Death's Ink Black Shadow Page 2

  Better enjoy it while he could.

  § § §

  Nikolas had just got his first cigarette of the night lit, a glass of Russian Standard poured, and a bottle of Romanée Conti lined up for later, when he heard the front door click. He didn’t have time for his usual sanitizing of the scene.

  When Ben appeared in the sitting room doorway, he didn’t seem to know what to wince at first—the cigarette, the noise, or the alcohol. Nikolas made an annoyed grunt, which he hoped covered all three sins, and turned the music off.

  Ben stared at him. “Seriously?”

  “I thought you were at…”

  “Seriously?”

  Nikolas twitched his nose and stubbed out his cigarette.

  Under the steely green gaze, the glass of vodka was carried to the kitchen and emptied down the sink.

  When these things were done to his apparent satisfaction, Ben flung himself onto the couch and turned the TV on. He wasn’t watching it, Nikolas knew.

  Nikolas sat down alongside the sulking figure and offered him a glass of wine. Ben glanced at it then took it.

  Nikolas cheered up fractionally (but covertly); the night wouldn’t be wholly without pleasure. Of all his addictions, of all the things he now craved to keep the demons at bay, to prevent the inevitable end of everything arriving, Ben Rider-Mikkelsen’s body was at the top of the list. Hands down, best distraction ever.

  He ruffled Ben’s hair and commented cautiously, “I thought you were gone for the night.” Ben could take it as enquiry or apology—however he wanted.

  Ben flicked his gaze over from the screen. “So I see.”

  “Was the reunion cancelled?”

  “No.”

  Nikolas studied the perfection of light through the red in his glass, debating whether to push. Ben would tell him in his own time. He always did. Ben didn’t have the capacity for…Nikolas swirled the wine a little. He’d underestimated Ben recently. It wasn’t a mistake he wanted to make again.

  “It was boring.”

  Nikolas raised his brows a little, regarding the frowning figure. Boring? Ben had never gone to a regimental do and called it that before. Ben never called anything that except books that didn’t rely on zombies for their interest or films that had subtitles.

  Ben finally turned the TV off. “I’ve got nothing in common with any of them anymore.”

  Nikolas decided silence was the best conversational companion, so he resisted the temptation to point out the obvious.

  “They were all talking about jobs and girlfriends, wives, kids—shit like that.”

  The desire to prompt, “And?” was overwhelming.

  “And I can’t say anything, can I?” Nikolas tried not to wince as Ben downed the thousand-pound-a-bottle glass of wine in one gulp. “So I came home.”

  “In defeat?”

  Ben suddenly turned to him, slamming the glass down on the table. “Fucking hell. You moron.” He crushed himself to Nikolas, claiming him with a savage pressing of wine-brushed lips and wide-open mouth, tongue seeking entrance. Into the possessing, he murmured, “I wanted to tell them about you.” He began to unbutton Nikolas’s shirt. “I wanted to shout out that I was fucking a man. That I was fucking you.” He began to kiss down Nikolas’s belly. “And then I didn’t want to tell them anything. I just wanted to come home and do it.”

  Nikolas responded to the kissing, to the sudden passion, fumbling for Ben’s zip. They undressed each other desperately and fucked upon the sofa until their bodies were languid and sated and they couldn’t have said, if asked, who was in whom, or where the last tingles of release came from.

  Eventually, senses other than ones below the waist returned, and Nikolas could hear faint street noises, Radulf snoring, the occasional tick from the fridge. And this was the best of times for him now, when they were more one body than two, joined by sweat and semen, saliva shared, leisurely kissing with the soft grind of pelvic bone to bone, and nerves firing off from a residue of intense pleasure.

  § § §

  Ben mouthed into Nikolas’s ear. “It’s never defeat when I think about the fact I have you.”

  Nikolas chuckled. “What do you want, Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen? You’re being blatantly manipulative—not that I don’t agree with just how lucky you are…”

  Ben lightly punched him but then conceded, “I was wondering…Stop it!” He hated that Nikolas could read him so easily, although there had been a time only recently when Nik had not been able to read him at all. Misread all the signals, in fact. Perhaps, one day, they would talk about what had happened, but not now. Nikolas wasn’t ready.

  “I was wondering whether we could ask the Armstrongs to Devon for a few days. With…the baby, I mean.”

  “Molly.”

  “Yes, obviously.”

  “Say her name then.”

  “Stop laughing! It’s not funny. I’m not being funny!”

  “Yes, you are a little, Ben. She’s your daughter. Say her name.”

  “All right! Molly then. Invite Molly to Devon. And they’d have to come as well, I guess. What do you think?”

  “Ben?”

  “What?”

  “It’s your daughter and your house. You don’t need to ask me. It’s your life.”

  Ben arched a little away from Nikolas so he could see his face. He shook his head. “I ask myself if you are the biggest pillock I’ve ever met and then tell myself no, how could you be? I was in the army. But then you go and say something like that and just prove yet again that you are! Jesus, Nik, you are my life.”

  Nikolas sighed and stretched with very evident delight. “Well, in that case—”

  No one ever rang the bell this late in the evening.

  It wouldn’t have fazed them especially except for the nakedness, the dried cum, and the smell of sweat and sex.

  But they were both ex-soldiers, both able to dress and assume the façade of nonchalant innocence very quickly when required.

  Nikolas even poured himself another glass of wine. But just as he did, his hand shook, a small spasm. The wine spilt on the coffee table, a blood-red pooling. Nikolas closed his eyes for a moment, but Ben had the strangest thought that he wasn’t shutting them to the mess, but to what had caused it, to whatever, whoever, was at the door.

  Many weeks later, Ben recalled that pooling red liquid with profound sadness. If he’d known what was waiting for them on the other side of the front door, would he have still opened it? Let it in?

  No. He wouldn’t have. Ben wasn’t someone who believed in seeing life as a learning experience—that all things, good or bad, could be used for personal growth. He was mature enough and so was Nikolas. He would have saved both of them the pain that was to come.

  But despite his belief in fate and omens, when Ben remembered back to that evening, he knew he’d sensed nothing ominous about the softly chiming bell when it repeated its ring.

  He’d simply finished zipping his jeans, ruffled Nikolas’s hair and answered its summons.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Once or twice since meeting Nikolas, Ben had experienced a sensation of his heart stopping and then restarting—just a tiny break in its normal beat. He knew it wasn’t physical, more a mental reaction to Nikolas’s occasionally jarring dissonance. This time, however, opening the door, the reaction was decidedly physical, and Ben found it hard to breathe for a moment, almost staggering.

  He was profoundly grateful that he continued to take air in and out and that he didn’t collapse.

  Nikolas was standing on the doorstep.

  Not his Nikolas, of course. His Nikolas wasn’t Nikolas though. His Nikolas was Aleksey. But this was Nikolas. Ben knew this, was sure of it with a certainty he’d have stuck with under torture, because this boy was a photograph made manifest. This was the boy with the seashell, the boy who had once spoken to Ben and said, as clearly as if he were a real person who could speak out loud, “The man you love is a fraud.”

  Ben then realised his error. Boy.
Whoever this was, it couldn’t be the Nikolas from the photograph, because that Nikolas was, would have been, almost forty-seven—and he was dead. That seemed important somehow as well.

  Then he got it.

  Stefan. The dead child. Who were they to make the arrogant assumption that the dead stayed dead?

  Ben began to laugh, but there was very little humour in the sound.

  The young man’s face creased with confusion and he glanced at a piece of paper in his hand. “Sorry, I think I might have the wrong house? My name’s Steven Sky, I’m looking for—” His eyes slipped past Ben to something, someone, behind him. Ben didn’t need to look.

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and then the man who had obviously got he was at the right address, ventured, “Uncle Nikolas?”

  Ben was absurdly grateful that he had not completed the young man’s earlier sentence for him. If he had, he’d have prompted, “Aleksey? You’re looking for Aleksey Mikkelsen?”

  Ben couldn’t see Nikolas’s reaction to the mistaken assumption, but it was embarrassing to be doing nothing, and clearly Nikolas could hardly deny that the man had the right address—in a way. He was definitely a Mikkelsen—same hair, same face, same build. He was Nikolas half a lifetime ago—the half Ben had not shared. The half he coveted.

  Ben felt a hand on his arm and began to relax into it until he realised it was just moving him out of the way.

  Nikolas took his place in the doorway and Ben still couldn’t see his face.

  He could see the young man’s though.

  His eyes were…scanning, seeking. Any conclusion made from this study was unclear to Ben, as there was nothing to read in the expression other than those quick flicks of gaze over the slightly taller, older figure.

  “You’d better come in.”

  The visitor looked pleased at Nikolas’s neutral comment.

  They were all over six feet tall. Too big and too many for the hallway, and it was awkward, for many reasons, until they were in the kitchen and sitting, and Nikolas was leaning on the counter, silent, watchful.

  If Ben had sensed furious, secret paddling to stay afloat before, there was none of that now. There was just laser-sharp concentration on Nikolas’s face and not a muscle of movement other than breathing, and even that wasn’t noticeable.

  Ben sat at the table, also regarding the new arrival in the better lighting. The similarity to the photograph was no less pronounced now—the resemblance to Nikolas, come to that.

  Nikolas suddenly took a sharp intake of air. “I was not aware my brother had a son. This is something of a…surprise.”

  Ben felt like laughing. Surprise? That was one way of putting it.

  The boy nodded. “I only found out about my real father a few weeks ago. My mother never told me about him. When she died I was given—”

  “Your mother is dead?”

  “Yes. Two weeks ago. I’m sorry; did you know her? She never mentioned anything about—”

  “I met her very briefly actually last summer. Before that I had no idea about my brother’s life. We were not close. How did she die?”

  The tension in Nikolas’s voice was evident then to Ben. He doubted this guest would notice, but he did. He knew all of Nikolas’s inflections and this one screamed Kate again at him.

  “Cancer. She had breast cancer.”

  Ben had the sudden and very sad image of a beautiful woman with an obvious wig—obvious even to him, and he didn’t give women’s hair as much consideration as other men his age might. Kristina had been so thin, so…fragile. He felt a little sorry for her now, angry with himself for being jealous of her.

  If Nikolas’s thoughts were whirling and assessing, too, there was no manifestation of anything other than mild regret in his tone when he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. She was only forty-two. It’s too young to…When I was sorting her estate, I was given all the papers she’d put together about my father, his family—I didn’t know she’d met you just before she died. She didn’t mention it. Perhaps that prompted her to gather all that together for me though. She was researching my father’s death mainly, and you were mentioned as being there…I mean…a witness.”

  “I was mentioned? You thought you would…seek me out?”

  “Well, yes. When I discovered you were in London. My father’s identical twin. It’s incredible.”

  “Yes, isn’t it.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “No. I hardly knew him. We had very little contact after he went to live in Russia with our father. We were…oh, perhaps ten?”

  The boy pursed his lips. “Oh. I thought you both went to Russia. And you were at school together.”

  Nikolas waved his hand in dismissal, a gesture Ben had seen better executed, another sign that Nikolas wasn’t taking this unexpected arrival as calmly as he appeared to be. “We were in entirely different classes, and I went home to Denmark for the holidays. Very little contact. I can tell you almost nothing about him. You said your name was—?”

  “Steven. Sky. My mother’s family name was Aronofsky and she called me Stefan, but I’ve…you know, school, easier to pronounce.”

  “Yes. Easier. Stefan is a nice name though.”

  “Well, I actually go by Stevie. Stevie Sky. Maybe you’ve read some—? No? I’m a writer.”

  Ben frowned trying to work this out. How old was Stefan? Steven…

  So far, he’d gone unobserved between the mutual blond staring, but now his expression and slight lean back caught Steven’s attention. He turned to Ben with raised brows, but when Ben didn’t fall for the very Nikolas-like tactic, Steven had to ask, “Sorry, I didn’t catch your…You are…?”

  Ben didn’t think it was any of this interloper’s business who he was, but he needn’t have worried. Nikolas replied for him very swiftly. “Ben Rider. He’s my media spokesman. I run a private charity.” Nikolas pushed off the counter and put his back to them, ostensibly switching on the kettle. “What sort of books do you write, Stefan?”

  “I’m—I started a course in film production and scriptwriting, but I kinda found it…I’m a blogger at the moment. I haven’t actually written a book yet…or I have, I just haven’t got it published, but I’m hoping this new one will be my breakthrough.”

  Ben wanted to ask, he really did, but he was still sifting through the fact he was Nikolas’s media spokesman. Would a media spokesman speak? Would a media spokesman take any part at all in this bizarre situation? Perhaps a media spokesman would just stand up, tell his boss to fuck off, and leave. One called Ben Rider might.

  Engrossed in imagining this happening—seeing Nikolas’s face—he only caught the tail end of Steven’s reply to something Nikolas had apparently asked him. “…good story. She’s coming back into vogue.”

  Nikolas had turned and was considering Steven. Ben flicked his gaze between them, awed still by the similarities. “What? Who?”

  Nikolas clarified for Ben, never taking his eyes off his doppelganger. “Stefan is writing a book about my mother, apparently.”

  “Nina?” Fatuous, but Ben reckoned he was allowed a sliver of inanity, given the circumstances. It wasn’t every day you got to meet a dead child. Nikolas only nodded in response: yes, that mother.

  Steven was more vocal. “My mother left all these papers—that’s how I found out about you, Un—”

  “Nikolas. Just call me Nikolas.”

  Ben resisted the urge to wince as Nikolas said this. Perhaps it was the wine he’d drunk too quickly, but he was beginning to feel light-headed. Even though he’d been dismissed as nothing more than a colleague, Ben suddenly had the overwhelming need to go up to Nikolas and hug him. How the fuck was Nikolas staying on his feet?

  He’d just met the son he’d thought was dead.

  He’d just discovered he was a father.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  If Steven Sky—Stevie Sky—thought he was going to be welcomed into the fold, embraced, and offered
a bed for the night, he was sadly deluded, Ben reflected.

  Nikolas made his excuses, claiming pressure of work—early morning meetings—and ushered Steven to the door.

  Whether he promised to meet again with Steven some other time, Ben didn’t catch. He did hear the solid click as the door closed then the silence. He could actually sense Nikolas thinking, but unfortunately not the actual result of those thoughts.

  He got up and finished making the tea, which Nikolas had feigned doing during his conversation with his…son.

  By the time Nikolas came in, Ben had two mugs on the table. The hot liquid sloshed as Nikolas sat too heavily in the chair opposite. He was as pale as he’d been when he’d lost blood once on a mountain in New Zealand. Ben pushed an offering of sweetened tea toward him.

  When Nikolas took a sip, he flinched and suddenly seemed to come back to himself. Ben had sugared it—liberally.

  Nothing more was forthcoming after this instinctive reaction, however. Ben waited patiently. Nikolas’s eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones as he pondered something on the table, or possibly a great deal further away. Ben sighed inwardly.

  “I’m glad I didn’t stay at the dinner night.”

  No response.

  “Or you’d have been on your own when he got here.”

  Nikolas lifted his eyes to the window, as if he could see through the blind to the street beyond.

  “Who knows what might have happened.”

  Nikolas’s gaze travelled to Ben for a tiny moment before returning to its place on the blind.

  “You might have embraced him as your long-lost son.”

  Nikolas took a long breath and focused more fully on Ben. “I was not prepared for this.” There was some awareness in Nikolas’s eyes, as if he had a desire to tell Ben more. I wasn’t prepared for this because I’d been planning for…But if he’d been about to confess something to Ben, he stopped and only added, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell him we were…”