Chapter 1
Malachi
There never was any disputing her beauty.
Even now, as she lays out on this slab of steel, Faith Jones is a picture of splendour.
Porcelain skin. Long lashes. Timeless elegance. Dead.
But, I suppose, pretty.
I gaze at the pale skin, tracing the contours of her flesh under the white sheet, and then strip the covering from her naked form. It tumbles to the floor, like a shroud gently fluttering in the wind. Dead. Perhaps I should feel maudlin about that, or deflated, or perhaps even mournful. I don’t. Not one element of grief or misery is touching parts of a soul that should feel regret and heartache. I am, as I always have been regarding my wife – bored. Not to death this time, though.
Not today.
The only thing I’m mourning is the loss of someone other than my wife.
And that is eating me up inside.
My gaze falls on the wedding band, and on the trapeze cut, diamond engagement ring next to it. I didn’t pick it. She did. My offering, on bended knee, wasn’t enough. “A sapphire?” she questioned. Not a sapphire. A blue cut diamond. I thought it matched her eyes. Not enough, though. Not sparkly enough. Or big enough. So instead she chose for herself, making sure the world knew how much she was worth – how much I was worth. I suppose that was always her goal, and, if nothing else, I always respected that tenacity.
A game. We must have always been that to her. No true love. No real connection other than a friendship born of insidious natures. We were matched that way apart from one small element; I did love her in the beginning. Long ago perhaps, but it was there, and I still know the feeling no matter how much I choose to ignore it. It’s here again now for someone else. Low and murmured, but here nonetheless. Or perhaps that’s just fury lying dormant in my bones now I’m attempting to tame it.
I shouldn’t. I don’t want to in reality either because I am bereft. I’m lost in countless sensations that have everything to do with cuts on skin and wildfire and sin.
Her blood. Mine.
I lean on the wall, thinking, and watch the lifeless body doing nothing. I know that place she’s in. I’ve lived it, rested in it. I doubt she’s happy there. Faith didn’t want death, but I never was sure what she did want out of life. Breeding certainly wasn’t part of her plan. Mine either.
And so what was there – what is there?
The door opens slowly and Gray walks in quietly. He stands opposite me on the other wall, less than interested in Faith's body. I don’t blame him for that. I’m barely interested myself, other than needing to understand something in my guts.
Alice.
She’s calling me, making me consider love again.
And she did this for me. No matter how fucked up she was at the time.
“What do you want me to do with her?” Gray asks.
“Let the wolves in.”
“Not an option. This is Faith Jones we’re looking at. Malachi Jones’ wife. There will have to be some sort of funeral.”
I sigh. “Hmm.” I walk towards the door, not bothering to cover the bitch back up, and listen as he does it for me. “And I’ll have to walk alongside her coffin and show grief, I suppose.”
“I didn’t for mine,” he says, ambling behind me.
We both walk into the main hall, and I look around the empty space. “Who is the chief coroner in Manhattan?”
“Not sure, but they all bend for money. I’m sure this will be easy enough to deal with.” Probably. “How did she die?”
“Accident.”
“What sort?”
“In this weather? Here? Skiing.”
