I Am the Wild (The Night Firm Book 1)

  I Am the Wild

  Karpov Kinrade

  http://KarpovKinrade.com

  Copyright © 2019 Karpov Kinrade

  Cover Art Copyright © 2019 Karpov Kinrade

  Edited by Joseph Nassise

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  Published by Daring Books

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  First Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-1-939559-53-1

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  eBook License Notes

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  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

  Created with Vellum

  To Neil.

  My brother.

  My best friend.

  You called me your North Star.

  But I couldn’t guide you home.

  I hope you’ve found peace.

  ~Lux ;

  Contents

  Preface

  1. The Wanted Ad

  2. The Interview

  3. The Offer

  4. The Drive

  5. The Night Estate

  6. The Night Brothers

  7. The Guest

  8. The Legend

  9. The Impaler

  10. The Morgue

  11. The Crime Scene

  12. The Confrontation

  13. The Ex

  14. The Graphologist

  15. The Courthouse

  16. The Pain

  17. The Wild

  18. The Fire

  19. The Oath

  Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Karpov Kinrade

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  A poem by Neil Stevens, Lux’s little brother who died by suicide July 13, 2018.

  Our Memories Are

  Like dancing waters in my soul

  Like a diamond emerging from a coal

  Like hope ere endless flames of pain

  Like graceful dances in the rain

  Like somber music played in C

  Like a distant, alternate vision of me

  Like a dream yet fading beyond the mind

  Like colors seen by one once blind

  Like a conflagration of all profound

  Like the ringing of a precious sound

  Like lies that tax and take their toll

  Like dancing waters in my soul

  The Wanted Ad

  Being a candle is not easy; in order to give light, one must first burn. ~ Rumi

  Underwater, the world doesn't feel like itself anymore. It becomes more like a gateway to another reality. It's an in-between place, water. Same with air. And dreams. They are all in-between places where so much possibility lives.

  I often get my best flashes in the water. Some would call them premonitions, but they aren't nearly that defined. It's more of an impulse that has a slight tingle to it. The kind I've learned to listen to.

  It's what lead me to turn right instead of left on my way home yesterday, which took me past a homeless person who I gave change to, who then gave me their newspaper as a thank you, which had a strange advertisement for a job, which resulted in a job interview today.

  It read:

  Assistant needed for unique firm.

  Must be willing to work at night, travel, and live on site.

  Strong stomach a perk.

  Compensation generous. Will train.

  If you're reading this, you're the person we're looking for.

  It listed a number but no name. When I called, a woman answered the phone with a chipper, "The Night Firm, how may I direct your call?"

  I told her I was calling about an ad in the newspaper for a job. She paused. Became very quiet for a moment, and then said, "Please hold," with less chipperness than before.

  When she returned, her voice was nearly robotic. "Be at 333 Alley Lane at 10 p.m. tomorrow," she said, before promptly and unceremoniously hanging up on me!

  I sat staring at my phone for several minutes, unsure of what just happened or what I should do.

  A quick Google search for The Night Firm revealed only skin care creams and a questionable website that showed women bent over with minimal clothing. I instantly decided I wasn't going to go. It was stupid, possibly dangerous, and surely not worth it.

  But then I set my phone down and wandered my two-bedroom apartment, with the secondhand mismatched furniture that smelled like cigarettes and body odor, the carpet that hailed from another epoch, and the couple above who I'm certain are professional dancers who also like to breathe loudly during sex, and I changed my mind. Rather, my flash changed my mind. I got the tingly feeling, and I knew I had to go.

  So here I am, applying one more coat of mascara before heading out the door in a suit I can't afford and will be returning first thing tomorrow, in hopes of landing the most mysterious job ever.

  How do you dress when you have no idea what the job is that you're applying for or anything about the company? I figured it would be better to be professionally overdressed than under, thus the blue Prada suit. The woman at the store insisted I wear it, despite my objection that the feather cuffs were a bit much. She assured me it was all the rage and I must confess I do look rather striking in it. My dark hair is pulled into a French twist and I accented my blue eyes with a charcoal powder. Red lips provide the finishing touch.

  They can't possibly judge me for my choice of presentation when they didn't give me any hints as to what they are about.

  With one last glance in the mirror and a fake smile that I hope looks sincere, confident and competent, I turn off the light in the bathroom and grab my well-worn leather bag as I head to the front door.

  I don't open his door this time as I pass it, though I do run my hand over the knob briefly, even as my mind unpacks the memories stored there. Memories of before. Memories of us. Always us. "It's us against the world, Evie," he'd always say, his blue eyes, so alike to mine, peering straight into my soul in a way no one else could. My hand lingers a moment longer, then slips off, and I tuck the memories back into their mental box and shove them away.

  I'm clearly not over it. Not ready to entirely move on. Still, there's some progress. I think even Jerry—my former therapist—would agree.

  Former because we ended up sleeping together and it took me longer than it should to realize how unhealthy that was. He took advantage of me during a low point in my life, and I let him, because I was in too much pain to say no to something that looked enough like love.

  His true colors bled into our relationship slowly and by then it was too late. I was already under his thumb.

  I don't even cry every night anymore. Not about my brother and not about my therapist/love/ex/asshole.

  But when my phone bings, the familiar panic sends a surge of unneeded adrenaline through my bloodstream and my heart quickens as I swallow back bile.

  Because I know it's Jerry.

  And I'm not wrong.

  I'd love to be wrong. Just once.

  Please, babe. G
ive me another chance. We're perfect together. I love you. Isn't that enough?

  I squeeze away the tears forming in my eyes as I look around for something to anchor me to the present moment. The silver door knob. The Ansel Adams print hanging in the hall. The spider crawling in the corner of the ceiling. I breathe in. Breathe out. In through the nose for two counts, out through the mouth four counts. I am safe. Whole. One with all. I am safe. Whole. One with all.

  As my body settles and my mind calms, I continue my breathing until the panic abates.

  It's getting easier to recover from these unexpected contacts. I screenshot the exchange, put it in the file I created specifically for this, and block the number. Again.

  The gesture is beginning to feel pointless. He just finds a new number. I think he's got a year's worth of burner phones for the sole purpose of harassing me daily. I've already deleted all my social media and gone dark in every way that I can. My phone number is unlisted and I change it every three months. I would move if I could, but I haven't been able to afford it since Adam died. The authorities are fairly useless. Which leaves me on my own to deal with my ex.

  So here we are.

  I drop the phone into my bag and let myself out of my apartment, which involves unlocking four separate deadbolts I insisted my landlord install for me. I take a few moments to lock up, suck in my breath, and turn to face my future.

  The subway this time of night is shockingly less crowded than I would have expected, much to my relief. Rush hour is long past, but still, New York is overcrowded at any time, day or night. Yet our train is only moderately full, mostly of people who look to be heading out for a good time or coming home from one.

  I find a seat as far from everyone else as I can, pull out my sketchbook and pencils, and look around for the perfect subject.

  I'm about to settle on a beautiful older male couple holding hands and talking quietly with their heads close together when I see him.

  My body's response to him is physical, visceral and immediate. It takes me a moment to remember how to breathe. It's as if all the oxygen has been sucked from me, and when it returns I gasp, then cough to cover up the sound.

  He hasn't noticed me—the god-like specimen across the train—and I'd like to keep it that way.

  Never have I seen someone so perfect, so symmetrical, so angular in all the right ways, so handsome but also devilishly sexy at the same time. I feel a tightening in my gut as I study him, an awakening of something dormant within, something I haven't felt in a very long time. I shove that feeling aside and focus on the art as my fingers work quickly to sketch his form.

  He's tall, maybe 6'4" or 6'5", broad shouldered, tapered waist, all wrapped in a suit that looks custom-tailored just for his body. His dark hair is wild, falls past his collar and compliments his forest green eyes, and I have to look away quickly before he catches me staring. A viral energy emanates from him and he fills the train with a kind of magic that belies his expensive suit.

  The woman to his left can't take her eyes off of him, and is practically straining to get closer even as the man she's with wraps his arms around her possessively while he shoots dark looks at the stranger. Two college girls give up their seats to stand closer to him. Even the men respond, some with anger and fear, their bodies betraying their desire to get as far away from him as possible.

  It's not just his attractiveness or the wealth he oozes with every detail of his bearing and clothing. He doesn't look as if he belongs on a New York subway. In fact, he doesn't look as if he belongs in the beautiful but grungy city of New York at all. He looks like a photoshopped magazine cover come to life, but whether that magazine is GQ or National Geographic is hard to say.

  I watch, amazed, as some people on the train scoot away from him even as I'm fighting every instinct in me to move closer, as if he has a force field around him repelling and attracting, pushing and pulling. He's drawing me in without even knowing it. I could be invisible to him, but suddenly he's become the only thing I can focus on.

  I work almost mindlessly, letting the art and inspiration flow through me. This has always been my release, my way of connecting to the creative movements of life. I minored in art after my college boyfriend convinced me an art major wouldn't be worth the paper my degree was printed on.

  I chose a more practical route and kept my art a side hobby, a passion, a secret obsession at times.

  I don't completely regret the choice. It turns out I'm damn good at what I do. Sometimes, I even like it. Though finding joy in anything for the last few years has been hard. Even my art has been more therapy than pleasure.

  My fingers are smudged black by the time I complete the portrait. I stare at it for a moment, happy to discover I caught that undefinable energy he has, even while standing still. It's like he's always in motion, almost imperceptible, but it's there. A kind of hunger that drives him. I normally like to put stories to the people I draw on the subway, but he seems to defy my silly storytelling. He's telling his own story with every breath, every movement of his head, every glance at his overpriced watch.

  I'm completely lost in my drawing when a baritone voice in a British accent shocks me back to the present.

  "That's an incredible likeness."

  I look up and into his forest eyes—and I feel suddenly lost in sensations of the wind and earth and tall trees and wilderness. My flash is buzzing like a trapped bee in my gut. I'm flustered, which isn't like me. "Thanks," I manage to mutter, though I can't seem to pull my gaze from his.

  "You just drew this? In the last few minutes?" he asks, pushing the reluctant conversation forward as he takes the seat beside me. I move my bag to give him more room, and now our thighs are touching and I suck in air like I'll never have the option again.

  I nod in answer to his question, my jaw locked stubbornly in place. Come on, get your shit together. Stop acting like a tongue-tied teenager.

  "Yes. It's a hobby of mine while on the subway. To draw people I find interesting in some way." There. A complete sentence. We're making progress.

  His lips form a smirky little smile. "And what did you find interesting about me?"

  I manage to pull my gaze away from his to glance down at my drawing as I consider his question. Obviously he's smoking hot, but I actually see a lot of sexy men in New York, and yet they generally bore me as subjects for my work. It's not his incredible good looks that drew me in. "You seem juxtaposed against life," I say, as if that makes any sense to anyone but me.

  He raises an eyebrow. "Do tell," he says.

  Great. Okay, how to explain. "You stand out. Most people fade into the fabric of life. They are colors blended into the whole, washed out by the pulse around them. You…you don't blend in. You stand out in sharp contrast, like you don't entirely belong, or maybe you're the only one who truly does belong and everyone else is just faking it. If…if that makes any sense." My mouth is dry now and I reach desperately into my bag for my water.

  I pull it out and suck down half the contents just as our train lurches to a halt. My hands, sweaty from stress, can't maintain purchase on the plastic and it slips from my grasp. For a split second I'm aware that my entire sketchbook—and my lap—is about to take a bath it won't recover from.

  I'm about to decide that this fiasco ends any chance of me attending my job interview when the stranger next to me reaches out and catches the water bottle before it spills even a single drop.

  The movement is so fast I don't even see it. I only see the aftereffect of him holding the bottle that a fraction of a moment ago slipped from my hands.

  My eyes widen. "You have quite the reflexes," I say, taking the water back from him and slipping it into my purse after making sure the lid is secured. "Thanks."

  He nods but says nothing, just continues staring at me. "You're an unusual woman."

  I shrug. "I get that a lot."

  "Where are you headed?"

  "A job interview," I say.

  "Something in art, I hope?" he says.


  I chuckle. "No. Haven't you heard? There's no money in art."

  He frowns, but doesn't say anything, so I continue. "Business," I say. "I chose business, and that's what the interview is for. Though it's far from what I really want to be doing, to be honest."

  I have no idea why I'm telling a total stranger this, but again, here we are.

  "Don't settle," he says, "Trust me when I say you don't want to get stuck in a life you hate." His gaze settles on me, his eyes mining mine for secrets. "Hold fast to dreams, For if dreams die, Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly."

  "Hold fast to dreams," I say, finishing the poem, "For when dreams go, Life is a barren field Frozen with snow."

  He raises an eyebrow. "You know your poetry. Are you a fan of Lansgton Hughes?"

  "I actually don't read much poetry anymore," I say. "But I took a class in college and I have a good memory."

  "Better than good, I would say."

  The train slows, and I realize we're at my stop. I stand, regretting the break of contact with his thigh, and he stands with me.

  "Looks like we're both getting off here," he says.

  I nod and grab my bag, then walk through the doors with him just a step behind me. I can feel him with every movement. My own body actually seems to be orienting itself to his movements, which annoys me, so I take an extra large step to the left and let him catch up to me as we walk up the stairs and into the chill night air.