by Keri Lake
“People come to you for favors. In exchange for … a particular recreation.”
“Sadism. And why would a man of your stature want to be affiliated with something like that? Considering your past transgressions?” Say it, Boyd. It’s political.
“As I understand, this group has existed for generations without anyone’s awareness, or interference.”
“You don’t strike me as the type of man who could stand by and watch the suffering of others.”
Lips curving to a grin, he crosses his legs and eases back into his seat. “I’m a politician, Lucian. I’ve done it my whole career.”
Rising up from my chair, I bite back the frustration of this meeting and come to a stand in front of the window. Below me, Isa pushes my mother in a wheelchair, stopping to point at something out of my view. The greenhouse, if the angle of her finger is anything to go by.
From here, the pale pink top she’s wearing cuts low enough that I can see her cleavage, just like I spotted it the day in the library, when she wore that godforsaken white dress. In fact, it’s God I blame in general for throwing this peculiar girl into my path.
Dark tresses fall over her shoulders, and my hands crumple into fists with the thoughts of how many times I could wrap her hair around them. Pulling her neck taught, mouth gaping while I hold a blade …
“Lucian?” The annoying tone of Boyd’s voice hits me like a wet towel to the face, and my previous thoughts dissipate with my returning irritation.
It’s just as well, really. I have no business looking at her that way.
So young.
These lecherous thoughts she’s stirred inside of me are wrong, yet the temptation pulls at me every time I’m near her. The cloying, sweet scent of her skin, and oozing sensuality in her voice that serves as an aggravating distraction every time she talks. The way she challenges me, in spite of the sliver of fear behind her eyes. It messes with my head and if there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s when shit messes with my head.
Nineteen. Not a huge gap, but she’s young enough to make me feel like my father ogling the help, a thought that crimps my lips.
“You don’t understand,” Boyd prattles on behind me, while I continue to watch my mother and her disarming companion. “I didn’t mean to screw things up with that Krishner girl. It was just … she was so young and pretty. So … different. I missed my Amelia terribly. I was distraught. Particularly when Greta left me. I was alone.”
The comment leaves me frowning, and I break from the window to face him. “So, you fucked a teenager to soothe your broken heart? That’s disturbing, Patrick.”
“It was stupid. Irresponsible. And for the record, she was of consenting age.”
She was barely eighteen, and him fifty-six. Consenting, or not, it’s fucking gross.
“I’m making amends. Building my castle back up, so to speak.
“You’re looking for connections.” To hell with beating around the bush. This guy is literally a professional at the game, and I’ll get nowhere unless I come right out and say it.
“That’s only partly true. I am very curious in the study.”
“You’d have to be sick in the head to hold any curiosity about this study.”
“Then, why are you involved?”
Because I am the study. Of course, I’ll never tell him that. “Why didn’t you come to me first?”
“I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me after … everything.”
“And how do I know this isn’t your attempt to spy?”
“Considering who the members are--you, in particular--I’d consider that a pretty costly endeavor.” He isn’t kidding. If any one of the members, some of whom are former military and FBI, politicians and even royalty, ever got wind of malicious intent on his part, he’d find himself strung up like every other poor sap who comes begging for a handout.
Spinning my chair around, I plop back down and tug my cigarette case from my pocket. “It isn’t up to me,” I say, tapping one against the case. “They’ve asked me to invite you to a masquerade in two weeks. I’m asking you to decline.”
Snorting a laugh, Boyd shakes his head. “You … you owe me this. Your whole family owes me.”
“Consider this a favor. A friendly warning.”
“I’m not declining, Lucian. I want Senate, and this is my opportunity. If I have to pretend to enjoy busting kneecaps and smacking around a few unfortunate souls. So be it.”
The collective will see right through his request. They already have, which means I don’t have to say anything else on the matter.
“Then, we have nothing more to discuss. Rand will see you out.”
Lips pressed tight, he pushes up from his chair. “I really hoped to have a better relationship with you. For Amelia and Roark’s sake.”
“My wife and son are dead. I see no point.”
Clearing his throat, he rolls his shoulders back, clearly offended. “Have a nice day.”
Without another word, he slithers toward the door like the snake he is, and I huff in exasperation.
In-laws.
Chapter 18
Isadora
It occurs to me how long it’s been since I’ve ventured outside for leisure. Used to be I’d spend long hours at the beach with Aunt Midge, reading books and soaking up the sun on days when she didn’t have to be at The Shoal until later. Working on my tan was about the only thing I accomplished those days, back when everything was so carefree.
Before the incident, anyway.
Afterward, life got complicated. Darker. The sun didn’t seem to shine as bright, and nothing in my world was carefree.
“It’s a damn shame, the way this place has gone to shambles.” With her hands set in her lap, atop a blanket that seems way too thick for the summer sun beating against my neck right now, Laura huffs, the sound of her voice breaking my thoughts. “I hired the best gardeners in the state. Blackthorne Manor was featured in a magazine. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t.” Glancing around at the withered husks of what must’ve once been vibrant and colorful flowers, I can’t even imagine such a thing. “It must’ve been beautiful at one time.”
“Oh … Easton was an artist. Absolutely incredible. If only the man wasn’t so damn stupid, getting himself caught up in drugs and hustling.”
“Easton?”
“The gardener. We found out he was pushing his drugs on Lucian, and promptly put a stop to that.”
At the mention of his name, I look up to the office window and catch the devil himself staring down at me. I can’t imagine a serious man like him high on drugs. With a slight smile, I wave.
He merely continues to stare down at me, and all that moves is the upward curl of smoke from his cigarette.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
“Oh, my word, look who decided to grace us with his presence! Patrick Boyd.” Laura’s voice snaps me out of my trance, and I turn to see an older man, perhaps in his sixties, with graying hair and a matching gray suit, stroll toward us. Slightly handsome for his age, I can almost hear Aunt Midge referring to him as a silver fox, as she sometimes says. He adjusts his glasses and extends a hand toward the woman beside me.
“Laura Blackthorne, you are, and always have been, a sight for sore eyes.” Taking her hand, he bends just enough to kiss her knuckles. “I wondered why the sun was shining so brightly today.”
“Oh, you charmer. Enough with that.”
His gaze falls on me, and for some reason, my stomach curls. Deep-set blue eyes carry a dull weariness, while his lips stretch in a too-bright smile. “And who might this be?”
“My companion, Isadora. This is the former Mayor Boyd.”
“Soon, I’ll have a fresh new title that sounds more impressive.” He holds out his hand, and I hesitate to offer him mine.
With reluctance, I allow him to kiss my knuckles, just as he did Laura’s a moment ago. “Nice to meet you.”
“My, my. You must be �
�� eighteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“You remind me so much …” Lips slamming together, he shakes his head, his grip tightening around my fingertips. “Of my Amelia.”
Jesus. It’s then I remember he’s Amelia’s father. I was so focused on his appearance, I forgot who the hell he was.
“I’m sorry. For your loss.” I’ve always been terrible with these things. Words of sympathy and gratitude. While Aunt Midge always seems to know the right thing to say, probably from working so many years as a bartender, I’ve always stumbled in awkward silence.
“She was a …”
“Vision of grace and beauty,” Laura finishes. “Is she resting now? I swear that child sleeps all hours of the day.”
Mayor Boyd’s hand slips from mine, his brows crinkling. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“She’s, um …” A quick glance to the side shows Laura staring up at me, and I offer a subtle shake of my head, hoping to implore him with my eyes. “Might be time for another … dose.”
His gaze flicks to mine, then hers, and back to mine. “I see. It was good to see you again, Laura.” He takes her hand in his, wearing a smile that even I can see is fake. “I’ve got lots of work to do.”
“Well, let me fetch Roark so you can say goodbye. Roark! Roark!”
Wrenching his hand away, he pushes his glasses up onto his nose and strides off in the other direction.
“Well … how rude. Do you have any idea how much Roark misses his grandfather? Well, he hardly gets to see the man, and this is how he acts? Griffin would’ve been furious. After all we’ve done for that man.”
Would’ve?
“Where is Griffin now?”
“You can’t be serious. He’s been dead for a few years now.”
Interesting. She recognizes that her husband is dead, but not her daughter-in-law and grandson.
“I have to admit, I was never a child person. Yes, Lucian was my sweet baby boy, but I didn’t flock to children, the way some women do. They made me uncomfortable most times. Lambs of Satan, I called them. But Roark. Roark is my little angel. My delicious little ball of sunshine.” There’s a fondness in her chuckle, and her eyes seem to sparkle as she speaks of him. “I wonder if he’s awake from his nap.”
With a sigh, I lower my gaze. “No. Not yet.” I don’t know if it’s wise to play into her confusion, or not. My understanding of psychology is about as extensive as my understanding of microsurgery. It’s only having lived with an addict that I know to change the subject when things start getting squirrely with them. “Hey, what if I plant some flowers. Clean out these flowerbeds for you.”
“What’s the point? They’ll die. Everything dies here.”
“Maybe just a few pots, then? We can work on it together.”
Head tipped, she eyes me up and down. “What do you know of gardening?”
“I worked for a landscaping company for about two months. What’s so complicated? Dig a hole, and throw in some seeds and water. Voila. Flowers.”
“You’re hopeless, child. If nothing else, I suppose a lesson might do you some good. Have one of the servants fetch my gardening supplies. In the meantime, I want to lie down.”
“It’s only midday. There’s still so much we can do.”
“I’m tired. And cold.”
Jesus, it’s gotta be eighty degrees outside right now. “You’re sure? I’m happy to do all of the grunt work. Filling pots, digging the holes.”
“Tomorrow. Take me to my room.”
Chapter 19
Lucian
Sixteen years ago …
Darkness swallows me, while I follow the path through the trees toward the clearing up ahead. The moon is still high enough that the tides haven’t yet swept through the cave, just below the grassy knoll that marks its spot. Beyond the edge, the sea almost looks calm, where fishing boats sit off in the distance.
The conversation with my father weighs like an anchor around my neck. For the last sixteen years, I’ve struggled to find a commonality with him, to the extent that I pretty much gave up trying. We’re different. We always have been.
And yet, a part of me yearns to understand this fascination I’ve developed. The tipping point between pain and pleasure, life and death. What if the only person who understands it is the very person I can’t relate to on any level. The one I can’t stand in this world?
The concept of Schadenfreude is beyond my comprehension. Like a group of sadistic children who chose not to evolve in favor of their amusements. I don’t find pleasure in suffering, only the perception and fantasy of it.
But what if he’s right? What if it continues to evolve? What if my future children suffer from the same uncontrollable urges he’s inflicted on me? Could I seek out excuses to punish and abuse my son, the way he’s done to me all my life? Would I be just as cruel someday?
The answer is no. Not because I don’t believe his theories, but because I’ve no intentions of bringing children into this world. Whatever it is he thinks he’s discovered will die with me.
The path narrows along the edge of the cave, and my thoughts are tamped down by the crash of waves as I approach the beach. A thrill winds in my stomach, hardening my muscles at the thought of what’s to come. The excitement of testing my limits again, and the exquisite reward of climax that always follows. As I enter the cave, I find the lithe form of Solange, her long dark curls spread out over the sand, hands already trussed over her head by rope attached to the signpost set deep in the sand, her gown in disarray and exposing her thighs.
“Well, you didn’t waste any time, did you?”
She doesn’t answer, and it’s only as I approach that I notice the irregular pallor of her skin.
I slow my steps.
Purple blossoms of bruises dot her legs and her bound arms. The abnormal contortion of her bent elbow, as if it’s twisted the wrong way, stirs nausea in my stomach, and I slap my hand to my mouth.
It’s not until I’m standing over her that I finally see the vacancy in her stare, assuring there is no life left in her, and terror explodes inside my chest, my head urging my muscles to move and get the hell out of here, but I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t stop looking at her lifeless face. The image now permanently seared inside my head.
My throat flexes with the need to scream, but a tight fist clamps around my lungs and keeps it from escaping.
She’s dead.
What did you do?
A black insect emerges from the corner of her gaping mouth, and I curl my lip as it scampers across her face and burrows in her hair that’s matted down by sand.
My leg twitches, and I stumble backward, falling onto the boulder behind me. Spinning on my heel, I race out of the cave, up the path along the edge of it, and across the field. My chest burns, the muscles in my legs ready to collapse with fatigue, but I don’t stop. I keep running until I reach the stone staircase, where Rand greets me.
“Help!” A hearty cough slices through the rasp of my voice. “She’s …. Help!”
My knees finally buckle, and the gravel of the driveway chews at my skin when I hit the ground. I throw my palms out to keep from smacking my teeth. “She’s … dead. I …. Dead!”
“Calm down, Lucian.” His hands settle across my back, and he tugs me to my feet. “What is it? What are you saying?”
“Solange! She’s dead! In the cave! I saw her!”
Brows furrowed, he tips his head and lifts his gaze toward the direction from where I came running. “Are you certain that’s what you saw?”
“Yes!” The shock releases its hold, and my muscles give out on me again. I collapse in his arms as a sob rips from my chest. “She’s … dead.”
Chapter 20
Isadora
Present day …
I wheel the chair into Laura’s doll room, where Nell meets us.
“Short excursion today.” Handing over Laura’s cane, she stands off to the side, allowing the woman to push to her feet. As she reaches
for one of Laura’s hands to steady her, the older woman bats her away.
“One moment.” Laura hobbles toward the glass case of dolls, her reflection showing a content smile. “Look how beautiful. My beautiful little children.”
I exchange a glance with Nell, who rolls her eyes with impatience, and approach Laura from behind. “Which is your favorite?”
“A mother doesn’t have favorites.”
“Fair enough, which is the most priceless?”
“Ironically, it’s the one I paid the most for.” She points to one of the smaller dolls, one that seems old fashioned in rag clothes and a bonnet, with puffy cheeks and heart-shaped lips. Completely unnoticeable in a sea of dolls with far more color and detail. “I’d almost forgotten about her. I purchased her from Theriault’s for three hundred thousand dollars.”
My heart damn near cuts out, and I cough at the absurdity of paying so much for a doll.
Laura lifts her hand to the bracelet at her wrist and the small key that dangles from the linked chains. She unlocks the door and reaches in for the doll, her thumb gently brushing over its cheek while she smiles admirably. “She was created by the French sculptor Albert Marque, for the Parisian couturier, Jeanne Margaix-LaCroix, back in the early nineteen-hundreds.”
“It must be very special to you.”
“Griffin thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever purchased.” Leaning into her cane, she sets the doll back in the case and locks the glass. “A man who spared no expense for his little dinner parties. Do you know, he once paid a half-dozen women to pose naked as live sculptures?” She scoffs, hobbling back toward her bedroom. “A hundred-thousand dollars for a few hours of lewd entertainment. And how many men stood fondling those young girls.”