‘I’m walking away from it all.’

He takes a large gulp, swallows and coughs. ‘All?’

‘All.’ I stare at him curiously. Was I once like this? Was nothing ever enough for my insatiable lust for more? ‘Well, anything that is not already in my name,’ I confirm.

He makes a disbelieving sound. ‘You’ll be a pauper.’ But I notice that he is not trying too hard to persuade me, otherwise. Simply gauging how serious I am.

‘Hardly.’

‘Well, you know what I mean.’ There. There is that self-serving smile again.

‘Yes, by your standards, I will.’

‘Then you’ll need a job. You can run the business for me.’

Strange, how I never saw the supercilious arch of his eyebrow, that condescending tilt of his chin. For the first time I see what my father or rather my stepfather saw. A greedy, grasping man of dissolute tastes who can’t even pretend to lead. A spineless fool without even a whiff of what it takes to sit at the front of a dynasty as vast and powerful as the Barrington’s.

I smile. ‘No. I’d like to strike out on my own. Do something different.’

‘You sound like Quinn.’

‘You’ll manage.’

‘I really need you, Blake. I’ll make it worth your while.’

I look at him and I am glad that he is not my brother. He wants to hire me as his employee. ‘Sorry, Marcus, but I’m sure you’ll forge new alliances.’

‘You’re just going to walk away from it all?’ He is pleased with his good luck, but seems angered and irritated by my decision not to work for him. Later, when he is at the bottom of the bottle, it might occur to him to make it all legal as soon as possible.

I shrug. ‘Yeah.’

He frowns, genuinely confused. ‘Why?’

‘When I was younger, the idea that all of nature—humans, animals, flowers, trees, mountains, rivers, galaxies, even universes—is nothing more than self-replicating fractals of an interactive biological software program based on golden ratio or the Fibonacci spiral was depressing. We are all animated mathematical constructs of great precision. It took the magic out of creation. I understood I was in a geometric prison, but I didn’t know how I could escape it. Until recently. Now I find new beauty and astonishment whenever I act out of autopilot. Whenever I leave the hive mentality, stop being a predator or lead a life of love and harmlessness.’

‘Because of her?’ he asks, his voice edged with some deep rage.

Ah, that’s where the irritation comes from. He is envious of what I have with Lana. ‘Don’t go there, Marcus,’ I warn, watching him over the rim of my glass.

Twenty-Three

Blake Law Barrington

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. When, then, did he come?”

—Sherlock Holmes, The Sign of the Four (1980)

My mother lives overlooking Central Park in an apartment that takes up three entire floors. The ceilings are twenty-three feet high, the windows are ceiling to floor, and the endless views are quite literally breathtaking. Darkness has already fallen and the city lies a glitzy carpet of lights below me. I gaze down at the beautiful sight and feel crumpled and jaded.

A maid brings sage tea flavored with honey and warm brioches filled with foie gras and bacon curls. By the time my mother makes her fantastically elegant entrance, I have already been cooling my heels for fifteen minutes. I turn around to watch her sweep dramatically into the room, porcelain white, blonde and flawless, and remember her, when she used to dress in floor-length evening gowns and was what you would call an all-star beauty. Among other things she wore coats made out of ocelots. The memory leaves a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

She smiles ruefully. ‘Have I kept you waiting long?’

My mouth twists. ‘Not at all.’

She sinks languidly onto a sofa, and after dutifully kissing either side of her smooth and perfumed cheeks, I take the seat opposite hers. She curls her fingers delicately into a half fist and lifts it to her mouth to conceal a sigh. Everything about her is designed to disguise the predatory gleam in her eyes.

‘There is a Byzantine church in Syria, called The Heart of the Almond. Imagine such a name for a church.’

‘Did Marcus call you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Well, are you going to tell me who my father is? Or are we going to discuss obscure churches in Syria?’

She thinks for a moment, her eyes secretive slits of blue. ‘Have you ever dreamed of a bird or an animal with glowing red eyes?’

I am unprepared for the question. If I had, my reaction would have been totally different. I would have schooled my expression. But as I wasn’t, she saw the unguarded expression of shock. Even though I shake my head, she pins me with her eyes, suddenly avid and glittering with excitement.

‘You have, haven’t you?’

Why she would be pleased about such dreams, I don’t know, but I consider them nightmares. Since I was a boy I have been trapped in dreams where I am being chased by a massive black horse with red eyes. It chases me through open fields, I can hear it snorting and breathing hard on my heels. Sometimes I will make it into an abandoned house or barn and I will lock myself in there and cower while the horse thunders its hooves at the door. Petrified, I will stare at the door as it rattles and shakes. That is usually when I wake up in a cold sweat.

‘Do you know how lucky you are?’

Lucky? I am robbed of all words.

‘That is the ultimate goal. To allow the master to inhabit our souls. Your father allowed it.’ Her eyes become misty with the memory. ‘Sometimes you could see Him looking out of his eyes. He would look out at you, alive and living, in a human form. It is the thing we do for Him. We allow him to walk the earth in human form. It is why we keep our bloodline pure. If we sully it by mixing our blood with impure lines he will no longer be able to possess us. It is the reason we have all this power. It is our reward. Ultimate power over all of mankind.’ Her voice changes, becomes wheedling. ‘You don’t know what it feels like. You must allow him to take you over.’

I stand and take a few steps away from her. ‘But I’m not a bloodline, am I?’

She laughs suddenly. The sound is sarcastic and taunting. ‘You’re a fool, Blake. I never imagined you would be so blind. Can’t you guess that your bloodline is by far purer than the Barrington bloodline?’

I stare at her with surprise. My chest feels as if it is on fire. ‘Who is my real father?’

‘Do you really need me to spell it out for you?’ She seems genuinely surprised that I don’t know.

‘Yes, God damn it,’ I say harshly. ‘Spit it out.’

‘Your biological father is Hugo.’

‘Hugo?’

‘Yes, Hugo Montgomery.’

Hugo Montgomery! For a moment nothing makes sense. Time stops. The whole world outside my mother’s living apartment ceases to exist. We are splendidly isolated and perched high in the sky. I stare at her. She stares back with an expression remarkable only for its lack of emotion. Her eyes are indifferent blue stones. Then the antique clock on the mantelpiece above the seventeenth-century fireplace starts again.

‘What?’ I ask incredulously.

‘It’s not that startling, surely?’ she sighs.

‘But he’s Victoria’s father!’

‘Of course.’

‘Victoria is my sister?’

‘Half-sister.’

‘I was supposed to marry her?’

‘Which you didn’t do,’ she reminds in a silkily bored tone.

‘It would have been incest if I had,’ I counter angrily.

‘I never suspected you of being tedious.’