Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  “Ah. Yeah, I’ll pass.”

  “Catch up with you later, then.”

  It’s almost eight-thirty by the time I reach the elevator, and I’m hoping that Mrs. Blackthorne got enough sleep that she won’t be needing another nap today, because the thought of sitting in the doll room, staring off at the walls, is enough to want to scratch my eyeballs out.

  The elevator door opens on Rand, who offers only a half-smile as he exits the car. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Yes, thank you. Best sleep I’ve gotten in a while.”

  “Very good. And your first day with Mrs. Blackthorne?”

  “Uneventful.”

  What an understatement.

  “I was thinking perhaps you could take her down to the piano room today. She’d love to hear you play.”

  “Sure, I can do that.”

  “Excellent.” Arms behind his back, he turns to face me, as I step inside the elevator. “The Master has important meetings today, so it’s best if Laura isn’t within earshot. She’s never been fond of business talk.”

  “I’ll keep her entertained.”

  With a sharp nod, he walks off, and I hit the button for the second floor. The doors open on the familiar doll room, one I’ve come to dread after yesterday, but the deep and hearty laughter I hear is a good sign.

  I follow the sound to the most luxurious bedroom I’ve ever laid eyes on. Dark, rich wood furniture with gold trimming, paintings of cherubs and goddesses on the walls and ceilings, with lush greenery dotted about the wide open space. Perhaps the only room brimming with life in this place.

  A man stands alongside Laura, where she sits in a wheelchair, allowing him to listen to her heart through the stethoscope.

  “Steady as a metronome.” He tugs the ear-tips out and drapes the instrument over his neck. “Except for that slight flutter when I touched your hand.”

  With a demure smile, she pretends to push him away. “Oh, stop, you old flirt.” Her gaze lands on me in the doorway, and she waves me over. “Michael, this is my babysitter, Isabelle.”

  “Isadora, actually.” I stretch my hand out to him, and when he bends to kiss it, I clear my throat. The desire to pull my hand away twitches my muscles. “I’m her companion.”

  “Lucky girl. I’ve wanted to be her companion for many years. Stubborn woman still turns me down.”

  A gust of laughter flies out of Laura, and she sets her hand to her chest. “You are shameless, Michael.”

  “You must be the doctor?”

  Frowning, he tips his head. “What gave you that impression?”

  Another burst of laughter, this time from the two of them in unison, leaves me feeling small and stupid.

  “I’m only playing with you darling, yes. I’m her longtime physician and friend of the family. Dr. Powell.” He glances down at his watch and huffs. “And I’m afraid if I don’t cut this right now, I’m going to be late for my next appointment.”

  “You’re cheating on me?” The flirtatious trill to Laura’s voice is painful to listen to, or maybe I’m just not accustomed to this kind of play. No one flirted with Aunt Midge--not even the fishermen who’re out at sea for months. Not that she’s an unattractive woman. I’m guessing, in her heyday, she was probably quite a catch, but she never tolerated that kind of behavior from the men.

  “You know I’m solely devoted to you, Lady Blackthorne.” As he did with me, he bends forward and kisses the back of her hand. “Until we meet again.”

  “I’ll be sure to wear something … decent next time.” The raspberry shade of lipstick is smudged in the corner of her lips, and a rose color blush is scattered too low on her pale cheeks, as if she rushed to apply it. “No more unexpected visits.”

  “I promise. And I’ve given the new formulation to Nell. I sent her out to pick up the script for you this morning.”

  “Excellent.”

  I give a tight-lipped smile as he passes, and once he’s out of the room, I notice the sparkle in her eyes has immediately dulled. “I’d like to take you down to the piano room. To play for a bit. Would you like that?”

  “I don’t know.” She crosses her hands in her lap and looks away from me. “I may as well go back to bed.”

  “No Chopin, then?”

  “You know Chopin?” From the corner of her eye, she gives me a onceover. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to come with me to find out, won’t you?”

  A harsh breath escapes through her nose, and she rolls her eyes. “If you insist. And then after, I’d like you to put me to bed.”

  Taking the handles of her wheelchair, I inwardly groan at the thought of another long and boring afternoon spent counting her dolls.

  Chapter 11

  Lucian

  In the mirror’s reflection, I straighten my tie, while Rand runs a wooden suit brush over my shoulders and down my back.

  “Are they refusing to reschedule this?” I ask, tugging the cuffs of my sleeves.

  “I’m afraid we’ve put it off too long, Master. They’ve grown impatient.”

  In the tray of jewelry that’s on the table beside the full-length mirror, I fish through the few rings, including my discarded wedding band, for a silver oxidized, moth signet ring. The skull on its thorax signifies the Death’s Head species.

  I slide it onto my pinky finger and curl my hand to a fist. “It seems they always grow impatient where money is concerned.”

  “You know as well as I do, it isn’t money that draws them. They want assurance that you’re prepared to take over your father’s position in this organization.”

  “And what do I have to do to prove that? What haven’t I already done to prove that over and over to them?”

  “Your absence makes them nervous.”

  “Does grieving count for nothing these days?”

  “After two years?” He drops his gaze at the question. “Forgive me, Master.”

  It’s no secret that I harbored little love for my father while he was alive, or that I’ve done my best to avoid as many of his business affairs as possible. Rand is also well aware that I don’t care for someone challenging my authority on the matter, either.

  “I’ve provided the funding. The connections.” All the promises my father insisted I deliver, up until the bastard took his last breath.

  “It’s your presence. Or, and I mean no disrespect, lack thereof.”

  Groaning, I step away from the mirror and clip on a set of cufflinks. “Is it my face they wish to stare at? Then, perhaps we should do away with the masks. That’ll be my first order of business.”

  “Lucian …” Rand’s voice carries the weary exhaustion of a man who’s had to wrangle two generations of Blackthorns. “They meet once every quarter. It’s always been about strengthening your alliances.”

  “Is that what it is? So, we’ve moved away from the carnival fuck-show to something more respectable, is that it?”

  With a huff, Rand shifts his gaze. “While I don’t agree with your father’s decisions to invite female subjects to mingle at these gatherings, I do think there is some validity in them.”

  “You’re saying you support the purpose behind this group?”

  One thing about Rand is he’s never one to respond impulsively, so when he stares off for a moment, I know he’s chewing on the question. “If it’s mutually beneficial to both parties, I see no harm in it. It’s no different than these BDSM sex clubs, and bear in mind, these subjects seek out the group, not the other way around.”

  “Do you think I sought out the group, when I was thrown into that hellhole institute for weeks?”

  “Of course not. But respectfully, Sir, you were a bit reckless in your … pursuits. Your father felt an intervention was in order.”

  “An intervention? Is that what he called it?” There’s no point arguing with Rand over what happened to me. He doesn’t know the details of my time there, the punishments I personally suffered at their hands, and never will. �
�I saw a man beaten to within an inch of his life because the amount of money he requested warranted it, according to the group. The difference between BDSM sex clubs and Schadenfreude comes down to desire. If given the money without the punishment, none of them would choose the torture.”

  “Likely not. But nothing in this world is free, I’m afraid. If you’d prefer, we can arrange for a dinner party in lieu of the carnival fuck show, as you so eloquently put it.”

  The thought of a dinner party would be my idea of torment. “You know how much I love social engagements.”

  “A masquerade, then. We’ll hire a crew to brighten up the atrium a bit.”

  “If it’ll get them off my back ...”

  “May I speak candidly?” Rand has never meant any disrespect, even on the occasions he has challenged my authority.

  “Have at it.”

  “They’re afraid your commitment has never been as staunch as your father’s and grandfather’s.”

  “Well, they’re not wrong. But what’s the worry? I never had a choice growing up, why would I suddenly have one now? Because the dictatorship has ended? All my father’s death afforded me was the same damn shackles he and every generation since my great grandfather have worn without fail.”

  “You know I understand, perhaps more than anyone. But this is your legacy, Lucian. If you won’t stay committed for your father, then do it for the son you were never given the opportunity to raise.”

  “I wouldn’t have subjected him to my curse. I would’ve set him free, given him choices.”

  “And forgive my being frank, but you know better than I do that the organization would never have allowed such a thing.”

  They want me because I know things. Secrets they’d kill to keep buried. I only know such things because my own father made me privy to them. The day he introduced me to their little society was the day he slung the albatross around my neck.

  “You would’ve undoubtedly been a better father than your own. But that is no longer your choice. Just as this is no longer your father’s.”

  Odd to hear him liken my situation to death. Rand has always seemed to favor the organization above all other things. I’ve not yet determined if that’s of his own will, or what my father pounded into his skull all these years.

  “What an absolute tragedy.”

  On the way to my office, the unmistakable sound of Chopin fills the dark and dreary hallway, drawing me toward the atrium. Peeking around the doorway, I find my mother in her wheelchair beside the piano, on which the new girl plays with the finesse of a seasoned pianist. Chin lifted in the air, she doesn’t seem to follow any music, and I frown watching her. Not once has she dipped her gaze to the page, or bothered to flip to the next. As if she’s memorized the entire piece, note for note.

  “I was told she can’t read music.” Rand’s voice from behind interrupts my staring, and I glance back to find him craning his neck for a peek. “Remarkable ability, wouldn’t you say?”

  Turning my attention back to her, I don’t bother to answer, too focused on the dampness of her hair, as if she didn’t bother with it after a shower. The way those long black tresses fall about her slim shoulders and frame the warm glow of her face that’s obviously been touched by sunlight.

  Vibrant with youth, she’s beautiful without even trying. Mesmerizing.

  Beside her, my mother sits with her head tipped, eyes closed, drinking in every note, the way she often would when I played for her. Unlike my father, who ridiculed my love for piano, she encouraged it, would often have me play while she trimmed her flowers, or sat drinking her tea. The only true connection I ever really had with my mother.

  “We shouldn’t keep them waiting, Master.”

  “No. We shouldn’t. Let’s get this shit show over with.”

  I steal one more glance at the girl, the way she sways when she plays, as if the notes move through her onto the keys like a conduit. She opens her eyes and directs her gaze toward me. For one brief moment, a zap of embarrassment heats my face, and I turn away, like a school boy caught peeking through the windows.

  The meeting with who I call The Blacksuits, or Chairmen of the Schadenfreude Collective, is always a dog and pony act. Established generations ago, the purpose of the organization is essentially to glean power, money, entertainment and stature from the misfortune of others, though they would undoubtedly have a far more eloquent and scientific way of describing it.

  “Gentlemen.” I stride toward the two older men who’re waiting for me in the chairs in front of my desk. Both decked in black suits, they remind me of old Italian mafia dons, though their role in the great scheme of things is far less important. These are merely just the messengers.

  “Lucian, good to see you.” Dominic must be in his seventies now, and practically grew up with my father. I’ve always liked him, but never trusted him. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us. How’s your mother doing?”

  “Just fine.”

  He shifts his attention slightly to my left, where Rand stands behind me. “And Rand? How are you?”

  “I’m well, Dominic, thank you.”

  The other guy, Louis, is mostly just here for moral support, as he rarely ever says much of anything in these meetings. Together, the two are a harmless irritation, but one that represents some of the most powerful individuals in the country, so while the idea of meeting with them is about as exciting as taking inventory of the hair on my balls, it’s worth the effort of being polite.

  I shake both their hands, each bearing the same signet ring as mine, and round the desk to my chair. Rand stands off to the side, as usual. As many times as I’ve asked him to take a seat in these meetings, he always politely declines. So I stopped asking.

  “What can I do for you?” Cold leather presses into my back as I lean into the chair.

  “We’ve had an inquiry into the group. Someone has expressed interest in becoming a member.”

  Schadenfreude isn’t the kind of group someone stumbles across on Facebook, or something. For generations, it’s remained hidden in the shadows, below the radar, a secret society whose members are some of the most affluent in the world. An inquiry is a big deal. “Oh? What is the nature of his interest?”

  “Well, that’s why we’re here. Happens to be your former father-in-law.”

  “Patrick Boyd?” Of all the unholy fucks.

  “That’s him. He’s been asking around. And quite frankly, he’s making too much noise doing so.”

  “How did he hear--?”

  “He apparently heard about us through your father, who introduced him to Thomas, and he’s been showing up at his work place inquiring about Schadenfreude.”

  Jesus Christ. Thomas is a highly respected surgeon, an active member of the group with some of the most impressive connections, including a Middle Eastern king who once made a special visit to the hospital where he works.

  “We think his motivations might be entirely political.” The disapproving tone of Dominic’s voice is what I’d expect. The group tends to frown on inquiries from those whose intentions aren’t aligned with their philosophies.

  “They definitely are. He has no business seeking membership.” I toss a quick glance back to Rand, whose face remains stoic, as if he’s not even listening.

  “Maybe. But as you know, we like to keep an open mind to those with strong alliances.”

  Strong alliances. The man has lost favor with his public after a scandal involving a young teenage girl, whom he apparently paid to have sex with. He claimed to be in a severe depression after Amelia’s death, which prompted him to go a little crazy. His wife subsequently left him afterward. My guess is, he’s trying to build his alliances back up.

  “Trust me when I say we don’t need his alliances.”

  “Well, to be frank, Lucian, we’re a little concerned about the direction of things since your father passed. God rest his soul.”

  Unfortunately, I doubt my father’s soul is with God. “You’ve nothing to be co
ncerned about, Domini--”

  “You just don’t have the same presence as your father, and that just isn’t good for rapport.” He throws up his hands, having cut me off. The guy wears a hearing aid the size of California, so I can’t get too pissed off. “People start to forget who is in charge. They start doing their own thing. I know things are different in this age, but in my generation, face to face was the way of business. Handshakes sealed the deal. Eye contact meant assurance. Confidence.”

  Or a strong desire to murder someone. “I understand. Rand and I were just discussing a dinner--”

  “We were thinking maybe you should host a party, or something. A gathering. Invite some of the big players. Let them mingle. We haven’t had one of those in … well, in quite a long time, to be frank.”

  That’s his thing. To be frank. By the end of this meeting, I’ll be about ready to kill frank.

  “A masquerade? What do you think?”

  “Bingo. Something fancy. Maybe invite some women.” In other words, prostitutes, to keep the married men entertained while their wives are left at home, because not even they know this group exists. “I want you to invite Boyd. We’ll see how he interacts. Make our own determinations based on observation. Like we’ve always done.”

  “Of course.” I can’t muster more than a crooked smile in response, but it doesn’t matter. The scars on my face make me look like I’m frowning even when I’m not.

  “Going forward, I’d ask that you meet with us on a more regular basis. Let us know how things are going. How’s business, by the way?”

  At this point, I only serve as the Chair for the family shipping business, and my meetings are few and far between. It’s the other engagements, like these, that take up most of my day. The minutiae my father dumped on me when he kicked the bucket.

  “Well. Up from last quarter.” It’s the same phrase I use at every meeting, to avoid an hour-long inquiry into the finances of Blackthorne Enterprises. Short and sweet.

  “Fantastic. That’s what we like to hear.”