The Dark Side of Eleanor Warwick
PROTEGE

Slacks pressed, cuff links polished, and Italian tie cinched.

Henry looks himself over in the mirror. As usual, he likes what he sees. He smiles as he slips his Armani blazer onto his shoulders.

Stepping into the living room of his penthouse apartment, he produces a lighter and ignites the wick of the candle that sits at the center of his table. Henry gathers a pair of wine glasses and sits one at each parallel place setting. He carefully adjusts the silverware to make certain they are all spaced the exact same distance apart.

His home is decorated in all the fashionable and expensive styles. However, despite the expense, the place is cold and sterile. The carpets are spotless, and not a speck of dust can be found. There is no television and no pictures of friends or loved ones. It’s as if no one lives there at all.

His doorbell chiming prompts him to give the room a final panning look. Slightly adjusting his jacket, he swings the door open with a broad smile.

The expression quickly fades.

Alexander Blackwell rests both hands atop his cane. His steely eyes focus on Henry, their hard-edged gaze belying the pleasant smile on his face. “Hello, Henry. It’s been quite some time.”

“Yes,” Henry answers, staring bewilderedly, “it certainly has.”

Stalking in without invitation, Blackwell glances around the apartment. He takes note of the carefully arranged table. “Expecting company?”

Still staring out into the hallway, Henry’s mind races. Has he found Jessie? Was he aware of his involvement in her stay in Carmadie? Either way, Henry determines it’s best that he control the situation as best he can. Smoothing out his tie, he casually closes the door. When he turns back into the penthouse, he wears a calm expression.

“Yes, in fact,” he begins. “A lovely young lady I met at a gallery. So if we could make this quick...”

Blackwell frowns. “Hardly the warmest of welcomes.”

“Oh, do forgive me. I’m rusty on the social etiquette of welcoming a murderer into one’s home.”

It’s a bold accusation to throw at one so powerful, and Blackwell receives it as such. He raises an eyebrow and tightens his grip on his cane. Henry stands his ground, his jaw squared and his shoulders back. The longer he can keep his guest talking about something that happened twenty years ago, the better.

“Murderer? That’s a little strong, don’t you think?”

“Well, considering he’s dead and you killed him, I’d say no,” says Henry, his face souring.

“I seem to recall he initiated the confrontation.”

Henry offers a slight nod of concession. “True, but it didn’t have to end in death.”

“Didn’t it?” Blackwell asks remorselessly. “He was a fool.”

“He was my best friend,” Henry growls.

“Benefactor, don’t you mean?” Alexander gestures around. “Would you have any of this if you hadn’t kissed your friend’s ring? I imagine you still sponge off his daughter.”

Henry furrows his brow, his calm demeanor chased away by stern fury. He speaks in a harsh tone, each word a dagger. “Don’t even talk about her.”

“Oh, Henry,” Blackwell responds with a chuckle, “do you think if I wanted to crush your little protégé, that you could stop me?”

“I think I could die trying.”

“Like you did with Gordon?” His host looks away for only a second, but Alexander knows the blow landed. “You can try and fool yourself into believing that you’re acting out of a sense of paternal protectiveness or loyalty, but we both know the truth. It’s guilt that motivates you. You allowed your best friend to face me alone. As a result, he died. You’re only looking after the orphan you created.”

Henry’s head hangs slightly, but his gaze remains defiant. There is certainly more truth to the assertion than he would ever admit. His voice is far more subdued. “Why are you here?”

With a shrug, Blackwell answers. “I was in the neighborhood, and thought I’d stop by and see how you were getting on.”

After only staring a moment, Henry lets out a hard laugh, throwing his head back. His guest narrows his eyes. “You replace this amusing?”

Henry smiles wide as he smooths out his tie. “Incredibly. You seem to view yourself as a cold, detached killer who shrugs off his victims as soon as they drop. Perhaps like the professionals from mafia films.” The mirth drains from his face as he speaks, replaced with a scowl. “But the truth is, you’re more like the twisted psycho from a cheap slasher flick. You want to revel in the kill. You came here so you could see the look on my face, the fury in my eyes, and hear the hate in my voice. You wanted confirmation that your actions had caused someone pain.”

The sound of Blackwell’s finger tapping the top of his cane is the only thing that cuts through the silence as the wizards glare at one another. A soft digital chime ends their stare-down.

Blackwell fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. Henry tries to look at the screen, but the glare obscures his view. Instead, he studies his guest’s face. The corner of Blackwell’s mouth curls slightly. Dropping the device back into his coat, he returns his attention to his host.

“Your pop psychology aside, it was nice to see you, Henry. But I must go.”

Blackwell makes for the door without waiting for a response. He gets one anyway. “Family trouble?” Henry asks.

He starts to regret the question as soon as Blackwell halts. Dark eyes glance black at him. His glare tells Henry their conversation is over. “Goodbye, Henry.”

The door is open and the guest gone in seconds. Henry steps into the hallway and watches Blackwell leave at a brisk pace. His gaze is so intent that he doesn’t notice the young brunette step up beside him.

“What are we looking at?” she asks.

Henry nearly jumps. “Ah. Hannah. I’m terribly sorry. I’m going to have to cancel our date.”

“What? Why?”

“Something has come up, I’m afraid,” he answers, already walking back into his apartment.

“Is the age thing bothering you?” Hannah inquires. “I already told you, I don’t care that you’re old.”

Before she can press the issue, the door is slammed in her face. Henry rushes to his cell phone and quickly dials. A frustrated growl escapes him when he gets voicemail.

“Girl. It’s Henry. Call me immediately.” He takes a swig of wine before finishing. “He’s here.”