Who Knows the Dark (6 page)

Lights out.

Stay in your room.

Keep the door locked.

Cell phone at his side.

Windows covered in heavy drapes.

Some of his schoolmates mention siblings and mothers or other fathers; his Spanish teacher had them discuss grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins for two days last week. Sam pretended to be sick so he didn’t have to say, “What are those?”

T
HE
WEATHER
became progressively worse as the day wore on. The captain sent everyone belowdecks while the crew scurried about above them, boots slamming over their heads, as if to add echo and weight to the sense of emergency. Cade’s stomach had years of experience on fishing boats with his family on vacations, but the others weren’t faring so well; Rachel was the worst, pale and shaking as she lay on the bottom bunk of the tiny bedroom she’d chosen. Damian volunteered to babysit her—Cade assumed that was less out of the pureness of his heart and more that he didn’t want to be in the same room as Nox.

Not that he blamed him.

Cade left a few bottles of water and extra towels with Damian, then walked carefully down the hallway to the kitchen. Even steady sea legs couldn’t keep him from being tossed from wall to wall as the ocean raged around them.

Sam and Mason were tucked in for the night; he’d checked on them first. They’d given up the pretense of Mason as bodyguard, and now they slept with Sam curled up on Mason’s chest, the blankets tucked around them tightly.

Cade felt a weird pang under his ribs when he saw them, their faces utterly content in the thin light from the hallway. If he had to put a name to it, it was probably jealousy moving over his mood in waves.

Back in the galley, at the kitchen table, sat Nox, cleaning his knife and looking slightly green around the edges. Cade observed the tightly coiled body under the mismatched clothing and felt his own growing realization. Nothing about his feelings made sense; quiet and safety were not possible with this man. There would always be danger and stress if he stayed on this ride. He wouldn’t get rich or even find that sweet spot where you didn’t have to struggle or scrape.

There was no way back, and the future was a hazy shade of confusion. The smart move was to walk away.

“Been a while since you were yachting?” Cade asked, startling Nox.

Nox gave him a strange look. “A few times on the Staten Island ferry when I was a kid. We took a class trip I think,” he said absently, running the cloth around the heavy blade and curved handle, half worshipful and half ritual.

“You want something to eat?” Cade fidgeted, braced against the countertop.

Nox shook his head, gaze back to his knife. “Not a good idea.”

“I shall write a strongly worded e-mail to the cruise director when we disembark,” Cade quipped before he carefully made his way to take a seat opposite Nox.

They sat in silence, or rather just not talking, because nothing was quiet in the wake of the storm. Moans and squeals, the crash of waves, shouts from above deck as they rocked and shook, rising and falling at the mercy of the water.

There was a metaphor in there, but Cade’s brain refused to let him poke at it. He laid his head on his folded arms, watching Nox—in need of a shave, a haircut, and possibly twenty years of therapy—and tried to come up with words to explain this man to his family.

Deliver an impassioned speech on his feelings; share exactly why this man was the first he’d brought home to meet them, this man so difficult to explain. What were they to each other, exactly?

Good question.

The yacht gave up a mighty groan, listing to the right suddenly and violently, throwing Cade across the floor.

“Shit,” Nox said above him. Dazed, Cade felt a strong hand grip his jeans at the waistband, then was yanked to his feet. “Go to Sam’s room.”

Cade didn’t hesitate or argue. Bruised hands in front of him, he grabbed on to bolted-down furniture, then the walls in the hallway, falling twice before he reached Sam’s door.

N
OX
HAD
just enough time to pocket the knife before the boat reversed its dramatic lean. He slipped and hit the wall violently, bruising his shoulder as he tried to grab something, anything to keep from falling. Something in the distance crashed to the floor—he heard everything behind the cabinet doors straining to get out.

It felt like one more wave would rip the yacht apart.

Above deck he could do nothing, but the almost animalistic desire to get out drove him to desperation. Trapped—they were going to die when the hull cracked open and the water rushed in….

Nox gulped back the terror, swamped by the sense memory of cold, dank water and his baby brother tucked into his jacket.

“Nox! Nox!” He heard his name screamed, his eyes opening when he didn’t remember closing them.

Cade’s terrified face greeted him from across the room; he clung to the doorframe, white-knuckled. The lights flickered then died, and Nox made his decision—he pushed up, then threw himself toward where Cade stood precariously, one hand reaching for him.

Nox grabbed Cade’s hand as the emergency lights lit up the darkness.

Interlude

J
ENNY
’
S
HANDS
don’t shake because she is a professional and she’s going to live through this nightmare.

Period.

She knows Nox is just looking to make a break for it, and part of her wants to say “fine, fuck you, good luck with that” before sailing away on the ferry. But he’s insurance if things don’t go as she planned.

The papers, tucked into a sealed plastic bag, press against her back.

There’s also the fact that he’s a teenager and that new little baby isn’t going to last long with just him.

Jenny wishes she didn’t give a shit about that baby.

A phantom ache makes her momentarily sick to her stomach; she refocuses on the next step. Get onto the ferry, get them the fuck out of this hellhole.

She pays the conductor a wad of bills, flashes her big eyes in his direction until he directs her to the little huddle of people off to the side of the loading entrance. His own personal moneymaking collective.

“Let me get my brother,” she yells over the din of hysterical, and nonpaying, New Yorkers, all scrambling to fit on the ferry. The man—distracted by some pushing and shoving—nods.

Jenny turns to where she left Nox; when their eyes meet, she sees he’s going to bolt. It’s written across his stupid, determined face, the way he clutches the baby close to his chest. She takes a step in his direction, the entire moment freezing down to their locked gazes.

You idiot
, she thinks.
You fucking idiot, you have no idea
.

Nox’s chin goes up as he begins to step backward, bumping into the throngs of terrified sheep.

It’s more ego than anything else that moves her feet, but she only makes it a few steps before things go crazy.

The National Guard—who have been not so patiently herding people into a line—suddenly spring into action. Floodlights drown the area, blinding everyone. People shout and shove as someone comes over the loudspeaker and directs them to move quickly.

Everything escalates. Jenny gets picked up by the swelling crowd and tossed among the crying and screaming New Yorkers as they struggle to move. Furious, she throws elbows, trying to get free.

She ends up on the boat.

Nox is out of sight, lost in the sea of humanity. Jenny falls to the deck, her will to live and quick reflexes the only reasons she doesn’t get trampled.

They aren’t even fully loaded as the ferry begins to move away. Shrieks accompany the roar of the engines, the lurch of the boat on the violent waves. Jenny scrambles to the edge of the deck, pressing against the handrail in a desperate attempt to stand up. The boat lifts and then crashes, throwing passengers every which way. She hears bodies hitting the water.

Holding on for dear life, she hears a violent crash and gunshots before everything lurches
one last time
.

R
ACHEL
HUDDLED
on the floor of the largest stateroom, a blanket wrapped around her as she shivered in fear. Cade had come to get her after the lights went out and had brought her into the large cabin where Sam was recuperating. And now they were all braced in the room, waiting to ride out the storm or drown—whichever came first.

She couldn’t begin to give a shit about anything but her own bitter irony that she was going to die at the hands of the ocean after all.

“I didn’t pull myself out of the fucking water to have this happen,” she muttered, forehead to her knees as another groan of the yacht sounded like the closest to a death knell that they’d heard so far. “I didn’t survive for… this.”

“Rachel?” Cade’s voice cut through the darkness, the weak beam of a flashlight reaching her corner.

“What?” she snapped, irritated by the heavy wetness of her voice and the very real desire to have him come over and put his arms around her.

“I’m coming over there.”

Murmurs and thumps followed, and the little light came closer until Cade collapsed next to her in a graceless heap.

Shaking, Rachel pretended she wasn’t about to cry when he wound an arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight against his side.

“Shouldn’t you be with your boyfriend?” Rachel murmured, tucking in close against him.

“He’s not a cuddler, even in the face of death,” Cade said lightly. She could feel his tremors, far deeper than just the teeth-rattling movements of the boat. “Damian’s praying in the other room—I didn’t want to interrupt, and a threesome with Sam and Mason on the bed seemed a bit excessive as a last hurrah.” He had a death-grip hold on her. “So this is shitty.”

“I fucking hate boats,” she whispered. “I hate the ocean. I hate this entire fucking life.”

“Agreed.”

Rachel grasped a fistful of Cade’s shirt; the dark made it easier to reach out for a human touch, to be vulnerable. And since they were probably going to die in the next hour or so, why the fuck not?

Something crashed outside the door, causing them both to jump. There was a bit of commotion on the other side of the room; Cade shone his flashlight in its direction.

Nox, gun drawn, was up, Mason a few steps behind.

“You can’t shoot a storm,” Cade yelled, but they ignored him. “What the hell?”

“Someone’s down here,” Nox said, then snapped his fingers at Cade. “Shut off the light.”

Sam’s ragged cough began as Cade turned off the flashlight. Drowning suddenly felt secondary to whatever Nox and Mason were reacting to on the other side of the door.

The sudden blast of gunshots made Rachel dive for the floor, unhanding Cade as she fell onto her stomach, shielded by the bed. But there were no flashes in the bedroom, no smell of a discharge.

The sound was coming from outside.

C
ADE
MOVED
on instinct as Rachel hit the floor. He crawled to the bed and felt around frantically until he grabbed Sam’s leg. Sam slid over the side and into his arms just as the sound of the door being wrenched open filled the room.

Shouts. More gunfire, this time closer but still outside the room. Sam was heaving for breath next to him. Cade tamped down his own surge of fear and wrapped an arm around Sam’s middle to hold him close.

“Clear!” Mason yelled as the gunfire stopped abruptly.

“Cade!” That was Nox.

He raised his head enough to call back. “We’re fine. I got Sam.”

No response came. Cade heard men’s voices, the thump of something hitting the floor, and then another thump—bodies, probably dead bodies, because, oh God, he knew what that sounded like. A wave of nausea overwhelmed him.

“What should we do?” Sam whispered nervously, snapping Cade back to the moment and away from the specter of Billy, dead on the floor.

“Just stay here till your dad comes back,” Cade answered, pushing up onto his hands and knees. “Stay down, okay?”

“Take your own advice,” Rachel bitched, still flat on the floor on the other side of Sam.

“It’s fine. They yelled clear.”

You’re an idiot
, his brain said.

He didn’t dare turn on the flashlight, unsure that the danger had passed. More thumps and crashes sounded, farther away from the stateroom. Cade peeked over the top of the bed, but in the darkness he couldn’t make out anything clearly. Mason and Nox were presumably in the main living area of the yacht; Rachel and Sam were curled up next to him—

Damian.

“Damian!” Cade whispered loudly, crawling around the foot of the bed. “Damian?”

“Here” came a weak whisper from somewhere outside the stateroom.

“Are you okay?” Cade got as close as he dared, the smell of gun discharge strong—and the stink of blood familiar. Swallowing, he ducked his head around just enough to catch the outline of Damian tucked up against the wall.

“Yeah, yeah.” His shaky voice hitched and squeaked. He sounded like Cade’s insides felt. “I’m fine.”

“Come in here. Go stay with Sam and Rachel, okay?”

The scent of fear was ripe, as was the metallic tang to the air; Damian inched over him, then crawled back around the bed. Cade waited a moment until he heard Rachel’s and Sam’s whispers and Damian responding. He took a second to ground himself in courage before he followed the sounds of men’s voices down the hallway.