by Dylan Newton
Kate ignored the tiny whirl in her stomach as he pulled his hand away from hers. “I don’t scare easily. Besides, what a great story I’ll have to tell my kids one day—I was once trapped in a mausoleum with the Knight of Nightmares himself!”
Drake grimaced. “I hate that name.”
“Well, you can’t let one label define you. I mean, the Queen of Happily Ever Afters isn’t all I do. I’m about to create a horror launch so epic, they’ll be calling me the Mistress of Maleficence soon.”
“And you’d like that?” Drake laughed, popping another egg bite into his mouth, and chewing another crunchy bite.
Kate made a face as he plowed through the egg shrapnel, but she answered his question. “People like to label others. It makes them feel as if they know you, or at least, they know in which box you belong. Some people put me in a career box, some put me in a box that’s about my surgeon family, or a box about people who grew up on Long Island. All those boxes are a part of me, but none of them define me. I’ve tried to be true to what’s inside. I’m sure you didn’t set out to be the Knight of Nightmares at the beginning, did you?”
Drake took his time to answer, chewing the last of his breakfast.
“No. At the beginning, I was writing things just for myself. I’d fill those black-and-white-speckled composition notebooks with stories. Short ones, usually with a twisted sort of moral at their core that reflected my worries and fears. I even dabbled with longer, more literary tales. Things that told a larger story. But then, I was taking a writing class during my last year in the Marines and the professor gave us a Halloween assignment. Scaring people was easy to me. That’s what I used to do when I was little—scare the pants off my younger brothers by telling ghost stories before they went to bed.”
Kate shook her head at him. “Poor things! I bet they didn’t sleep a wink.”
“This one time, Zan got so terrified, he leaped off the top bunk and sprinted to Mom and Dad’s room, but he forgot the door was closed. He face-planted into it. Broke his nose.” Drake chuckled, looking into his cup of coffee as if gazing into the past. “That’s when I first knew I had a talent for scaring people. That horror assignment spooked my professor so much, he insisted I send it in to a contest. That’s how I earned my first two hundred dollars in this business, and I became hooked. Now, manufacturing nightmares is my full-time job. Typically.”
That last word reminded Kate what Imani had told her about his writer’s block. She put her fork down.
“You know, I’m glad you asked me to help with your, um, research while we prepare for your book launch,” she said, nodding at him across the table as he gave her a dubious look. “I was thinking last night about how many phobias I conquered in just an hour with you. Being buried alive, attacked by bats, claustrophobia…”
“What about zombies?” he asked. “You talked about them three different times yesterday in the mausoleum.”
Kate’s mouth fell open. She wasn’t sure what surprised her the most: that he’d remembered she was afraid of zombies? Or that he’d counted how many times she’d talked about them?
“I know zombies aren’t real,” she countered, raising her chin. “But, yes. When I entertain the thought of dead people crawling out of graves, I get the shivers. Michael Jackson’s Thriller video makes my palms sweat.”
Drake laughed. “You’re an easy mark. I see now why you don’t read my books.”
“Everyone is afraid of something. I’ll bet even the Knight of Nightmares has a fear. Come on—now that you know my aversion for the undead, what’s your phobia?”
He gave her an easy smile, but Kate saw something flit across his features as he answered. “I exorcised all my dark dreams long ago by writing them. It’s like immersion therapy—when you put your imagination in scary places daily, you become immune to terror.”
“But what about real fears?” Kate persisted. “Not the irrational ones, like zombies. But real ones. Want to make a deal? You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Drake picked up his plate and silverware, scooping up hers with them, and headed to the sink. Kate figured she’d scared him off, and he wasn’t going to answer, but then he turned around.
Leaning against the counter, he said, “Deal. Mine’s a fear of rejection.”
Kate blinked. “Still? I mean, you’ve been publishing books since you were, what? Twenty-four? A book a year for the past ten years, all bestsellers. How many people are rejecting the notorious Drake Matthews?”
“Nope. That’s not the way it works. I told you my fear, and now you’ve got to tell me yours.” Drake smiled as if he knew how annoying she found it when people did not fully explain things.
Kate crossed her arms across her chest. “Fine. My biggest fear is letting people down. Being somehow responsible for ruining an event. That’s what terrifies me. That’s what keeps me up at night checking and double-checking my plans.”
“You want to be the hero,” Drake said, nodding. “I get it. Makes sense when you have parents who are surgeons.”
“Parents and a younger sister, once she’s done with med school,” Kate corrected. “Everyone in my life works to save people. Their work means something. I want my work to mean something to people, and while I know my mistake probably won’t result in someone dying, I can’t imagine anything more horrible than ruining a wedding or some other happy occasion.”
“Has that ever actually happened to you?”
Kate shuddered. “No. Because I plan, I double-check my plan, and I have a great assistant who helps me ensure that we never, ever ruin someone’s special day. And on that note…”
“The tour. Right. I guess there’s no putting it off. Follow me.” Drake sighed, pushing off from the counter, only limping slightly now.
Kate followed Drake around his house in her stockinged feet, using her smart phone to take pictures and jot notes about ideas for various rooms. As the tour progressed, she experienced a wave of envy…quickly followed by one of despair.
The envy part was easy—the Queen Anne Victorian was gorgeous. Thick Turkish carpets covered hardwood floors that sometimes squeaked in the way old wood floors did over time. Hand-carved, gleaming wood trim framed every doorway, and the parlors downstairs were all interconnected with beautiful pocket doors that silently slid open and closed at Drake’s touch. The fire was stoked in the fireplace, the flames reflecting off the original burgundy-and-green tiles, and old, hand-painted glass globe lamps lit up each corner like an advertisement for some historic home museum. Upstairs was more of the same, with antique furniture and moody wallpaper offset by banks of windows that made every bedroom cheery and cozy. Even the smell of the place was old and rich, with lemon polish mingling with the scent of woodfire and a hint of Drake’s warm, spicy cologne.
It was beautiful.
And all wrong.
While Kate oohed and aahed at every antique, some of her dread must have shown in her expression, as Drake finally stopped the tour by the upstairs staircase, facing her.
“So, I may not be an event planner, but as a writer, I’m pretty good at reading faces. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Or…are you still afraid of me?”
Kate had opened her mouth to respond to his first question, and then snapped it closed at his second question, pursing her lips as she considered how to tell him something he’d likely take as an insult.
Drake gave that half smile, as if sensing her dilemma.
“It’s okay. You can run back to the hotel tonight and tell Imani what’s really wrong. Then, she’ll draft a stellar email about it, couched in all the best flattering and politically correct language she can muster. I’ll attempt to decipher it, make assumptions, likely misinterpret something, and then we can have that awkward conversation a few days from now instead.” Drake shrugged. “Or, you can just tell me now and save us both the hassle.”
Kate’s lips quivered as she fought off a smile and lost. She tilted her head, shaking it at him in a mixture of ann
oyance and resignation.
“Well, I guess once you’ve been stabbed by a girl, saved her from a shih tzu attack, and then had to search for bats in her hair, it’s hard to see how a truth bomb is going to sour that relationship.”
“You’re right.” Drake nodded, that half smile growing. “Give it to me straight. What’s the truth bomb you’re trying not to lob my way?”
“It’s just…” Kate hesitated, then threw her hands in a wide arc, encompassing the open door to his bedroom with the Victorian carved headboard and the antique brass chandelier. “It’s just so dowager-grandmother-next-door! Lavish and museum-like! Even your office has an antique desk in it, and it’s all neat—no clutter, no drawings of werewolves on the walls. I mean, it’s gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but converting your house for a spooky VIP meet and greet isn’t just Mission: Impossible. It’s Mansion Impossible!”
To her surprise, Drake threw his head back in laughter.
“Dowager-grandmother-next-door! That’s…that’s so accurate. I literally moved here with only my clothes. Sold my house in California when I…well, when I ended things there, and came with two suitcases. This was my grandparents’ house, and it was their parents’ house before them, so it’s been in the Matthews line for generations.” Drake pointed to the sumptuous, king-size bed covered with a deep burgundy damask comforter. “This is my bedroom, but before that, it was my grandparents’, and their parents’ before them. That mattress, box spring, and bed coverings are the only brand-new things in the room. Besides the kitchen appliances, every single thing in this house is exactly the way it’s been for decades.”
“It’s all beautiful,” Kate said with honest urgency. She’d purposely turned to face him, putting her back to that huge, masculine bed in the master bedroom. As soon as he’d said that was his bedroom, her mind had immediately pictured a fire in that fireplace, casting flickering shadows on his skin as he lay next to her…She shook herself out of the vision, finishing her thought. “I lived in modern, sterile houses my whole life, and trust me, this is so, so much better. There’s wonderful history here.”
Drake nodded.
“Every room in this house has a past. I guess I’ve resisted changing anything because…it’s like a cup of hot cocoa. Soothing and filled with only warm, happy times.” He pointed to the tiny, baby-blue room that adjoined the master bedroom. “That room was where I slept when we spent the night, which was a lot when dad was a drill instructor. My brothers shared the green room by the back staircase. Can you see what’s on the very bottom of this?”
Kate knelt down next to Drake, examining the bottom of the newel post of the second floor’s banister railing. She peered at the very bottom of the dark, intricately carved, rectangular newel post to a barely noticeable carving.
“Are those…initials?”
“Yep. Mine. I did that with the jackknife Dad bought me in middle school, a couple years before he died. Got grounded for a month, which I felt was a little excessive. After I filled it in with magic marker, you could barely see it.” Drake looked at her, shoving his glasses onto his nose with an embarrassed smile. “I know it’s bizarre to live in this place like a—what did you say that first day? Like an antique museum had vomited all over in here. But it’s the one place I can just…be me. Everywhere else, I’m pretending. Being someone else. But here, I’m the fourth generation of Matthews men. And I fit in.” He straightened, and she stood with him.
“I didn’t mean any offense.” The words hurried out of Kate’s mouth. “I love your house, and I think it’s an amazing legacy they’ve left you, and it’s awesome how you’ve kept it so authentic.”
Drake’s eyebrow rose.
“But?”
“I’m just saying it’s hard to envision that a horror writer lives here. Like, really, really, really hard.” Kate winced as she gestured to his boyhood bedroom he’d now converted to an office with a daybed in the far corner. “There isn’t a single skull or dead thing in the entire place. Nothing in this house is going to…satisfy your horror readers.”
Drake paused. “Well, there’s one room you haven’t seen that is a little creepy. It’s where I got my idea for Dark Dolls, actually. And…if I’m not mistaken, there’s a skull up there and something that’s been dead for at least a few decades.”
Kate’s heart lifted with hope. Maybe this could be saved, after all?
“Can I see it? Where is it?”
“The attic. I can take you up there, but it’s not insulated or heated, so you need to get some shoes on your feet. Plus, it still has the old knob-and-tube wiring, so promise me you won’t grab the wires. I don’t want you to electrocute yourself. With your penchant for chaos, I’m a little worried to take you up there.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “I’ll go grab my shoes, and I promise not to touch anything.”
“One more thing,” Drake said, his eyes glittering as he led her to a door at the end of the hallway that she’d assumed was a closet. “The attic is supposedly haunted.”
Chapter 12
While nothing accosted them from the dusty confines of his attic, Drake was thrilled that at least one thing had been accomplished: he’d taken that frown off Kate’s face.
“This!” Kate said, spinning in the dim space, her hair catching the light so that it looked like glowing copper as she flitted first to the big turret window and then to the boxes stacked hither and yon. “This is the perfect spot! Have you ever done it up here?”
Done it? In the attic? Then, he dragged his mind from the gutter, and realized she was talking about writing.
“No,” he said, gesturing to the dark, rough-hewn boards on the ceiling and walls. “It’s not even insulated. I’d get frostbite nine months out of the year if I tried to write up here.”
Kate frowned, ignoring his raised brow of disbelief. Then her expression smoothed.
“I know! We’ll drag your laptop up here for a little while, and you can write a few sentences. Then, when we give a tour and say you write up here, it won’t be a lie. Will you let me unpack some of these boxes? That old doll and carriage are truly terrifying. We can arrange a small writing desk in here, and the belongings you already have can be artfully arranged. Where did you say the skull and the dead thing were?”
Drake started. He’d been busy watching Kate light up with the spark of creativity that comes when your muse is flaming hot, enjoying the way her cheeks flushed in exhilaration despite the chilly air. He mentally rewound her words and pointed at the attic’s only oddities.
“The skull is over there leaning against that old Marine footlocker. It’s from a steer my grandfather found in the desert when he was out in Arizona. And the dead thing is right there—a taxidermy squirrel, complete with probably a century of dust.”
Kate bustled over to the skull and the squirrel, her heels leaving tiny, triangular prints on the dusty floorboards. She surveyed both and turned to give him a thumbs-up.
“This is perfect! Would you mind if we bring in some more creepy stuff for extra ambiance? Nothing too over-the-top, but I’m thinking a rusty machete nailed to the attic wall, just there, and maybe some other antique dolls grouped together with this one. I’ll see if I can’t find a few tarnished candelabras and maybe a rusted bird cage…I’ll have to read the backs of your books to get a better idea, but we’ll put enough goodies in here that the fans will love it!”
Drake noticed she’d not committed to actually reading one of his books—just the back covers—and was reminded once again of the stark difference between Kate and all the people who fawned over his fame and his books. If he didn’t have his horror talent going for him, what did he have?
He thought again of his notes, stacked on the inspiration box of his grandparents’ letters downstairs. Maybe, like Kate said, he could rise above his label—be more than the Knight of Nightmares? But, then, when this romance was finished, what was the point if he was the only one who knew he was about more than terrorizing people?
“W
e don’t want to disappoint the fans,” he finally supplied, filling the silence.
Kate reached out, and for a second—a really nice, long second—he thought she was going to hold his hand. Instead, she brushed her fingertips against the sleeve of his shirt by his elbow.
“You’re worried that we’re going to destroy something, aren’t you?” Kate’s brows drew together in what she’d probably thought was empathy for his privacy. “Don’t worry. We’ll put your vintage and antique furniture in storage so nothing is even touched by a fan. I’ll get your approval every day, like I promised, on everything from the outside changes to the downstairs decorations, all the way up to this attic. What we add or change, we remove immediately after the launch. The beautiful Matthews family Victorian will be exactly the same when I’m done. This launch will be done in the very best taste, giving your readers horror, with class. I promise.”
Drake had his doubts. “Taste” and “class” were two words rarely used in conjunction with the occasions associated with “Drake Matthews.” But he didn’t have the heart to tell her all this work would still result in the same thing: a circus with him on the main stage.
“I’m okay with whatever you want to do. We have a deal, remember?”
Over the next few weeks, he had seen Kate almost every day, as promised, including weekends. He’d given her a gate code and found himself as eager as Sasha to get to the front door when the security panel did the double-beep, alerting him someone had stepped onto his front lawn. Granted, some of those days, all she’d had time for was to pop her head in and check measurements of a room, or ask him if it would be okay to have a caterers’ meeting on his back porch and allow them a tour of his kitchen, where the staff would warm the food and perform the last-minute preparations before it was set outside.