Master of Salt & Bones
Page 5
“She’ll be out in a moment.” Rand starts toward the elevator doors, and I spin around.
“Wait. You’re leaving?”
Pausing, he turns to face me, a smile widening his lips. “The fewer triggers, the better. Besides, she tends to do much better in a one-on-one situation. Her nurse is flitting about somewhere, so you’re not entirely alone. If you need anything, there’s an intercom on the wall. One of the staff can fetch me.”
After all he’s told me about the woman, I feel like he’s leaving me with Norman Bates’s mother. “Okay.”
“You’ll be fine. She seems to be in an unusually good mood.”
That’s a relief. “Thank you, Rand.”
With a sharp nod, he resumes his exit, smiling again when the elevator doors close, but just before they seal, I catch the dramatic change in his expression that morphs from pleasant to distressed.
The phone call, maybe?
Shrugging it off, I lean into the cabinet, staring down at one particular doll that looks so lifelike, given the detail in her dark green irises, the waves of red hair cascading over her shoulder. It’s uncanny how much she looks like my mother. So much so, I chuckle at the resemblance, thinking it amusing to find her in such an extravagant-looking dress amongst all the other expensive dolls. Like staring at an alternate version of the woman.
“Shauna. Princess of Blarney Castle.” The voice from behind draws my attention toward an older, but no less elegant, woman than the doll in the case. Graying hair betrays the silky texture of her skin, and though she must be near the age of sixty, her lithe form and regal stance don’t give the impression she’s in much need of assistance. Only the cane she leans slightly against gives any indication of physical deficiencies. “Certainly not the most expensive one I’ve purchased, but I appreciate the fire in her eyes.”
Fire is definitely how I’d describe my mother, though her flame has dimmed over the last decade to a dullness just short of death.
“She’s beautiful.”
“She is.” The woman’s eyes dip to my outfit and back to me, the disapproval hidden behind a slight smile. “You must be my new babysitter.”
“Just … a companion.”
“Companion is just an adult word for babysitter.” Again her eyes appraise me. “You’re a local girl.”
“It’s obvious, I guess.”
“No proper teenage girl would choose to wear fishing mucks.”
Cheeks burning with embarrassment, I swallow back the catty sarcasm I’ve always reserved for the pretentious bitches I grew up with, the ones who had a problem with my clothes. The fact is, they’re Aunt Midge’s old shoes. The only pair I own that don’t have as many holes as my jeans. “I’ll be sure to get a better pair.”
“I’ll have Rand get in touch with Amy to have you outfitted for the job.”
I have no idea who Amy is, or how much of this is going to be taken out of my pay, but it sounds well beyond what I can afford. “I … um. I didn’t realize there was a specific wardrobe requirement.” My comment isn’t meant to sound snarky, but somehow that’s how it comes out. To me, anyway.
“You’ll be attending some important engagements with me. I’ll not have you looking like you crawled onto port.”
This woman doesn’t seem in need of medical assistance, or companionship, though she could benefit from some manners. I’m the last person to care about etiquette, but within a relatively short span of time, she’s already made me feel inferior, which I’m certain is her MO. My purpose here has officially eluded me. I guess I had the impression she was less alert and aware. Maybe not quite a vegetable, but not full-on capable of slinging insults so proficiently, either.
“Are you going to sit there, admiring dolls all day, or make yourself useful?”
Blinking out of my thoughts, I stare back at her. “I’m sorry, I think I may have misunderstood my purpose here.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“I just mean, I was under the impression you needed more … assistance. You seem perfectly capable to me.”
Her eyes narrow, before softening to amusement, as she hobbles across the room toward where a teapot and cups are set out on a small table. “Tea?”
Rand’s words from before come to mind, and though I hate tea as much as I do an overcooked plate of crab legs, I nod. I’m damn well determined to find some common ground with this woman, even if it leaves a bitter flavor on my tongue.
After pouring the tea into a porcelain cup that looks like an adult version of the set Aunt Midge bought me for my tenth birthday, Mrs. Blackthorne hands it off to me. It’s an amber colored tea with a slight sweet scent, and I let the warmth of the cup leach into my ice cold hands.
“What do I call you?”
Nice, I forgot to mention my name. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you earlier. I’m Isa. Izzy, if you prefer.”
“I never bothered to ask. Isa. As in Isabelle?” She lowers herself to the seat across from me, setting the cane off to the side, and lifts the teacup to her lips.
“Isadora.”
There’s only a slight tremble in her hand, as she sips the drink and sets the teacup tittering against the saucer on the table in front of her. “Shame. I love the name Isabelle.”
Shame. The only kind thing my mother ever did for me was naming me after my grandmother.
“Have you met Lucian yet?” Her question interrupts my thoughts.
“No. Rand says I probably won’t have much contact with him.”
“It’s probably just as well. He’s not much for socializing these days.”
“He likes his privacy. I respect that.”
“Do you?” For the third time, her gaze slips to my outfit, which I’m guessing, in this alternate existence, would be like a fisherman rolling up to port in a three-piece suit back home.
“I’ve no intentions of imposing. I’m merely here to assist you in whatever capacity you require.”
“I’ll give you this, you don’t talk like a typical adolescent. The last one we had could barely speak in full sentences. I felt like I was verbally texting with her.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me, and I clear my throat, straightening in my seat just enough not to spill the cup of tea I haven’t yet sipped. “I have very little in common with most girls my age,” I say, lifting the teacup to my lips. Dear God, please don’t let me gag. I tip the drink back, taking tiny sips of the sweet flavor that warms my tongue.
“How many boys have fucked you, Isa?”
Fluids expel past my lips on a gasp, and a good portion of the tea splashes onto the saucer below the cup, sloshing around the dish as I set it onto the table in front of me.
“Da Hong Pao is the most expensive tea in the world. More than thirty times its weight in gold. In China, it’s reserved for honored guests.”
“I’m sorry. I was caught off guard.”
“My question offended you? See, it’s important for me to gauge your interests. A number of women we’ve hired have gone on to behave rather inappropriately toward my son. The rumors of his cock seem to be legendary. A source of amusement amongst you local girls.”
“As I said, I’ve nothing in common with my peers. And I can assure you, I’m not here for your son’s cock. Legendary, or not.”
“Good. You should be safe to introduce to Roark, then.”
“Roark?”
“My grandson.”
“Oh, I was … under the impression you only had one grandson.”
“I do only have one grandson. That’s all Lucian and Amelia gifted me, but I count my blessings for him every day.”
A cold chill winds down my spine as I stare back at her, and I school my face over my confusion. Unless rumors have it all wrong, she’s talking about her missing grandson. Did they find him? I don’t even know how to ask her this question.
“Roark! Roark! Come here please, I’ve someone to introduce to you!” She doesn’t take her eyes off me as she calls out for him, smiling
in such a way that makes me roll my shoulders back to ward off the sudden discomfort. “Roark! Nonna is calling for you!”
“Perhaps he’s asleep?”
“It’s the dolls. They’ve always frightened him, ever since he was a baby.” Shooting up out of her chair, she knocks over the pot, spilling her expensive tea all over the carpet. “Roark Lucian Blackthorne, you come here now, or I’ll have Anna spank your behind!”
I kneel down to the carpet, grabbing one of the napkins from the tray to daub the tea, while I tease out the possibility that she might not be mentally sound. “It’s okay, if he doesn’t want to meet me. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”
“He’s a child. He doesn’t know what discomfort is. No child understands the burdens we adults carry.” She swings around toward the door wall behind her. “I’ll bet he’s playing on the balcony again. Amelia must be sleeping.”
Amelia. From what I’ve heard, Amelia is dead. Is it possible that rumor was wrong, as well?
As she tromps toward the door, I recall Rand mentioning something on the phone earlier, about someone leaving the door unlocked and placing Mrs. Blackthorne at grave risk. I jump to my feet and step in front of her, immediately regretting my decision when she frowns back at me. The last thing I need, though, is to have this lady leap from the balcony to her death on my first day here.
“Wait, let me look for him. I love surprises.”
After a dubious side-eye glance, she rolls her shoulders back. “Roark enjoys them, as well. All right, I’ll let you surprise him.”
With a nod, I twist toward the door wall, and the moment I step out onto the balcony, I exhale a breath, closing the door behind me. Mentally unstable isn’t something new for me. Hell, my mom was a meth addict, for Christ’s sake. Crazy was a way of life growing up, and I learned early on not to trust everything that flies out of an adult’s mouth. I once found her sitting outside completely topless, telling passersby that the sky was being sucked into the sun.
I know crazy when I see it.
But I have to admit, hearing Mrs. Blackthorne call out for her dead daughter-in-law and missing grandson was about as confusing as getting knocked in the head by an acorn in the middle of the desert.
Resting my head against the wall, I mentally tell myself this isn’t a mistake. In spite of the fact that I wasn’t aware the woman had some mental issues, this isn’t a mistake.
“Hey.”
A gasp flies past my lips, and I leap to the side, away from the direction of the voice.
A woman, only slightly older than me, I think, sits bent forward smoking a cigarette that dangles from her long, slender fingers. Decked out in navy blue scrubs, she must be the nurse. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump. When you didn’t look over at me, I figured one way, or another, you were going to be startled.”
“It’s okay. I’m just a little edgy right now, is all. First day.”
“Yeah. My first day sucked. Heard her yelling, but she always yells, so …” Her cheeks cave as she sucks in a drag of her smoke.
“She was calling for her grandson. Roark?”
Snorting, the woman shakes her head. “Roark’s been gone for five years. Amelia, too, in case she tries to get you to fetch her next.” Reaching around her cigarette, she extends a hand toward me. “I’m Nell. Anella, but just call me Nell.”
“Isadora, but just call me Isa. Hey, is she always ...”
“Out of it? Yeah. Dementia with Lewy Bodies to be specific. Similar to what folks with Parkinsons suffer from. Doc’s trying to get her meds right.”
“She seemed fine up until she started talking about Roark.”
“Unnerving, isn’t it? One minute, she’s prattling on about current world events, the next she’s playing hide and seek with her dead grandson.”
“He’s … dead? For sure?”
“Depends on who you ask. After five years? Yeah, it’s a safe bet he’s dead.” Taking in another drag, she leans back on the chair and blows the smoke away from me. “The nightmares are always a good time, too. Sometimes have to strap her down.” With a sigh, she stamps her cigarette out into an ashtray filled with used butts. “I should probably get her settled back into bed. She have her tea yet?”
“Yeah. Not much, after spilling it onto the floor. Broke the teapot.”
The girl flinches as she pushes to her feet. “That teapot, along with the tea, is worth more than I make in a month.”
“No kidding. I just got an education in tea.”
Her eyes dip to my outfit and back. “You’re young.”
“Nineteen. Just graduated last year.”
“Two weeks. That’s if you keep to yourself.”
Frowning, I mentally tease the meaning of her words. “What’s two weeks?”
“How long you’ll last. That’s giving you some credit, too. Girl before you lasted a week. One before her? Three whole days. You met Lucian yet?”
Why does everyone ask me that after scoping my outfit?
“No. Why do you ask?”
“You think his mom’s a whackjob? Wait ‘til you meet the Devil of Bonesalt, himself.” She steps past me, knocking me in the shoulder on her way to the door. “Whole damn place is one big asylum.”
“I didn’t say his mom was a whack--” The door slams shut before I can finish. “Job.”
Staring out over the yard, I can make out the edge of the bluff and the endless sea beyond it. Miles of isolation.
On one hand, I appreciate the peace and quiet.
On the other, I hope I didn’t make a mistake in taking this job.
Chapter 5
Lucian
Sixteen years ago …
With a thin twig, I draw my initials in the sandy bed of the cave while I wait for Jude to arrive. Heat from the small fire I’ve lit keeps the evening chill away, but my mind twists with what will happen when my father returns from his business trip. The fire extinguishers weren’t the smartest idea, but fuck, being trapped in this hellhole for months is prison. I’m losing my mind in this place, day in and day out. The only reprieves are the few times like these, when I steal away without anyone knowing.
Rushing of water at the mouth of the cave is the first taunt of the rising tide. In just a few hours, this place will be half full of sea water, and the pull of the tide will sweep whatever’s in here beneath the surface and out to sea. For that reason, locals call it Pirates Cove.
A young kid, fourteen, ventured in here a few years back and was believed to have drowned and gotten pulled out to sea. According to reports, he might’ve hit his head, knocking him out long enough for the tide to take him away. Since then, it’s been made off limits to beach goers, and children, in particular. The cave sits on the edge of our property and the state-owned land beside us, so the family attempted to sue my father, but no one files a lawsuit against a Blackthorne and wins.
Jude and I typically hang out until the water reaches our calves, but leave before it becomes impossible to wade through. We once played chicken, the water rising as high as our chests before we were forced to climb out. With its rough and choppy waves that hammer against the rocks, if the sea doesn’t take you alive, it’ll surely take what’s left of you after your body’s been tossed around.
Splashing draws my attention toward the entrance, where two figures stand, and I drop my stick on seeing Jude has somehow manipulated the new maid into hanging out with us.
“Brought a friend, hope you don’t mind.” He guides her toward one of the boulders, the only permanent fixtures in the cave, and plops down on the dry sand at the opposite side of the bonfire. “Solange wanted to see the infamous Pirates Cove.”
I can’t take my eyes off the woman, the way her deep brown eyes and long, curly hair gives her an exotic lure. Her long slender neck and equally slender shoulders dip down to full breasts that, too heavy for such a small frame, strain against the thin fabric of her shirt. From here, I can see her nipples poking through, and my dick lurches at the sight.
“I say we’ve got two hours, max.” Like Jude, I take a couple tugs of the joint, letting the smoke crackle in my lungs, and I close my eyes, tipping my head back on the exhale. While away at school, Jude and I would sneak down into the basement and get high, or wasted, all night. Sometimes it was weed, other times it was alcohol.
“So, what do you do before the tide comes in?” Her thick French accent carries a breathy quality, like a mid-thrust moan. Nothing like the girls I’ve messed around with, stealing away to cop a feel, or a quick fuck. Local girls can be fun sometimes, if I’ve got the time to charm them. Only problem is, they’re looking for a way out. A means to keep from becoming their mothers, and I’d rather run a nail through the head of my dick than make that kind of commitment.
“How ‘bout you take off that sweater, and we’ll show you.” Jude has always been ballsy when it comes to women. Kind of a prick, to be honest, but whether it’s because he’s wealthier than a prostitute in a submarine fleet, or more charming than the devil himself, they never seem bothered by it.
Solange smiles, and her gaze falls on me, for some reason. “Does the young Master wish to see my tits?”
Young Master. Fuck me.
Blowing the smoke off to the side, I give a small nod, catching sight of her nipples again. More prominent than even a minute ago. Without hesitation, she crosses her arms and lifts the sweater over her head, revealing braless tits that’re too big for my palms.
Licking his lips beside her, Jude cups one of her breasts and runs a thumb over her nipple.
Still, her eyes are on me.
“Feed it to me,” he says, before taking another hit of his joint.