by Keri Lake
“Have the Blackthornes always been hated this much?” I ask.
Flicking her cigarette out the window, she blows out the last of the smoke. “Thought you didn’t like the rumors?”
I don’t. I hate this town and its gossip, but something about this particular family intrigues me. “I’m just curious to know if it’s a generational thing, or if Lucian’s the only accused murderer.” Rolling my eyes, I turn in time to catch yet another cross at the side of the road.
“Roll your eyes, but you didn’t know Amelia. She was the princess of Tempest Cove. Everyone loved her. And when she started hanging around that man? Well, we just knew trouble would follow. Always does with a Blackthorne.”
“Amelia. That’s his wife?”
“Was. She ain’t around anymore, remember?” Staring through the windshield, she sighs and shakes her head. “Such a shame. But to answer your question, I suppose there’s always been something off about that family. Whether the older ones murdered their wives is unknown—to me, anyway. But who knows, with as much as they keep to themselves.”
The fact that they almost never venture into town has given rise to the mythological rumors about Lucian being some hungry creature that hunts the surrounding woods.
“Well, there’s a difference between suicide and homicide, and last I checked, he was never charged for murder.”
A squawk of laughter jerks her head back, before she flashes me a dubious look. “You think a man with as much money as he has, as much power, would ever be convicted?”
I think this town likes to make up stories when facts don’t quite line up the way they’d like. Take my mother, for example. They nicknamed her the Siren of Tempest Cove, simply because the women couldn’t deal with the fact that their husbands were just as guilty of adultery as she was.
“I think, no matter what, science is science. And evidence doesn’t favor the rich.”
Face washed in mirthless amusement, she shakes her head. “Beauty. Brains. But as naive as a seal pup in a pool of sharks.” When she glances toward me, I swear her eyes are rimmed in darker circles than before. “Evidence don’t always tell the whole story. Sometimes, we have to rely on instinct, Isa. Remember that?”
There’s a subtlety to my aunt’s words. Where she can be downright crass and rude, laying her personality on the table like tarnished silver that hasn’t been polished in decades, there are times I find her to be more shrewd than I am. Her comment is meant to give me pause, to remind me that, only a few months ago, I’d made the tragic mistake of ignoring my instincts.
A thought I cast aside. I don’t need those memories pulling me under and clouding a new start.
“You’re curious, too. That’s why you’re driving me.” I say, searching through the dark silhouettes of passing trees for distraction. Even with the sun cresting the horizon, the canopy of the forest still gives the impression of night here.
“I’m curious to know what would change your mind, yes.”
Inwardly groaning, I shake my head. “It’d take an act of God to make me turn down this cash.”
A black object swoops into my periphery, and aunt Midge slams on the breaks, sending me crashing forward into the dashboard. Hard vinyl thumps against my palms, and needles of electricity shoot up my unbent arms, as the car squeals to a stop.
“Son of a bitch!” Aunt Midge sits with her arms outstretched, both hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
I lift my head to find an eerie swirl of fog dancing in the beam of the lights, before it parts around a black bird in the middle of the road that hops alongside the bloody remains of a dead animal. “Jesus. What the hell is it?” Unbuckling my seatbelt, I slide forward for a better view.
“Crow? I’ve no idea.”
“Not the bird.” The animal beside the bird is hardly recognizable, sprawled out in a pool of entrails that the wretched creature pecks at as though unfettered by the headlights.
“Who gives a shit? Damn thing almost ran us off the road!” She rails on the horn, but fails to move the bird.
In fact, it doesn’t even spare us a glance, still feasting on the carrion strewn across our path. A bulbous object is wedged in its beak--an eyeball, which it gulps back, and I grimace, imagining myself lying there in the road while it feeds on me.
“What in the Sam Hill?” As Aunt Midge idles past the bird, I stare down at it from the passenger window, and when it cranes its neck toward me, I frown, noticing one of its own eyes missing. “Never seen such a thing in all my life,” my aunt says beside me. “Wasn’t even bothered by us.”
Twisting in my seat, I breathe deep to settle my nerves and peer through the back window, where the bird still hasn’t moved. “Must’ve been starving, or something.”
With a dry chuckle, she shakes her head. “Act of God, you say. How ‘bout the devil himself? This bluff is cursed, I tell ya. Cursed. Every creature here bears the burden of it. I hope it won’t be you when all is said and done. You’re nineteen now, so I can’t very well be telling you what you can and can’t do anymore. But I’m strongly urging you to consider something else.”
There is nothing else, unless I want to work alongside my best friend, Kelsey, at Barnaby’s Baubles on the boardwalk, selling overpriced trinkets to the few tourists we get. Or better yet, slopping out bowls of chowder and beers at The Shoal with Aunt Midge.
“I’m taking this job.” The money is enough to clear some of her debts, get caught up on the mortgage, and save up for a car to get the hell out of this place, eventually. “I’ll be fine. Look, I get it, okay? You’re just watching out for me.” As she’s done since the night my mom left me on her doorstep and bailed on parenthood. “But this is it. All those times we talked about me getting out of here? It’s not happening with my music. Or working at some tourist trap in town.”
“It could, if you gave it a chan--”
“It won’t. It takes money to make money, remember? You told me that.”
“You don’t have to listen to everything I say, kid. You know that, right?” The glance she shoots back at me holds a smile that actually touches her eyes this time. “Sometimes, I’m fulla shit.”
“More than sometimes, I’d say.”
With a slap on my shoulder, she snorts. “Smartass.”
A few more miles up the road, the fog breaks, and the forest opens to a clearing. A black wrought iron gate, with Blackthorne Manor etched into the metal at either side of an unwelcoming skull with white stones for sockets, greets us at the entrance. Standing off to the side of the driveway is a silver box with a black button, and Aunt Midge reaches through the window to press it. Seconds later, the gate opens onto a long narrow driveway flanked by more trees, and the path widens to an expansive neglected lawn ahead.
The occasional shrubs and bushes that dot the unkempt landscape must’ve once been trimmed into shapes, given their odd contortions that now simply make them look old and tired. In the center of a circular drive stands a dried-up cement fountain, and the figure of a woman whose single arm reaches up toward the sky, her other arm broken at the elbow.
“Place looks downright abandoned,” Aunt Midge says, slowing the car to a stop.
Gaze shifting to the front entrance, I stare up the stone staircase, which is guarded by menacing gargoyles at either side, toward an enormous turret situated beside the most elaborate wooden doors I’ve ever seen in my life. Carved in thick cherry timber, they match the topiary boxes that house small, wilting shrubs.
I’ve never actually laid eyes on a castle in person. Only in books and on the internet. Blackthorne seems far too elaborate for this town, as if I’ve slipped into some medieval time bubble.
The doors open up, and a man in a crisp suit, with gray hair and spectacles, fills the gap. Given the stories I have heard, it doesn’t seem likely that he’s the master of the house, particularly as he doesn’t wear the scars said to mar Lucian Blackthorne’s face. The very scars that earned him the devil moniker.
The Devil of Bon
esalt. My new boss.
What fodder that’ll make when Aunt Midge begins her shift this evening at The Shoal.
We exit the vehicle, and I follow aunt Midge up the staircase, my eyes drinking in the forlorn beauty of this place. I don’t know why it speaks to some part of me, but where Aunt Midge looks like a cat who just got the shit scared out of it, with her shoulders bunched and her jaw clenched, I find the place oddly intriguing. Peaceful, really. Almost like a graveyard.
Movement draws my eyes to a window three stories up the turret, where I can just make out the shadowy figure of someone standing there. The surrounding darkness conceals much of the face, but the discernible parts are big and imposing. Definitely masculine. If I had to guess, I’m staring up at Lucian Blackthorne.
Or one of his rumored bodyguards.
It’s amazing how many stories surround a single man.
“Isadora Quinn?” The older gentleman standing in the doorway tips his chin up in a regal sort of way that’d make half the men back in town laugh if they were standing here.
“That’s her.” Aunt Midge hikes a thumb in my direction. “I’m her aunt. Just makin’ sure everything is kosher before I drop her off.”
His face crinkles into a frown as his eyes appraise me, prompting me to look down at the outfit I’ve chosen to wear for my first day. Ripped up jeans tucked into rubber fishing mucks, and the only T-shirt I own that doesn’t have a coffee or ketchup stain. Imagining the way I look through his eyes, with my long ink black hair, the tattoo visible on my right forearm that reads Invulnerable in bold, cursive print, and the dark eyeliner that Aunt Midge likens to Alice Cooper’s just to tease me, has me thinking casual dress holds a vastly different meaning here. The guy probably thinks I’m another local punk. Oddly enough, dressing this way keeps me out of trouble. Keeps others away. In high school, I was called Goth Girl and considered most likely to shoot up the place.
Couldn’t be farther from the truth. While my classmates partied on the weekends and wreaked havoc, I stayed home reading books and listening to Chopin.
I’m polite to a degree, when others are polite to me, and defiant when I have to be.
“You said it was casual dress, right?”
“I suppose we all have a subjective interpretation of the word. Very well. Come on, Isadora.”
“Isa, or Izzy, is fine.”
He steps aside, ushering us through the doors that stand at least twice my height. A large brass knocker in the shape of a lion makes me wonder if it’s ever actually been used, and I stare up at the intricate carvings that decorate an otherwise benign doorframe while passing through the threshold.
“I’m Mr. Rand, Master Blackthorne’s assistant,” the man says from behind. “We spoke on the phone.”
We come to a stop in an elegant foyer, with a beautiful, dark gray, marble floor, the center of which holds a crest that I’m guessing is Blackthorne. An obscenely large and gaudy crystal chandelier hangs over a winding staircase that converges into an upper level, the dark, wooden bannisters and matching dark walls like something out of a gothic horror movie. Rich tapestries hang from gilded rods, along with paintings that I would bet cost more money than my aunt makes in a year. Maybe even two years. The extravagance of this place is overwhelming, and yet, the dark and neglected tones that linger beneath all of it tug at some invisible string inside my chest.
Like an undercurrent of sadness hangs on the air.
“You did say you play piano, correct?” Rand asks, while I continue to scope the place out.
“Yes. I can play. I’m not like Mozart, or anything, but I can play some songs.”
“Mrs. Blackthorne enjoys classics. Are you versed in those?”
“Chopin, Liszt, Bach … sure.”
“Excellent. The office is to the left. Please follow me.”
Rand takes the lead toward an arched door that I have to believe was custom fitted, and pushes through to an open space filled with elegant cherrywood furniture and leather. The rich scent of expensive cigars and wealth assaults my senses as I step inside. Books line the shelves alongside a credenza, and I take note of a few that appear to be business references.
On the shiny surface of the mostly-clean desk is a stack of white papers that reflects the dim light they’re below.
“Please, take a seat.” The older man gestures toward two small, leather chairs set before the desk, before rounding the other side to a much bigger chair.
The unyielding surface catches my fall as I plop into the seat. As a side gig, I’ve cleaned enough homes outside of Tempest Cove to know expensive furniture is neither comfortable, nor practical, and this chair is no exception.
Though, with as many business transactions as I imagine take place in this room, perhaps that’s the point.
“I’ve drafted the contract we discussed over the phone.” Rand pushes half the stack of papers toward me.
I slide the documents in front of me. They’re written in the overwhelming language of the serious businessman I imagine Blackthorne to be, although I frown down at the confidentiality agreement laid out on the first page. “What’s this?”
“The last companion we hired took it upon herself to snap selfies, which she proceeded to post to social media. Master Blackthorne is very particular about his privacy. During your time here, you will be entrusted to roam the castle freely, which invariably places the master in a compromised position.”
“If you think she’s gonna take pictures of the guy’s underwear, I can assure you it ain’t gonna happen.” Aunt Midge gives an unappealing snort and chuckles. “His tidy whities are safe with Isa.” No sooner do the words tumble from her mouth than the smirk on Aunt Midge’s face fades to a frown. “Professionally speaking, of course.”
Face screwed up in what must be a grimace reserved for the most uncouth locals, Rand rolls his shoulders. “Yes, well, just the same, we’d like to cover all bases.” His dark eyes fall on me like a stormcloud, and I’m guessing the guy’s assuming I’m like most other teenagers of my generation who have social media. In truth, I probably don’t exist in today’s modern world, considering I don’t even have a phone with internet. Mine is a simple design, meant only to field the occasional frantic call, or text, from Aunt Midge when I’ve stayed too long at the library.
Without hesitation, I sign the document.
“I hope it doesn’t state in the contract that she has to call him Master, because we Quinns don’t answer to anyone that way.” If I didn’t know this job was already in the bag, Aunt Midge would surely be reason for this guy to reconsider. “Always been captain of our own ships.”
“Mister Blackthorne is fine. Though I don’t suspect you’ll have much contact with him during your time here. As I said, he’s a man who values his privacy above all else. And he’s quite busy.”
With the kind of urban legends that surround this place, I wonder what makes a man like Rand remain faithful to his much-loathed employer. Money?
It takes a couple minutes to fill out all of the paperwork and sign the documents, and when I’ve finished, I let out an exasperated breath. “Hope I didn’t just sign my soul over.”
“Of course you did.” Rand’s voice carries no trace of humor.
Frozen in my seat, I dare a glance toward Aunt Midge.
The chasing sound that fills the room might be mistaken for a chuckle, but one that hasn’t gotten much practice in the last couple of years. Rand sits with a hand covering his mouth, his eyes bunched in mirth.
For a moment, I feel like I’m caught in an episode of The Twilight Zone, the room blanching to white and black in some alternate version of reality.
Thankfully, the laughter doesn’t last long, dying down to a sigh.
Removing a handkerchief that he sets to his eyes, Rand clears his throat. “Well, then. Allow me to show you around Blackthorne.”
“Shouldn’t I meet Mrs. Blackthorne first?” Make sure the woman even likes me?
“We’ll do that last. Mrs Blackthor
ne tends to be very … disagreeable first thing in the morning.”
Chapter 2
Lucian
Sixteen years ago …
Drawing back the rock I’ve tucked into the pouch, I line my slingshot up with an acorn hangs from a limp branch, one mostly hidden in the early morning darkness and thick foliage. Snapping the rubberband, I let the shrapnel fly through the air, until it hits its mark, and something black, far bigger than an acorn, falls to the ground with a thud.
“Oh, shit, you hit a bird!” My best friend Jude scrambles to his feet over the crackling brush, and I follow after him as he slides to the ground beside what looks like a large raven. “Shot his eye out! Look!” he adds in his native British accent.
Where there should be an eyeball sits the fleshy remains inside a bloody socket. The mutilated organ lies a couple feet away from the animal.
“It was an accident.”
“Fucking hell, that’s disgusting! Pretty sure you killed him.” Jude’s lips stretch into a smile as he looks up at me. The delight in his eyes reminds me of a child, instead of the sixteen-year-old I’ve grown up with most of my life. “Couldn’t do that again if you tried. Nailed the bastard.”
I kneel down alongside the fallen creature, studying the lack of movement in its chest. Some believe it’s a bad omen to kill a bird. Seagulls are said to carry the souls of fishermen. Killing an albatross means getting lost at sea. I’ve no idea what it means to kill a raven. “It’s bad luck.”
“Nah. That’s crows. Ravens are just evil shit-eaters.” Nabbing a stick beside him, Jude lifts the bird’s tiny, dark eyeball and flings it at me.
I leap back, but not before it lands square on the crotch of my pants. “Asshole!” The eyeball tumbles to the ground, and I grab a nearby stone to chuck at him.
He chuckles. “Your face! Priceless.”
A flash of black knocks him in the head, and Jude lets out a screech. Black wings flap over him, the bird pecking and clawing as it squawks.