Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  I tip back another sip of my drink and tuck my hand into my pocket, listening to him sob like a child. “I apologize for the haste of this meeting, but I’m afraid the matter was urgent. I’ve come to the decision that I’m neither going to return your shipment, nor entertain any bullshit from your uncle. No one will find your body. You’ll be nothing more than another pile of bones to add to my collection.”

  As he moans and writhes in the chair, Makaio grabs one of the tools from beside him and prods a sharp-looking object into the man’s side.

  Franco arches, his voice cracking on a scream before it dies down to another sob.

  The sight of his tears tugs a smile that I bury in the last of my drink. “Turns out, you were right, Franco. I am fucking crazy.”

  Chapter 33

  Lucian

  Eight years ago …

  Annoying giggles echo down the hall as I pass the atrium on the way to answer my father’s summons. The sound is as much a nuisance as the girl’s presence, and when I catch sight of Amelia, sitting on one of the chairs beside my mother, while the two of them appear to trim flowers, I can’t help but wonder how much longer this will go on. What started as an invitation to spend the week with us has turned into nearly a month of her and my mother running around this place like two obnoxious teenagers.

  Amelia flashes yet another flirtatious smile, one of many in the last month, and I turn my head to dodge it and keep on down the hall, toward my father’s office.

  It seems she’s always there, wherever I am. Whether it’s in the pool, the gym, the garden, the hallways. I can’t stand that she’s everywhere. Always flirting and offering things I’m pretty sure my mother wouldn’t approve of, if she heard them.

  Of course, I always refuse.

  I don’t know what it is about her. She’s undeniably one of the most beautiful girls in Tempest Cove, and yet, I’m not attracted to her in the least. Not since I’ve been forced to spend every day avoiding her, anyway. I’m waiting for my mother to bring up marriage, and that’ll be when I put my foot down.

  There’s no way in hell I’ll marry Amelia Boyd.

  The elevator opens, and I slow my steps on entering my father’s office, where he sits across from Mayor Boyd. Frowning, I keep my eyes on Boyd, while I take my seat beside him and look back to my father, whose flat expression offers no indication as to what this meeting is about.

  “Hello, Lucian,” Boyd says, his voice tense as he stares down at his entwined hands.

  “Hello.”

  “Lucian, you know I’m not one to beat around the bush, so I’m just going to get right to the point of this meeting.” My father has a way of setting my nerves on edge with his honesty, and today will be no exception. “Did you fuck Amelia?”

  A bolt of shock pierces my chest, squeezing my lungs, and I sit forward to cough. “I’m sorry, what?” I try not to look at Boyd, whose glare is practically burning a hole in the side of my head right now. The last time I touched the girl was the night of my party, holed up in the cleaning closet, and I haven’t had the inclination to go near her since. “I mean, we fooled around. A little.”

  “Did the two of you have sex?”

  “It’s … not what …” I swallow a harsh gulp and glance to the side, catching sight of Boyd’s stern brows and unamused expression. “I wouldn’t call it sex, really.”

  “’Fucks sakes, boy. Did you stick your dick inside her?” My father’s questions have my hands sweating.

  “For a couple minutes, I guess. Yeah.”

  Rolling his eyes, my father groans.

  “Why are you asking me this?” Shifting my attention between Boyd, whose flat lips and balled hands are a pretty good sign he wants to kill me, and my father who slouches in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face, I don’t know whether to duck or run. “It was completely consensual between us. She wanted it as much--”

  “She’s pregnant, Lucian.” My father’s words punch my gut, and I clutch my stomach as bile shoots up my throat.

  “Pregnant?” The back of my hand muffles the question, as I try to hold back the torrent of vomit itching to break free. “I didn’t even … I wore a condom. And I never …”

  “Condoms break. Surely your prestigious education has taught you something on sex ed.” The ire in Boyd’s voice confirms what I already suspected--the man would probably try to kill me, if my father weren’t sitting across from him right now.

  “Are you sure it’s …” I know the answer to this, though. Amelia hasn’t left the Manor since the night of the party, a month ago. As terrifying as it may be, I am the most probable suspect.

  “Come on now, boy.” My father swipes up the glass of liquor on the desk in front of him and guzzles what’s left of it. “If that girl pined any harder for you, her feet would be stuck in the dirt, with roots coming out of her ass.”

  Boyd clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back. “Kindly bear in mind this is my only daughter.”

  “The Boyds are Catholic, as you know. It’s not their way to terminate a pregnancy, or get knocked up out of wedlock, for that matter.” Tapping his finger on the desktop, my father stares off for a moment, seeming to chew on his lips. “You’re going to marry her.”

  Another punch to the gut. This one harder, the pain of it shooting up into my ribcage. “What? No. I can’t.”

  “You have no choice, Lucian. You got yourself into this mess.”

  “I’ll be there for her. I’ll raise the child. Ensure that it never wants for anything, but I cannot marry her.”

  “You can desecrate her, though? Put your filth inside her?” Boyd speaks through gritted teeth, his anger burgeoning before my eyes.

  “It doesn’t work that way, Son. Mayor Boyd has a reputation to uphold. How do you think it looks if his only daughter is pregnant, without a husband?”

  I don’t care how the fuck it looks. It’s my life he’s looking to muddle, and it’s not like she didn’t have a say in what we did that night. “This isn’t the seventeenth century. Women get pregnant and have children, without marriage, all the time.”

  Cheeks puffed, my father lets out a long, dramatic exhale. “The decision has been made. You’ll marry Amelia Boyd, and that’s final.”

  Chapter 34

  Isadora

  Nearly two weeks have passed since the incident with my mother and the drug dealer. I’ve texted Aunt Midge every day, twice sometimes, to see how she’s doing. If she’s heard anything. Seen anything. Gotten a sense that he might come back.

  Everything has been quiet.

  Lucian hasn’t said a word to me since I braved barging into his office to thank him. We pass each other in the hallway sometimes, but it’s like two ships passing on a placid sea. Not a word spoken between us. I’ve caught him watching me a few times, when I’ve been out in the garden, or playing piano, but never longer than a fleeting moment before he looks away.

  Maybe I’ve thought too much of it, because I’ve had more dreams of him lately. Dark dreams I wouldn’t dare tell a soul about, not even Kelsey. Ones where he keeps me imprisoned in this place, and I find myself questioning whether he’s good, or evil. The other night, I woke up sweating and panting, calling out for him.

  Humiliating to think that Giulia may have heard me.

  I suppose I’ve always been drawn to older men, having developed well before most girls my age. The boys I grew up with were immature and plain stupid, always touching. Fondling.

  Taking without asking.

  Grown men tend to be different toward me. Careful, if not curious.

  The dark hallway of the first floor greets me, as I step out of the elevator and make my way to the dining room. En route, I pause at the atrium, and look inside where the last few weeks of contractors and construction workers have turned what was once unkempt and neglected into a vision of wonder and fascination. Healthy vines spill down the gilded iron bars, braided in small white lights. Newly painted walls and lush greenery give a splash of spectacular color. Lantern
s hang from the ceiling like stars in the night sky, while the floors, polished and shining, reflect the glow above.

  Breathtaking.

  I step inside the room, empty of workers who must be on their lunchbreak, and take a seat at the piano. A device sits propped against the music rack. Small and clunky, it reminds me of a walkie-talkie.

  A large, round button in the center of it carries the symbol for play, and out of sheer nosiness, I press it. Music drifts from its speakers like black ribbons flitting around me. Haunting and darkly beautiful.

  It’s a piece I’ve not heard before, I close my eyes, taking in every stroke of the keys, letting it wind around my senses.

  The sadness. The longing.

  The notes take shape inside my head like a living, breathing entity. A vision of Lucian’s hands dancing over white keys, and up over my arms, his fingertips dragging across my skin. I breathe in through my nose, and exhale through parted lips, while the music takes me back to my most recent dream of him. I reach up to touch my lips, recalling the night he kissed me on the rooftop, my eyes still shuttered to everything but the scene playing behind my lids.

  “What are you doing?”

  At the sharp, menacing tone, I jolt from my musings and scramble to turn off the device, pressing the first button that stops the music. Muscles vibrating, I turn to find Lucian standing across from me, with a notepad clutched at his hip.

  “Tell me you didn’t mess anything up.”

  “I … I didn’t.”

  Scowl plastered to his face, he strides toward me and swipes up the device.

  “I saw the recorder sitting there, and …”

  “It’s a Tascam,” he says, examining the equipment.

  “A what?”

  “A Tascam. Used to record tracks.”

  “It’s your music, then?” I can’t help the wonder in my voice, imagining such a beautiful piece originating inside his head. “I swear I only listened to it.”

  Shoulders sagging, he tips his head back, eyes screwed shut, as he presses the play button.

  “Tell me you didn’t mess anything up.”

  “I … I didn’t. I saw the recorder sitting there, and …”

  “It’s a Tascam.”

  The playback is our conversation. I must’ve accidentally recorded over the music.

  I slap a hand to my face, the needling pangs of shock stabbing my gut. “Oh, no.”

  “Hours, I tried to get that piece right. Now, it’s gone.” He waves his notebook in the air. “Ran to get something to jot down the notes.” Jaw hard, he chucks the book across the piano strings beneath the lid.

  “Lucian, I’m so sorry.” Remorse hammers through me, crushing my chest like a heavy fist. “I didn’t mean to touch it.”

  “You just can’t keep your hands off anything, can you?” The growl in his tone likely only represents a fraction of his anger. He tosses the Tascam onto the music stand, and when it falls to the keys, slamming out a hard note, I flinch. “I’ll never remember it.”

  Lowering my gaze, I stare down at the keys, and while echoes of the song linger in my head, my eyes scan over every placement of my fingers. I see them. I know them. “I can.”

  Still turned away from me, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge my response.

  Exhaling a shaky breath, I set my fingers to the keys and close my eyes. At the first note, I feel the black ribbons dance around me as I play the song from memory. The soft caress of his hands on my skin. The warmth of his breath at my neck. Every moment of the song permanently seared by his imagined seduction that winds around each keystroke. The dream plays exactly as before, every look, every touch. Up until the point when it ends, and I open my eyes to Lucian’s incredulous stare.

  “How did you do that?” Disbelief blazes in his eyes while riding the tone of his voice.

  “I played it from memory.”

  “I literally wrote that minutes before. How could you possibly know the notes?”

  “I didn’t know the notes. I can’t read music.”

  Frown deepening, he crosses his arms. “How? I’ve heard you play Chopin. Liszt. Bach.”

  “All from memory. But I’ve never learned notes.” The awe in his stare is too much, and I shift on the bench. “So … are you going to stand there? Or are we going to figure out these notes?”

  He reaches beneath the piano lid for his notebook, and I set my hands to the keys once more. For the next hour, he has me play small segments of the song, while he furiously jots down the notes, capturing every single one. Each time I play, the same images come to mind, making it almost impossible to look at him, for fear he’ll see the desire burning in my eyes. By the time we’re finished, I’ve mentally made love to Lucian over and over again.

  He sits beside me on the bench, a partial smile playing on his lips as he stares down at the last page of music. For a man so serious, so focused on business and his work, there is a vulnerability to him in the pride he exudes right now. This is it. His soft spot, where the steel bends around the notes, and the shadows that always seem to follow him dance across the walls. Beneath the leathery skin and hardened bones, this is where his happiness hides.

  I finally found it.

  “Thank you for this.”

  Tucking my hands into my lap, I nod. “It’s a beautiful piece. Would’ve been a shame to lose it.”

  “It would’ve.”

  “What will you do with it?” I try not to stare at his magnificent hands, the long fingers and perfectly trimmed nails, his skin slightly weathered with age.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” This must be what my high school teacher felt like when I told him I had no plans to follow through with music. I can’t fathom that Lucian would let such a beautiful piece collect dust.

  “I didn’t write it to do anything with it. I wrote it to get it out of my head.”

  What a wondrous place it must be inside his mind. A dark and wicked place, brimming with the bizarre and peculiar, just like the song.

  His eyes finally fall on me, the soft amber glow of his irises eclipsed by shadows. “It reminds me of you.”

  The dryness of my throat becomes apparent when I attempt to swallow. “How so?”

  “The way it’s haunting. Delicate. Perilous, yet somehow alluring.” Precisely the words I’d use to describe the song. “Annoying as fuck.”

  At a burst of laughter through my nose, I cover my face. “I annoy you?”

  “Incessantly.”

  My laughter wilts to a sigh as his lips snare my attention, lulling me into the memory of being on the rooftop, lying beneath him. The many times I’ve thought about his kiss since that night, tasted the whiskey on my tongue, and have longed to feel the butterflies in my stomach again. The right and wrong waging war inside my head. The lure of it all, so intoxicating, I don’t even realize I’m leaning into him until my lips brush his.

  What are you doing! The warning blares inside my head.

  His thigh twitches beneath my palm where I’ve unwittingly placed my hand.

  Oh, my God.

  Mortification washes over me in excruciating colors of red, as I back away enough to see the disapproval darkening his eyes.

  He snatches up my wrist from his lap, startling me, and I wonder if he’ll slap me across the face with my own hand. “You misunderstand my intent.”

  “I’m sorry.” Cheeks burning with humiliation, I can’t bring myself to look at him. “I thought you …. I mean we …. I thought you wanted …”

  “You’re a teenager. Practically a child. I’m a grown man.” The derision in his voice is thick and condescending.

  “I’m not a child,” I snap, the distraction of his insult smoldering my embarrassment. “You had no problem kissing me before, as I recall.”

  Eye twitching, jaw shifting, he stares back at me. “A drunken mistake, as I said.”

  A mistake. I was a mistake.

  I try not to let the harsh blow of his mockery slip beneath my skin, but I can�
��t help it. “You really are something.” I hate that my voice cracks on the last word, and I have to look away momentarily when the stinging rims of my eyes threaten tears. “You and I aren’t so different, you know.” Twisting my arm still caught in his grasp, I break loose and peel back the sleeve of my shirt to show the scars across my arm. “I know what it’s like to push people away, too.”

  He doesn’t spare them so much as a glance. “You think your small inconspicuous scars make us alike? You are nothing like me, Isa. You have no idea what I am, or what I’ve done to earn my scars.”

  “You’re not a monster. Nor the devil everyone says you are. Devils don’t help people.” Beneath the cold shadows in his eyes lies a flicker of warmth, so subtle, I almost wonder if I’m imagining it. “You’re just alone. Like me.”

  He snorts a mirthless laugh. “I’ve never been alone. That’s the problem with having money. There’s always someone who wants it.”

  “Is money always your excuse? Because mine was always that they weren’t smart enough. Mature enough.”

  A muscle in his jaw tics, as I imagine him grinding my words in his teeth.

  “What do you want, Isa?” He lifts my wrist to his face, holding it there as he kisses the skinny white lines across my skin. “You want me to fuck you? So you can add more to your collection?”

  “Fuck you.” I wrench my arm back, but he tightens his grip. “You don’t have to be cruel.”

  “I do. It’s the nature of my being. You’re right, though. I’ve done a number of sadistic things to myself over the years.” He runs his thumb over my scars, as if reading them, and that flickering warmth returns again. “But depriving myself has always been the worst.”

  The sadness, the loneliness in his voice tugs at my heart, and for a brief moment, I wonder if this is his honesty bleeding through the steel. Arm still propped in the air, I uncurl my fist to touch his face.