Christopher freezes in the doorway, and before I can stop myself, I barrel into him, face-planting his muscled back.
“What are you doing here?” His snarl is hateful, and as I try to round him, he pushes me behind him. “I should’ve known you’d be in on whatever this is.”
“Don’t be difficult, Christopher,” Emily’s thin, papery voice bites back.
“He’s not welcome here.”
“Too bad he’s my guest, and as long as I’m alive this is my home. My house, my rules.”
The air grows cold and heavy with the tension steeling around us. Stone and wood threaten to bow around the pressure in these walls.
Stepping around Christopher, I push past him to a low curse. Our stares lock before I can take in the room. He’s not being difficult; he’s pissed. His face is as hard as his ancestors’ in all the paintings, and although he’s the visual antithesis, there’s a breathtaking similarity to the coldness in all their eyes, even with the warmth of his honey and whisky notes.
“Finally,” Emily groans. “We are graced with your presence.”
I turn, baffled by her remark. Christopher’s arm wraps around my front, tucking me into him as his grandmother steps towards us. The hems of her loose black trousers skim the floor with every step. The embellishments of her knitted cardigan set sparkle with the golden light from the elaborate chandelier hanging above us. Crystal ropes sweep like hanging vines off intricately carved antlers and wrought iron to match the black leading on the windowpanes. Picture frames and taxidermized creatures line the low ledges.
“Why don’t we sit down and sort this mess?” It’s an order disguised within a soft question. “We’re all on the same side. Are we not, Lucian?”
Fuck. No.
My eyes dart around her to where Lucian stands behind her tall frame, with Penelope at his side.
Her eyes round. I can hear her beseech me to be cordial with her gentle gaze.
Fuck. No.
“We are.” His reply is short and deep.
He sounds sick. Looks like shit even in his expensive clothes. He’s wasting away.
Good.
“Does Leo know?” Stupid question seeing as Christopher had no idea.
“I’m sure he’ll agree with the plan in place.” Christopher turns at the sound of Francis’ voice, taking me with him.
He doesn’t look much better than Lucian. Both of his hands are in bandages, and although he’s standing ramrod straight, his shoulders are curved in like he’s in more pain than he wishes any of us to see.
What the hell happened to him?
Walking past us, his stare narrows on Christopher’s, a silent message that I’m not privy to. It pisses me off, more than ever. In fact, it’s only now that I’m beginning to understand what’s happening, that it bugs me to shit.
We are all pawns in an endless game.
Emily’s words haunt me with my newfound understanding.
It’s all bullshit. He played every single one of us. Maxwell might be dead, but this is all him. Francis is still singing to his tune, even with his corpse rotting beneath us.
It’s clever. Splitting everything into small puzzle pieces so that no one is indispensable. We would all have to be taken out in order for it all disappear.
With a grimace he sits in one of the armchairs. Lucian sits in the love seat beside it. Both of their faces are withdrawn and sallow.
“What happened?” Penny asks, looking up at him with deeply etched concern.
Francis shakes his head as she sits on the arm of his chair. “You don’t need to worry.”
“The day that I stop worrying about you…” Her words drift off, betraying the calm front she’s putting on.
A buzzing quiet falls on us, and I can’t help but notice the way her hands clench tightly together on her lap, her posture too straight.
“Francis…” I begin. “The ledgers. They were in the safe.”
He looks at me blankly, considering what I just told him. “I got them.”
“But…how? How did you know?”
I glance between him and Lucian. He’s quiet. Assessing me. “We deduced.”
“We?” My feet try to move me forward, but Christopher keeps me imprisoned to him.
“Yes. We.” Him and Francis. Obviously.
“Wait, did you blow the fucking club up?” Christopher growls at Francis from behind me.
“It was the club or Arabella.” What the hell? “And I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to her. I told you to trust me.”
“You put her in danger in the first place!” I shrink back into Christopher’s body. “You should’ve come to me. It should’ve been me.”
“Oh, stop being melodramatic. We all have our roles to play. Isn’t that right, child?” Emily levels me with a quirked brow as she sits in the other throne-like armchair. “Well, sit down. It seems we all have a lot to talk about.” She gestures to the bigger sofa across from her.
An audience with the Queen would feel less intimidating than whatever is happening right now.
Seated, the quietness and crackling of the symmetrical fires on either side of the french doors we’ve come through do nothing to cut through the ice of the situation.
“Are you warm enough?” Wrapping his arm around me, Christopher pulls me closer to his side.
“Mhmm.” I nod.
My body begs me to relax into him, but I’m too on edge. Emily is watching as both like a hawk. Perhaps trying to find a chink in our united front. Or maybe she’s simply waiting for me to agree with her.
“Why are you here? I thought you were busy hunting.” Christopher blows out a frustrated breath.
“And we are,” Francis retorts, bloody nails peeking out from his bandages.
“You still haven’t told me what happened…”
A false laugh vibrates from Francis. Nothing follows but silence.
“Have you thought about our conversation?” Emily asks, her stare on Christopher and me.
“Grandmama…”
Grandmama. I know whatever she’s talking about has hit a nerve with Christopher.
“We need a diversion, Christopher. Something to endear the public. A grand moment of joy. That’s what they like. Sob stories are easily forgotten. Loss is forgotten.”
“Mother…”
“A wedding would do nicely, although, given what happened…” Her pause is enough for me to guess what’s coming. And if it wasn’t, the way Christopher holds on to me tighter is certain. “A baby would be ideal.”
A baby would be ideal? Ideal.
“It’s a pity this isn’t an ideal world,” Lucian murmurs.
“The illusion of an ideal world is far more effective than the reality of one. People want something beyond this world; they want a fairy tale. I believe they call it hope.”
I’m shaking. There isn’t a single emotion that I’m not feeling. There isn’t a single word that threatens to leave my mouth that isn’t seeping in anger and hurt. My insides push at my skin and bones like pus trying to burst from a wound.
I can’t sit here anymore. I can’t listen to her words. I can’t bear to feel her eyes on me.
Pushing to his feet, Christopher stands in front of Emily, neither breaking eye contact. The air vibrates with all the things neither say out loud.
Crouching to her level, he demands, “Apologise. Now.”
“Is that an order?”
“Call it what you like, just be fucking sorry.”
“Do you want an apology, child?” She doesn’t bother looking at me.
“Don’t play games,” he snaps.
“I don’t want your apology, Emily.” I hold my voice as steady as I can. I keep my hands as relaxed as possible on my thighs. Don’t show weakness. “Just as I don’t want another baby.”
I’m well aware of the hurt I’ve just caused Christopher. He doesn’t show it as he stands and sits beside me again. But I feel it. Deep in my bones. Strangling my heart. Smothering my soul. I fe
el the blow I’ve served him. And I truly wish I was sorry, but I’m not. I’m tired of being manipulated. Done being used in a game that only serves losses.
The beautiful part in all this? Is the way Christopher shuffles closer to me. His embrace surrounds me like a safety blanket. And the kiss he presses to the top of my head is far more valuable than any metaphorical crown they wish to place on it.
“Well,” she sings with a sour laugh. “I suppose, Lucian, that it falls to your son after all.”
“Perhaps we should stick to the politics so that there’ll be a world for all these babies you so desperately want.”
“I’m a grandmother.” Emily chuckles as she rings the service bell. “Of course I want great-grandchildren. It’s what Maxwell would’ve wanted.”
“Actually, Grandad would’ve wanted you to show some compassion,” Christopher bites back.
“Francis?” Penny’s panicked voice cuts through the silence.
“Shit.” Lucian rises from his chair quicker than I would’ve thought possible. “Wayne!”
Christopher bounds up, and although I’m not in the way, I shuffle down the sofa, watching as chaos ensues. Wayne rushes in, ready for action. He’s got his weapon in his hand, searching the room, trying to assess the situation with the pile of bodies in the way.
“Motherfuckers!” he curses loudly. Pulling Penelope out of the way, he pushes her down beside me. “Call an ambulance.”
The service bell goes crazy as Emily pulls the cord beside her relentlessly. But nobody comes. Penny’s fussing with her phone, but network around these parts is potluck. My body moves on autopilot. Racing down the hallway, back to the main part of the house, I head for the staff wing. The doors to the kitchen are wide open, letting the flurry in. There’s nothing but the cold and eerie stillness of the place.
I run into the staff living area, but all that greets me is the loud ruckus from the service bells on the far wall above the dining table. The sofas are empty.
Where is everyone?
“Where’s the fucking phone?” I run to the other side of the house.
There’ll be a phone in Max’s office. I doubt Emily’s had it packed away.
I’m running past the gallery entrance when the door opens with a gusty draft sucking all the other open doors in the house shut.
I halt as Cassie trudges in coated in fluffy snow from her head to her toes. Casper is behind her with a large swaddle of blankets in his arms.
“Oh, thank God,” I choke out the breath left in my lungs. “I need a phone. We need a doctor. Ambulance. I don’t know….”
Shit, I have no idea what’s actually wrong.
“Please!”
Cassie digs into her pocket finding her phone. “What’s happened?”
It’s the fucking million-pound question around here.
What’s happened?
What’s wrong?
What’s going on?
They’re a broken fucking record.
“I don’t know.” I wheeze my reply as she calls for help on her phone. Dragging her towards the sunroom, I acknowledge the fact Casper is heading up the stairs with far too much composure. “Where are you going?”
“I’m putting Fleur to bed. She’s out. I’ll meet you in…”
“The sunroom!” I yell back at him, skidding over the icy patches Cassie’s left behind her.
When I reach the room, there’s so much commotion that it’s impossible to know what’s going on. Penny’s standing in the outskirts as Lucian and Wayne try to wrangle Francis off the chair and onto the floor.
Should they be moving him?
Francis is as pale as I imagine the ghosts in this place to be. His groans are raw, and this entire scene is chilling me to the core. Too many feelings assault me. Memories of ice flowing through my body. Life seeping from me in every possible way.
“I told you to go see a proper doctor!” Wayne tears Francis’ black polo; the cry of the cloth rips through me. “You’ve always got to be so fucking stubborn. Don’t you?”
He’s panicking at the sight of his friend lying on the floor. A large bandage wrapped around his middle, a small bloody stain spreads on the left side of his abdomen.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Francis wheezes like breathing is the most painful thing he’s ever done.
“You’re bleeding!” Pushing Wayne aside, Penny kneels on the floor. Her hands tremble as she loosens the bandage. “You said it was an insignificant altercation. But this…this…”
A perfectly formed well dots his abdomen. Its inky blackness looks harmless, but then he coughs, and black ink becomes crimson streams rivering down his skin.
Unstoppable.
Relentless.
“What the fuck?” Christopher pushes Lucian out of the way. “What did you do?”
He’s got that “it’s okay” face that haunts my memories, but panic screams from his pores.
My gaze finds Francis’, and he schools his pain into a small smile.
I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
He got hurt protecting me.
I don’t know what happens, but in that moment, all I can do is move. Running back to the staff wing, I go straight to the kitchen, through to the utility area.
Towels.
“Where are the towels?” I spit at one of the staff that’s coming in from the flurry.
She rushes to the laundry room, and I grab one of the bowls on the side, filling it with cooled kettle water.
When she hands me the towels, I tear back through the house. Water sloshes as loud voices wreak havoc with my frayed senses. I push forward, ignoring the need to drop everything and centre myself.
It’s an impossible task trying to get past all the bodies. Water spills over the sides of the bowl and down my arms, dripping from my elbows as I push past the crowd.
“Out!” Emily’s voice echoes around the room.
Everything and everyone freezes.
When no one moves, she starts physically shooing them out. “Away with you! Off you go! Shoo!”
“The medical centre is shut,” Cassie says, slipping her phone back into her coat pocket. “The ambulances can’t get through the snow.”
“We barely made it back in the Defender,” Casper says from where he’s kneeling on the floor with Penny. “Good news is it’s in and out; bad news, the rib’s broken. The bandage is what’s causing the problem. He needs stitches.”
“I’m fine.” Francis coughs, the strain causing him to gasp for breath.
“Of course you are,” Casper mutters as he keeps his finger plugging the bullet hole.
“I checked for the bullet. It’s definitely out,” Lucian says, taking a step back.
“Can we move him?” Freddie asks, crouching by Francis’ shoulders. “If we get him to one of the bedrooms, she can stitch him up.”
“Excuse me?” Georgina backs away. Her face is flushed and cold bitten, like his and Leo’s.
“You’re good at sewing. I’ve seen you fix your shoes.”
“No!”
“It’s simple, George,” Casper says lightly, obviously playing to her soft side. “I’ve seen the way you mend the silk.”
“Silk isn’t skin.”
“Please.” Penny stands, her hands bloodstained. She takes the bowl and towels from me, putting them down on one of the low side tables before pushing both Cassie and me out of the room. “There’s a first aid kit in my bathroom. Find one of the staff and ask for a sewing kit.”
“Okay,” I tell her, already stepping back.
“The staff were shutting the outbuildings and clearing the paths when we drove up. It’s so bad out there.” Cassie stares down at Francis, panicked.
“My sewing box is in the drawing room.” Emily nods at me. Her voice is soft and level, and in a rare show of her affection, she smiles tenderly with a light stroke to my arm. In a blink though, she steels and is back to being the matriarch everyone panders to.
Her orders for what
will happen are clear and explicit as I follow her instructions.
The only thing keeping me from falling apart is the twisted responsibility I feel for Francis’ state. I keep pushing through the urge to grab Christopher and run. Leave this place. I want to take my husband and go home. Shut the world out and live in our own bubble, even if it’s just for a little while.
By the time I’ve made it up to Penny’s and Francis’ room, it’s been evacuated of everyone else.
Leo’s sitting outside the room, waiting with Cassie. Freddie’s loitering by the door whilst Christopher and Casper are standing over the bed having some sort of hushed conversation with Francis.
“I really don’t think I should be the one doing this. I’m not a surgeon,” Georgina whispers to me.
“It’ll be fine. If anything, we can get him to the hospital first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I swear you’re meant to stitch the inside and then the skin. Fuck, I told you not to bring trouble to my door.”
“Georgie, it’ll be okay.”
Coming closer, she takes the large sewing case from me. It weighs a tonne for threads and needles.
“Are you really okay?” Her hand squeezes my forearm lightly. “I didn’t get to talk to you after Casper and I…I…God, I feel like such a twat.”
“I’m fine, but if you don’t help him, Francis might not be.” Putting an end to our chat, I hand her the box and follow Casper out of the room.
The last thing I want to do right now is talk about their conversation. Maybe it’s selfish and I’m a terrible person, but right now all I can think is how that could be Christopher in there. He could be the one that she has to stitch up.
Fuck, a couple of nights ago it was him.
Who stitched him up?
So much has happened so quickly that I can’t keep track of days and nights and hours and minutes. It all blurs into one. One fucking petrifying mess.
“I’ve never sewn a person before.” I hear Georgie’s faint worry. “I’m probably going to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
“Come on, Swan, I’ve seen you work a needle.”
“Fuck off and let me get in the zone, or I might sew your mouth shut too.”
Laughing, Freddie slides down to the floor by the door. His eyes never once budge from Georgina and Francis.
Scorch (Virtues & Lies Book 2) Page 25