I frown with confusion. The brotherhood is rigorously selective. Blake is not a bloodline. ‘What do you want with a bastard and his little mongrel offspring?’
‘Unlikely alliances can sometimes be the most productive,’ he says cryptically.
The door opens and a nurse comes in bearing a glass of water on a tray. I look up at her almost gratefully. Just having another person in the room even for a few seconds allows me to compose myself a little.
‘Here you go,’ she says, and places the glass on the low table.
‘Thank you,’ he says quietly.
She walks out of the door and it closes after her. I watch him pick up the glass, raise it to his pale lips and take a sip. I watch the movement his thin throat makes. My eyes are drawn to his Adam’s apple. The skin there is so white and stretched so tight it almost glows.
My thoughts whirl in circles. Sucking at me. What the hell? Must I stand by and watch Blake and his harlot prosper…again? I shake my head. Something is not right.
‘Why? Why do you care so much about a non-bloodline?’
And suddenly his eyes—there is no other way to put it—become alive, as if he was a shell and someone or something had suddenly come into his empty body and animated it. I feel inexplicably exposed and observed, not by passive eyes but by penetrating ones. Eyes that know me. Eyes that are familiar. My hand comes up to my throat. Those cruel lips hardly move, but what comes out of them turns my whole world upside down.
Twenty-Two
Blake Law Barrington
So it was all a lie. I am not a Barrington. Not a bloodline. Not precious. Not better than all the rest of humanity. It should have been a terrible blow. I should have been numb with shock, or in a rage. My whole life a lie! It’s a strange thing but walking away from Victoria, I feel oddly light and relieved.
Finally, it all makes sense.
My father’s sweaty male skin pressed against my half bare back.
Because he was not my father. The vein of cruelty was not normal. He was my keeper. When I examine it deeper it is not relief, but a kind of dangerous excitement. As if a door that I thought would never open for me has suddenly opened. A new life stretches out for me. Within my grasp. I only have to play my cards right.
But I don’t trust her. I believe she will not be satisfied with such a weak revenge. She’ll want blood. It is our way. Blood to feed the gods. Probably mine. She knows she won’t get away with spilling any of Sorab’s. Her plans must include my death. What a pleasure to turn Lana into a widow.
The first person I call is my lawyer.
‘Jay, get back to me on the fastest, most efficient way for me to cut all financial ties with the Barrington wealth.’
There is a moment of shocked silence.
‘Um… I didn’t quite get that. Can you explain in more detail what you mean?’
‘Let’s say my brother discovers that I am not a Barrington—what paperwork would he draw up to cut me out of the fortune?’
‘Right… Uh…I’ll…um…have to get back to you on that.’
‘Call me as soon as you know.’
‘Right, yes, yes I will.’
I call my secretary and tell her to make arrangements for me to fly to New York that day. Then I call my brother.
‘Marcus. I need to speak to you. I’ll be there in about ten hours. Can you clear your diary for me?’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Not really. But I’ll tell you everything when I see you.’
After that I call Billie to ask her if she will come and stay with Lana that night. She sounds out of breath, as if she has been running up a flight of steps or having wild sex, but she not only took my call, she also agrees immediately. With that sorted, I dial my mother’s number.
Nine and a half hours later I am sitting in my brother’s mistress’s flat. Nadia is out, and he was close by. I lower myself into a brand new white sofa and look around curiously. It is an odd place. In fact, I think it is the most unlived-in place I have ever been in throughout my life. There is not a spot of dirt, anywhere. It is just white—cold and soulless.
‘Like a drink?’ he asks.
‘What’ve you got?’
He holds up a green bottle that he bought at an auction in Bonhams, London. A Special Liqueur Whiskey, from the Glenavon Distillery in Ballindalloch, Scotland. The distillery ceased production in the 1950s. He pours us two glasses of pale gold liquid, and crosses the extraordinarily white carpet to hold a glass out to me. I thank him and take a sip. The two-hundred-and-sixty-year-old smoky liquid slides down my throat tasting of copper pot stills, oak barrels, peat moss, and its own smooth patina. All the people who made it are dead. I only feel the bite when it splashes into my empty stomach and burns.
Marcus drops into a pristine sofa opposite me. ‘So what’s going on?’ So close to me his voice echoes in the disconcertingly empty place.
I take another sip of his fine whiskey. ‘Just found out today that I’m not a Barrington.’
His jaw drops. Well, at least I know now that he didn’t know. ‘What?’
‘Yeah, apparently I’m not a Barrington.’
He recovers fast, I’ll give him that. He snaps his mouth shut and goes silent for a bit while all kinds of thoughts pass through his head and flash across his eyes. All of them self-serving. ‘Who told you?’
‘Victoria.’
His eyes narrow. Disappointment? ‘Isn’t she in an asylum for the insane?’
‘She had DNA results.’
He leans forward, his eyes gleaming. He looks like a man who can hardly believe his luck. I haven’t seen this side of him. ‘Have you…verified the results?’
‘No need to. I always knew I was different.’
He leans back. His voice is dry. ‘You weren’t different. Quinn was different.’
‘Anyway, the reason I’m here is because I want to walk away from being a Barrington heir. I want you to take over my portfolios and generally find a replacement for me in the Barrington hierarchy. The only thing I will retain are my own personal investments and Quinn’s portfolio.’
He looks at me strangely, suspiciously. Once, I called this man my brother. Today I am about to see his real face. ‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’ve got hours to kill,’ he says languidly.
I explain what happened so far and as I speak Marcus exhales slowly, looks into his whiskey, shoots it, and goes back to the sparkling chrome and glass bar. He lets his glass hit the surface too loudly and winces. He sloshes whiskey carelessly into the glass, spills it on the gleaming surface. He brings the glass blindly to his lips, takes a sip and swallows. He is drunk on my misfortune.