“That is a rather bold theory.”
“It seems to me that the amount of good and evil in the world remains more or less constant. If you take that view, you’ll see the criminals play their part—just as my failure has contributed to your brilliant success.”
“Are you suggesting there could be only one ‘successful’ brother between us?”
“I’m suggesting the forces of light and dark exist in a relationship of delicate balance, and that murderers appease the bloodlust of humanity. They perform a double duty: first, by expressing mankind’s desire to kill, and second, as appropriate victims of slaughter when they are brought to justice.”
“Do you believe the thirst for blood runs in all our veins?”
“When you look into your own soul, do you not find a shadowed corner that takes secret delight at the suffering of others? The Germans even have a word for it—Schadenfreude.”
Ian frowned. “I am aware of German propensities.”
A smirk spread over his brother’s face. “So you don’t believe a true, hearty Scot is capable of such corrupted desires?”
Ian gave a curt laugh. “This town alone is rife with pickpockets, thieves, and blackguards.”
“Ah! I’m not speaking of crime for profit. Surely anyone can understand that—and even a thief might have a conscience, a soft spot in his soul. I’m talking about evil for evil’s sake—that cold, hard edge of the soul that admits neither compassion nor tenderness toward one’s fellow creatures.”
“I’ll grant you some wretches have such a life—but most, I think not.”
“I think you’d find that subset of our citizenry to be larger than you imagine, Brother.” He rose to give the fire in the grate a poke. “Why, our own father—” At that moment a spark shot out from a green log, the glowing ember landing on the Persian rug. Ian leapt to his feet and stamped on it so violently that his brother stared at him.
“Steady on. It’s only a bit of cinder, you know.”
“Maybe to you,” Ian said tightly, “but that shows how little you know of me.”
“Perhaps you should consult an alienist. After all these years, you are clearly still suffering—”
“At least I’m not drinking myself into an early grave.”
Donald went pale. “Do you imagine I was somehow unaffected by the tragedy?”
“I couldn’t possibly say, because you weren’t there that night.”
“Oh, that’s how it lies, is it? You still blame me—”
“Don’t be absurd!” Ian cried, turning away.
His brother was right, though—Ian did blame him, especially in the early days, when he felt he would go mad, and Donald was nowhere to be found. He wheeled around, his face hot with fury. “How can you know what it is like to be haunted by their eyes night after sleepless night, pleading with me to save them?”
“Was it my fault that I was out—”
“Out drinking.”
“I was—”
“You were pub-crawling!”
“Surely I am not the first undergraduate in history to spend an evening with my fellow students in an Edinburgh tavern! You might have been out drinking if you knew what I knew—”
“How like you, to avoid taking responsibility for anything!”
“It was bad luck, but I fail to see how that makes me responsible for our parents’—”
The logical side of Ian’s brain knew his brother was right, but that part of his mind was underwater, flooded by the intensity of emotions flowing over him.
“Since when have you cared about anyone but yourself?”
When he saw the look on his brother’s face, he knew he had gone too far. Donald’s eyes went cold, hard and gray as steel. Ian tried to think of a way to take back what he had said, but it was too late; the damage had been done. Without another word, his brother slipped out of Ian’s dressing gown, threw on his coat, and stalked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.
Perhaps drawn by the commotion, Bacchus sauntered into the parlor. Stunned by his own cruelty and lack of self-control, Ian stared at the cat. Dangling from the animal’s mouth was a very fat, very dead mouse. The sight of the unfortunate creature’s demise was the last straw. Sinking into the nearest armchair, Ian put his face in his hands and wept.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Kerry O’Donohue sipped his pint of ale and threw a sideways glance at the well-dressed man in the corner of the basement nightclub. The rake was trying not to appear interested, but Kerry knew well enough when someone was looking him over. It was early, and the club wasn’t as crowded as it would be later. There were still empty stools at the bar; Kerry could afford to take his time. The damp, low-ceilinged room with its stone walls and flickering wall sconces held enough light to make out the dozen or so sinuous forms draped over couches or slinking furtively in darkened corners. In an hour there would be threefold as many, the stones themselves seeming to sweat in the blue haze of tobacco and opium.
Kerry pulled a silver cigarette case from his hip pocket, slid one out, and shoved it between his lips. Looking through all his pockets, he pretended to search vainly for matches, though there was a new box in his vest.
When a flame appeared before his face, he didn’t even turn to see whose hand held the match. With a sly smile, he leaned forward and inhaled deeply, sucking the tobacco into his lungs and savoring the smoky aroma of Virginia’s finest. Kerry didn’t have a lot of money, but he spent what he had on decent tobacco. The silver case had belonged to his grandfather back in Ireland. In his more grandiose moments, Kerry fancied himself a gentleman, though in reality he was nothing more than the son of a Dublin blacksmith.
“Ta,” he said, offering the man a cigarette.
His seducer took one and lit it before sliding into the seat next to him. That was the way Kerry liked to think of the men he met at the Owl’s Nest—as seducers. His relationship to his own sexuality was such that he could enjoy the illicit encounters he craved only if he imagined himself an “innocent” partner in debauchery. No matter how fiercely he was attracted to any man he met in his nightly escapades, he always cast himself in the role of the unworldly ingénue, seduced and swooning over an older and more experienced Don Juan.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the man remarked. His voice was a smooth, rich baritone, definitely English, probably from around London.
“Nor you,” Kerry replied, giving the man a glance before returning to his pint. In that brief moment, he managed to take in most of the details about his appearance: the pale, deep-set eyes; square cheekbones and long jaw; the sensual mouth, with a suggestion of cruelty in the downward twist of the lips.