Darkness Bound (37 page)

Did he have anything to do with your disappearance?

“Jack?”

She looked up to find Nola staring at her in obvious concern. “Your face is as white as a sheet. What’s going on?”

I don’t know what’s real anymore
, she wanted to say.
I think I don’t know anything at all.

But instead she said, “Just . . . just nervous. I’ll be fine. This is all . . . it’s all just a little overwhelming.” She stood, gripping the edge of the table for support, and offered Nola a shaky smile, which didn’t appear to convince her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, lowered her head, and said in her most lawyerly, intimidating way, “Jack. What’s. Going.
On
?”

Jack said, “Nola . . . have you ever been in love?”

“That’s it,” she said flatly. “We’re cancelling this press conference.” She pulled a cell phone from her jacket pocket.

“No, wait, no!”

Nola cocked a brow at her, waiting.

Jack began to pace back and forth over the kitchen floor, wringing her hands, knowing she had to give Nola something good—something convincing—or else she absolutely would cancel the press conference, which Jack didn’t want to happen. She wanted to get this over with, as soon as possible, and move on with her so-called life.

“It’s just driving me crazy, this . . .
not knowing
. And it’s not only my father, my mother, my childhood, it’s . . .” she swung around and stared at her friend, her anguish like a gnawing thing inside her. “It’s that I think I might have forgotten the most important thing I ever knew.”

“Which is?”

Jack’s face crumpled. She said, “Love.”

For a long, silent moment, Nola studied her face. Then she looked at her watch. She crossed to the cabinets, took out two glasses, crossed to the other counter, and filled the glasses with a shot from the bottle of Patrón that Jack’s neighbor, Mr. Flores, had given Jack when she came home. Nola, handed Jack a glass, and raised her own in a toast.

“The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.”

“That’s a good toast,” Jack said, her voice weak.

“Nietzsche. Drink up.”

Jack did. When she finished, Nola set the glasses on the counter. She turned back to Jack and said, “I don’t know what happened to you, and maybe you don’t either. And even though I’ve spent my life in pursuit of logical things, rational things, things that are concrete, and can be measured, I know deep down that nothing worth knowing can be grasped with the rational mind.” She touched Jack’s chest. “Everything you need to know is in here. Just trust that, no matter what happens.”

She stared at her friend, her eyes welling with tears. “Damn. You’re smart.”

“Of course I’m smart. I’m an attorney. We’re the smartest people in the world. Just ask us.” She gave Jack a swift, hard hug, then released her.

“All right, kiddo, let’s get this show on the road.”

Jack exhaled, nodding. Then she grabbed her handbag from the counter, and, with one final deep breath, followed Nola out the door.

Jack knew the press conference would be bad. She was expecting bad.

What she wasn’t expecting was a riot.

The New York Times Building was a massive skyscraper in the heart of midtown, built only a few years prior, a masterpiece of contemporary design with 1.6 million square feet of retail and office space. It also sported a 400-seat auditorium that was annexed to the lobby, complete with a stunning view of a glassed-in aspen grove and moss garden, open to the sky.

It was in front of the lovely garden view, on a riser in the auditorium, that Jack was scheduled to speak.

Her first clue that something was amiss was the traffic being redirected off forty-first Street. The limousine she and Nola were riding in, however, was waved through the line of orange cones and barricades by a white-gloved traffic cop, who closely examined the
Times
pass on the dashboard, then nodded at the driver.

After
attempting to peer through the windshield into the back seat to get a look at Jack.

Too bad for him, the tinted divider window between the driver’s seat and the back seats was up. Sitting beside her, Nola took her hand, muttering, “This should be interesting.”

It was when the car pulled to a stop at the curb outside the main lobby entrance that Jack understood the reality of the situation.

“You can’t be serious.” She recoiled in horror as a flock of reporters with cameras and microphones surrounded the car, shouting and jostling, clamoring over each other to get close. There were no fewer than six television news vans parked along the curb, their satellite dishes sprung in the air like mushrooms, and a crowd of pedestrians and onlookers had gathered beyond the cordoned-off entrance to the building.

Nola sent her a sympathetic glance. “I know you haven’t been watching TV, but, sweetie, you’re the chum in the shark tank at the moment.”

Jack made a small, choked noise in her throat.

“Veteran reporter, Pulitzer nominee, notorious for all her anti-Shifter rhetoric, vanishes without a trace from New York then reappears from the Amazon jungle weeks later without a scratch . . . think about it.”

Jack closed her eyes and tried not to hyperventilate.

Nola added, “And it doesn’t help that you’re young and pretty and Ivy League . . . and regarded as kind of a bitch.”

Jack moaned and slumped farther down in the seat, hiding behind her hands.

“Hey.” Nola pried Jack’s hands from her face and stared into her eyes. “We bitches have to stick together, okay? Maybe we’ll form a union,” she joked.

Another random memory popped into Jack’s head.

The bitch is back, remember?

She’d been talking to Hawk. Yelling at him, actually. What about? When?

Nola was carefully watching her face. “Jack. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to tell anyone anything.”

Just tell them the truth. Whatever you remember. I know you’ll be fair.

Jack’s hands were shaking. She stared down at them, feeling on the verge of something vast and black and inescapable, a worm hole about to suck her straight into oblivion. Was she losing her mind? Is that what had happened to her out there in the jungle? She’d lost all semblance of sanity?

“No . . . I . . . I have something I want to say. Something that needs to be heard.”

Nola sighed. Gazing at the crowd out the window she said, “Okay. But afterward you might want to get on the next flight to Canada.”

Or Antarctica
, Jack thought, bracing herself for the onslaught as the limousine driver got out to open her door.

It’s funny how the sound of a camera shutter shooting rapid-fire can sound completely innocent or like a machine gun, depending on where you’re standing.

That was one of two dozen haphazard thoughts crossing Jack’s mind as Nola, acting as defense, guided her by the arm through the crowd of reporters who were shouting questions and shoving microphones in her face.

Their attention felt carnivorous. She kept her head down, concentrating on getting inside as quickly as possible without being mauled.

Security rescued them as soon as they were inside the glass lobby doors. Surrounded by a team of uniformed men, burly and formidable enough to get the most aggressive of the reporters to back off, they made their way in a tight knot toward the amphitheater and were ushered into a small antechamber adjacent to the main room. It was calmer there, quieter, but Jack’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might claw its way right out of her chest.

Security left, and then it was just Nola and Jack in the room. She flattened her back against the closed door, panting.

“Where’s Ed?” she asked Nola, lifting a shaking hand to her forehead. “I thought he’d be here already.”

“He is. He’s out front, holding court with the mob. You didn’t see him on his soapbox?”

She should have known her boss would be front and center of this madhouse. Ed O’Malley, Executive Editor, was an old-school, tough-as-nails journalist who closely resembled a circus ringleader both in appearance and personality. He thrived on this kind of chaos.

Nola checked her watch. “Ten minutes, babe. Can I get you anything? Water? Advil? Cyanide?”

Jack smiled weakly at her joke and pushed away from the door. “Maybe just a few minutes alone.”

Nola squeezed her arm, understanding as she always had that Jack needed solitude like other people needed air.

“Okay. I’ll be right on the other side of that door. I’ll knock when it’s time, if Ed hasn’t come to get you yet.” Nola blew her a kiss, and left through another door that opened directly to the amphitheater. The murmuring of the gathered crowd swelled, then disappeared once the door swung shut.

A carafe of water stood on a small side table in the corner. Jack set her handbag down, then poured herself a glass, wishing instead for another shot of Patrón. She guzzled it, then lowered herself into an uncomfortable plastic chair to wait.

The sound of the clock ticking on the wall grew louder and louder, until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She leapt to her feet and began to pace.

Someone rapped sharply on the door. She jumped, nerves screaming, then crossed the room. She reached for the knob but before she could grab it, the door swung open forcefully, slamming Jack right in the face.

Fireworks exploded behind her eyes. Pain sliced through her head. The room tilted, narrowed, and went black.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on her back on the floor, blinking up into Ed O’Malley’s florid, worried face.

“Dolan!
Dolan
! Are you all right?”

Warped and echoing, his voice sounded as if it were broadcast from underwater. There was a watery aspect to his face, too, and the room behind him, everything wavering and slipping, the colors faint and blurred.

Crouching beside her, Ed helped her sit up. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, shook it out, and pressed it against her face. “Jesus, Dolan, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Is your nose broken? How d’you feel, darlin’; talk to me!”

Dazed, Jack was unable to speak. Her eyes couldn’t focus. Her brain was fuzzy, her thoughts amorphous as smoke. Beyond the ringing in her ears and the throbbing in her nose, she remembered she was in the New York Times Building. She remembered she was here for a press conference. She remembered . . .

“Oh God,” Jack breathed, going ice cold.

She remembered everything.

Like a sharp kick that shakes the fruit from a tree, the blow to her head had knocked all the stuck memories loose. They flooded her, mercilessly lashing her with sound and color and scent and taste. Everything she’d forgotten came back in one huge fireball of recall, exploding in her brain like a supernova.

Her father.

Her mother.

Her brother.

Her childhood.

The article.

The pictures.

The lost weeks . . .

Hawk.

She burst into body-wracking sobs and collapsed into Ed’s arms.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered, patting her on the back. “I’m glad I never saw you cry before this, Dolan. It’s downright disturbin’. You never would’ve got that last promotion.”

Nola arrived and started barking at Ed like a rabid dog. “What the hell did you do to her? Did you break her nose? There’s so much blood!”

“I opened the door into her face.”

“What?”

“It was an accident!”

“Christ, Ed!”

“C’mon, help me get her to her feet. There’s a restroom in there.” He jerked his head to another door on the opposite side of the room. “Get her cleaned up, let me know if you need me to call an ambulance. Otherwise the limo can take her to the emergency room. I’ll reschedule the press conference—”

“No!” Jack choked between sobs. “We’re having the goddamn press conference!”

“Dolan, you can’t go on television lookin’ like you went twelve rounds with Mayweather!” Ed slung an arm around her waist, Nola took the other side, and they lifted her as she held onto their shoulders. She wobbled a moment, then shook her head to clear it, and wrenched herself out of their arms.

“Five minutes!” she cried, hysterical. “Don’t cancel it!”

Nola and Ed exchanged a glance, but didn’t contradict her. They’d seen her in this mode too many times, knew it was useless to try to talk her out of something once she had her mind made up. She knew she had to pull herself together, however, or Ed would never let her go in front of the cameras, no matter how vehemently she argued she could.

She stumbled to the restroom, locked the door behind her, crossed to the enamel sink, and sagged against it, breathing as if she’d run a sprint. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, at her bloody face and haunted eyes, thinking one word over and over again.

Hawk
.

She lowered her head and closed her eyes. Blood from her nose dripped with a soft, regular
plash
into the sink.

She
did
love him. He was the man she loved, the only man she’d ever loved, and she’d left him behind in a jungle on another continent, with no way to contact him, no way to let him know she remembered everything, including
them
.

Especially them.

She suddenly realized he’d been relieved she didn’t remember her past because he’d rather have her forget him than remember all the pain, all the sickness she’d forgotten. Even though it must have killed him to have her forget, he preferred that than seeing her in pain.

That seemed like the most beautiful and the most awful thing in the world.

Shaking violently, she turned on the faucet, splashed water onto her hot face. She washed away the blood, feeling for a break in her nose but not finding one, not that it mattered if she did; she didn’t give a damn how she looked. Suddenly all she cared about was an enchanted man who lived in a rainforest thousands of miles away with his enchanted rainforest family, hiding from the rest of the world.

Hiding because of people like her. People like she’d once been. People full of so much anger and hate even their ignorance had a hard time carving out space for itself.

Jack pinched her nostrils between two fingers and ripped a wad of paper towels from the wall dispenser. When the blood flow stopped, she tossed the towels into the trash, then slowly removed her jacket, slung it over the top of the toilet stall, and unbuttoned her shirt.

She turned around and looked over her shoulder.

Pink and white and distinct, the raised welts stared back at her almost accusingly, every ripple and pucker blatant evidence of all she had lost and gained and lost again, that fragile, magical
hope
that had filled her full to bursting in those lazy, loving hours in Hawk’s arms. He’d given her hope, and so much more. He’d given her a dream so huge it was at once terrible and beautiful, a thing so precious and bright it outshone all the horror and hopelessness of her life.

Peace. He’d given her a taste of peace, and she thought that even one small sip was a gift of immeasurable value, because at any moment in the long years that would come, she could remember that feeling. She could take it out and hold it in her hands and cherish it, and remind herself that once, however fleetingly, she had been loved.

Jack re-buttoned her shirt, her fingers trembling, a roar like a thousand wing beats in her ears. She donned her jacket, wiped away the rest of her tears, smoothed her hands over her hair, and stood there for a moment longer, looking at herself in the mirror.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Jack whispered hoarsely to her reflection.

Just tell them the truth. Whatever you remember. I know you’ll be fair.

The truth.

She nodded, hearing Jenna’s ghost-like voice in her head. “All right then, dragon lady. Fuck it. That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Then she turned away from the mirror, withdrew her prepared speech from her jacket pocket, tore the sheets of paper in two and threw them in the trash, and went out to meet the press.

“Hawk!”

Someone was calling his name, but Hawk couldn’t be bothered to find out who, or why. He couldn’t be bothered with much of anything at all, as he’d determined he was going to spend the rest of his life right here in this room, on this bed, staring up at this ceiling, while the world and everything in it passed him by until one day he’d die and be done with it all.