraid.”
In a gentle voice cracking with emotion, Dante said to Clare, “Inside now, gordita, back to bed. You should be resting.”
“Okay,” replied Clare, turning away. Then she turned back, slowly walked to Ember and hugged her. Into her ear, Clare said softly, “You shouldn’t be afraid either. I asked God to watch out for you because you seem really sad, and He said He would.”
That did it. Tears welled in Ember’s eyes and she squeezed them shut, and squeezed Clare tight, her arms wrapped around her frail little body. “Thank you, Clare.”
Clare gave her a motherly pat on the back, then broke away and walked back into the apartment, Peter Parker clutched tightly to her side.
Feeling a thousand years old, Ember stood and looked at Dante. A lone tear slipped down her cheek, which she didn’t bother to wipe away. They stared silently at one another until Dante finally rested a hand on her shoulder.
&nb
sp; “Life is full of pain, but also many gifts, hermosa. We accept the pain because we have no choice…” His gaze grew penetrating. “Or maybe because we feel we deserve it, but we have to know how to accept the gifts, too. You have been given a great gift by this friend of yours; accept it. But you also have another gift, an even greater one, that you are taking for granted.”
He paused, staring at her, eyes misted with sorrow. Ember shook her head. He said, “Time. Don’t waste it. You never know when it’s going to run out.”
Then he turned and went into his apartment, and slowly swung shut the door.
Ember didn’t know how long she’d been walking.
She didn’t know how many miles had passed by unnoticed, or when she’d first decided on her destination, her feet on an automatic path, drawn forward as if pulled. She didn’t feel the sun on her face or the chilled breeze that came later when the clouds rolled in, blocking out the bright morning sky. She only came to herself when she once again stood shivering and drenched in front of the gate at Christian’s house, rain pouring down with what seemed like a personal vendetta, cold and stinging and hard.
She was still in the dress she’d worn to breakfast with her stepmother that morning. Her shoes had rubbed blisters on the soles of her feet.
She pressed the button on the black call box. There was a crackle of static, then a voice came over the line. “Miss Jones.”
It was Corbin. He sounded surprised, and concerned.
“C-Corbin,” she stammered, shaking with cold. “I’m here…I’m here…”
She didn’t know why she was here. Her brain wasn’t working properly. She could hardly speak.
But it didn’t matter because the huge iron gate swung open with its metallic groan, and Ember stumbled through.
Off in the distance, the front door of the house opened, and Christian appeared in it. He took one look at her and began to run.
Just seeing him caused the storm inside her to break free with as much force as the sky had opened over her. She sank to her knees in the middle of the gravel road and began to shake uncontrollably. Tears blurred her vision and streamed down her face. He was beside her in an instant, that impossible speed of his bringing him there in a streak of painted color against the gray of the rain, his clothes and hair soaked as he bent down and lifted her into his arms.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face into his chest, and whispered, “I don’t want to waste any more time. I don’t want to waste any more time, Christian.”
He didn’t bother asking her what had happened. He didn’t bother with words at all. He simply turned and ran back in the direction he came, holding her firmly against his chest, his feet swift and silent over the ground.
His bedroom was larger than the vast lobby of the hotel she and her parents had stayed in on their trip to New York, when she auditioned at Juilliard all those lifetimes ago.
Designed with an eye for luxury, in a masculine palette of earth tones accented with pops of crimson in a few tasteful accessories—throw pillows on a leather sofa, an abstract oil painting above the fireplace, a sculpted Murano vase on a side table—it was warm because of the fire crackling in the hearth but dark in the far corners. Heavy velvet drapes were drawn across the windows, and dancing shadows played along the ceiling and walls. The firelight and shadows conspired to create an atmosphere of intimacy that perfectly complemented the fever pounding through her veins.
