Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  As he takes my hand, leading me down a hallway I haven’t yet ventured into, wearing a short-sleeve, black button-down and dark jeans, I have to remind myself not to stare at his ass the whole time. It’s uncanny to me, the way the man can fill a pair of denim with the same ruthless sex appeal as when he’s dressed in one of his sharp suits.

  A delicious orange sandalwood scent trails after him, watering my mouth, as I follow behind.

  The hallway ends at a door, which Lucian opens before flipping a switch on the wall beside him. Lights flicker on, illuminating what reminds me of an airplane hangar, as enormous as the room is, with high ceilings and massive shelves storing two wrapped boats. On the open floor of the place are rows of vehicles, maybe two dozen. Luxury, compact, sport. Various colors and sizes, makes and models.

  “Oh, my God,” is all I can muster, as I scan the room.

  “I like cars.” He takes the lead once again, toward a sleek, black contraption that looks like something Batman would drive. Specks of light from above dot the polished black exterior like stars across the night sky--fitting for Lucian.

  “Do you, um … have a costume hidden somewhere? Like, only pull it out when the signal goes up? What even is this car?”

  “A Bugatti Chiron. One of the fastest, most powerful cars in the world.” He opens my door on the black leather duet of seats and shiny chrome interior.

  The only two-seater I’ve ever been in belonged to Griff, one of the local fishermen who gave me a ride home from the library, when Aunt Midge got tied up at The Shoal one night. He’d removed his entire backseat to fit all his gear, because he couldn’t afford a truck.

  I’m almost afraid to sit down in this thing, but I slide into the seat. Like sitting in a cockpit, the leather practically hugs me, and it smells as if it’s never been driven in its life.

  Lucian falls into the seat beside me, his eyes immediately darting to my exposed thighs. The only reason I opted for the airy dress, one of a few that Amy left at the Manor, is that it’s supposed to get up to eighty-seven degrees today, and I can’t bring myself to risk sweaty thighs and pit-stains on my first official outing with the guy. The dress is cool and lightweight, and I’m only going to The Shoal. It’s not like any of the regulars there will even notice, and if they do, Aunt Midge will surely bop them upside the head.

  His gaze lingers for a moment, the two of us sitting in silence, until he shakes his head. “Sticking toothpicks in my eyeballs would be less tortuous than trying to keep my hands off you in that dress,” he says, firing up the vehicle, the sound of its powerful engine echoing in the garage.

  I turn away to hide my smile, pressing my knees together at the warmth he’s stoked between my thighs.

  A wall ahead lifts, revealing an inclined road, and when he drives forward, my head hits the seat behind me, and I remember that I forgot to strap my seatbelt. Once I’m clicked in, I settle into the cool leather seat, as he drives toward the gate.

  “You look and smell incredible,” he says, not looking at me at all, as if refusing to do so.

  “As do you.” Outside my window the massive stretch of lawn, with its broken fountains and unkempt hedges, takes me back to my first day here, when everything felt dead and abandoned. I’ve since found it doesn’t matter that it’s midday, the manor always carries a dark and gloomy aura. And yet, it’s strange, how in the thick of all this decay, I’ve never felt more alive.

  “There’s a gift for you in the glovebox.”

  Frowning, I glance toward it and back. “For me? Why?”

  He jerks his head that way. “Have a look.”

  I open the compartment to the small, but telling, blue box tucked inside. I may have grown up in a small fishing community, but even I know a Tiffany box when I see one. “Lucian … what did you …”

  “Open it.”

  I flip the box open to a gorgeous bracelet inside. Two thin chains, that I have to believe are white gold, link to either side of a large, princess-cut diamond. It’s breathtaking, and probably cost more than everything I own combined. “Oh, my God.”

  “Put it on.”

  Sucking my bottom lip, I shake my head. “I’m afraid.”

  “It’s yours.”

  “What if I break it?”

  “Then, I’ll whoop your ass until you bleed.”

  I snap my gaze toward him, frowning, until his stoic face breaks into a chuckle.

  “I’m certain the company that makes these things are quite capable of fixing them when they break.”

  “Yes, but you said we were strictly sex. Buying me gifts doesn’t sound like filler. It screams plot to me.”

  “I’m not following. What’s filler?”

  “It’s like ... in romance novels, when the main couple do things together that doesn’t really move the plot forward. Just kind of fattens the book.”

  “It’s a bracelet, Isa, not a ring. Please. Put it on.”

  Fingers trembling, I one-handedly latch the bracelet onto my wrist. A month ago, it would’ve looked out of place on me, ridiculous even, but paired with my dress, it almost seems fitting, aside from the tattoo just below it. The most beautiful and delicate thing I’ve ever been given. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “You like it, then?”

  I spin the diamond to the top of my wrist, wishing he hadn’t done this. It’s too much. Too much for what we agreed on, and it’ll only be harder when it all comes to an end. In spite of those thoughts, I nod. “I never want to take it off.”

  “Good. Then, don’t.” There’s a serious edge to his voice, as if removing it would be an insult to him.

  It takes twenty minutes to reach downtown, and as we approach the main street, I set my hand on his arm, feeling his muscle twitch beneath my palm. “Wait. Can we make a quick stop?”

  “Sure.”

  I direct him toward a strip of shops, where he parks the car in one of the many open spots there. Through the window, I stare up at the sign that reads Vellichor.

  “How did I know we’d end up at a bookstore at some point?” His comment brings a smile to my face.

  We climb out of the vehicle, and as we reach the door, I turn to look back at him, only just now realizing, in the brightness of day, how much he sticks out from the surroundings. Like a dark storm cloud on a sunny day. Sinister, and as foreboding as his reputation.

  A man you don’t cross, with his equally menacing black car.

  Lucian couldn’t fit in this town if he tried. He’d be the rogue puzzle piece that doesn’t want to line up in its empty spot. A thought that has me smiling when he follows after me inside.

  The scent of old books invades my senses when I push through the door and set the bell chiming. Like wrapping myself in a cozy blanket with a hot cup of coffee.

  “Rhea, you here?” I call out to the woman I visited about three times a week during high school.

  Unable to afford the number of books that I plowed through, I often lived at the library, or here. Probably about half my adolescence was spent here. Rhea let me read whatever books I wanted, in exchange for helping her straighten up around the shop. Not that much ever needed to be done. Most of her business came from out of state, when collectors would call looking for a rare and hard to find book.

  “That you, Izzy?” Graying hair pulled back in a ponytail gives some insight into her age, as she slides on her spectacles. In spite of her age, though, the woman is sharp with her wit.

  “Yeah, I brought a friend today.”

  “I see that. A mighty fine-looking friend.” When she says this, she doesn’t mean it sarcastically. One of the reasons I’m glad I brought Lucian here first. Rhea is predictable, real, and as kind as it gets. I’d like to think it’s her worldly understanding that comes from a lifetime of reading, but some people are just good people with good hearts. “Where you been, kiddo?”

  “Around. How’s business?”

  “Ah, you know. Online, I’m killing it. Here? Not so much. Brick and mortar ain’t what it
used to be. Folks have entire libraries on their devices nowadays.” Rolling her eyes, she shakes her head, the large, gold hoop earrings swinging at either side of her face. “Don’t get me wrong, I got one of those Kindly things.” She means Kindle, and the error has me biting back a laugh. “Call me old-fashioned, but I just prefer flipping pages.”

  “Same.” It’s sad to me that so few are interested in physical books these days. My favorite thing in the world used to be the sound of the book’s spine cracking open on a new adventure inside. “Anything new?”

  She offers a wink and smiles. “Got a few shipments in toward the back you might like.”

  Taking Lucian’s hand in mine, I don’t lead him to the back right away. Instead, I peruse the shelves that hold books I’ve read over and over. From classics to contemporary. At the end of the row, I stop before a glass-encased leather-bound, and stare down longingly at the book.

  “Bram Stokers Limited Edition Dracula. I’ve drooled over this thing for years. Thought for sure someone would’ve swiped this one up. It’s practically a steal at two-hundred dollars.”

  “Then, why haven’t you bought it?”

  I don’t tell him that most of the people on this island don’t have two-hundred to drop on a book. That, and I don’t want him to buy yet another gift, not after the bracelet. That wasn’t the purpose of bringing him here. I just couldn’t bring myself to pass this place without stopping in to see an old friend.

  “Nowhere to store it at Aunt Midge’s. It’d be ruined if I brought it home. It’s better here. Rhea takes good care of it. Was my favorite book growing up, though. Have you ever read it?”

  “Does it have pictures?”

  “Never mind. I forget you think literature is ridiculous.”

  “There are darknesses in life and there are lights. You are one of the lights.” A quote from the book. He turns his eyes to mine, and I swear there’s a flickering flame in them. “The light of all lights.” He leans into me. “For the record, I read quite a bit.”

  “Impressive.”

  We spend the next few minutes rummaging through books, before Lucian grabs an old copy of Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson, along with a few others he decides Laura might like to read, mysteries mostly.

  At the cash register, Rhea greets him with her signature bright-eyed smile that had the power to light up my days, back when I wandered in sad, or upset. “My first flesh and blood customer in ages! I thank you for your patronage, sir.”

  “Of course.” As he slips his wallet from his back pocket, he nods toward me. “Why don’t you head out to the car, get it cooled down, while I finish checking out.” The object he hands me doesn’t look like a key, at all, but a folded up pocket knife, or something, with a leather strip down the center that reads Chiron. On the back is a lock and unlock button, but no key. “There’s a button on the dash to start it up. Just don’t go taking off anywhere.”

  “No promises,” I say, backing toward the door. “Take care, Rhea.”

  Brow quirked, she smiles. “You too, Miss Izzy.”

  Once outside of the bookshop, I shield my eyes against the blinding sunlight that beats down on my shoulders as I make my way to the car. Hot leather stings my bare skin when I fall into the seat, and my hips thrust me away from it as I awkwardly press the start button for the engine. Tugging my dress down pulls at its neckline, exposing more cleavage, but I refuse to burn my legs again. I roll down the window as the still-warm air blasts from the vents.

  Once again, I find myself staring down at the bracelet on my arm, and I smile.

  “Oh, look, the asylum must’ve had a field trip for psychopaths.” The sound of the familiar female voice outside the window skates down my spine, and I can’t bring myself to look up and face Brady’s mother.

  Weeks after the incident at the party, she went out of her way to smear mine and Kelsey’s name through the mud, making us out to be two reckless delinquents, hooked on all variety of drugs. Because her husband is chair and commissioner of the entire island, something she likes to make clear to everyone, she’s taken it upon herself to bully anyone she deems a threat.

  For whatever reason, it seems I’m still her target.

  On reflex, I open my mouth to say something, but cap it. I’m not getting in trouble for this woman. I refuse.

  I finally lift my gaze just enough to see her and another woman sitting around a small table, just outside the ice cream shop next door to Rhea’s.

  The woman across from her, who I’m guessing is her best friend Joan, turns her head to look back at me, pausing to lick the double-scoop dripping down her thumb. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Casting my gaze from theirs, I contemplate whether, or not, to roll the window up. What the hell is taking Lucian so long?

  “Who else would dress like a whore to visit a bookshop?” The derision in her voice sounds more like jealousy, perhaps brought on by the fancy car, than that of a mother looking out for her son.

  I’m anxious to pull the front of the dress up to hide the cleavage she can likely spot from where she’s sitting, and I want more than anything to look up and say something. Say something, my head urges, but neither my limbs, nor brain, will act at my command, the silent warning of the last time I spoke up paralyzing my vocal chords.

  “Her aunt works at the bar, right? Chatty one who reeks like smoke all the time?” Joan’s voice is louder than before, as if she wants me to hear her.

  “Yeah. That’s her. Brutish one everyone calls Butch.”

  The car door swings open, and I snap my focus toward Lucian, who slides the package down alongside my legs onto the floor.

  Their chasing cackles don’t seem to have snagged his attention yet. Meanwhile, my fingers twitch with the prodding of my head to climb out of this car and stand up to this wretched bitch who made my life hell for all those months. But I can’t. Partly because of the dress I’m wearing that, in truth, makes me feel out of my element. A fake and a phony. The other part is because my mouth has gotten me in trouble before.

  Ignore them, I can hear Aunt Midge telling me, as she always did. Which is weird, because she never ignored them herself. In fact, she got into a yelling match with Brady’s mom a few months back, when the woman accused me of being in a satanic cult. Probably based on how I was dressed at the time.

  But for whatever reason, Aunt Midge insisted that I ignore them.

  I suddenly wish we were back at Blackthorne, in the dark gloom where I felt shielded from all of this. It’s no wonder Lucian’s family never really venture out much. Why would they subject themselves to an entire island of ignorance and judgment?

  “How much you think he’s paying her?” Joan snorts, and both women giggle at her remark. “Enough to fund another tattoo?”

  Finger on the ignition button, he stills, his expression hardening, and he sits forward in his seat like he’s starting to catch on. He stares through the windshield. I wait for him to start the damn car and get out of here before I do something stupid, but instead, he opens the driver door.

  I grab him by the arm and, gaze lowered, shake my head. “Trust me, retaliation doesn’t work with them. It only adds fuel.” It’s true. The last time I volleyed insults back at her, I found myself sitting across from a police officer over some harassment accusation she made up. “Let’s just go.”

  “They’re talking about you?” he asks, his hand still on the door handle.

  “Maybe. Maybe not, though.”

  “Only whores tattoo themselves! Whore!” Brady’s mother calls out to us, the target of her insult unmistakable as she stares right at me.

  Lip caught between my teeth, I bite back the urge to scream, and screw my eyes shut to the visual of her choking on that goddamn ice cream cone.

  “Fuel meet fire.” Lucian climbs out, and every muscle in my body pulls tight as I watch him round the vehicle toward the women.

  With the window still rolled down, I can hear snippets of their whispers, as Lucian approaches.
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  “Sorry to interrupt your ice cream, but my lady friend over there seems to think your comments are directed at her.” There’s an eerie calm to Lucian’s voice as he stands towering over them, while both women squint to look up at him. “If that’s the case, I’ll ask that you apologize to her for being so rude.”

  “Do you even know who you’re talking to, asshole?” Joan asks, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring sun that must be directly in her face, maybe why she doesn’t seem to recognize him and those infamous scars.

  “Any chance you might know who you’re talking to?”

  Hand covering my mouth, I swallow back a laugh, watching these clueless women rile the Devil of Bonesalt.

  Brady’s mom scoffs and takes another lick of her ice cream. “Tell me, so I can report your ass for harassment.”

  “Lucian Blackthorne.” He bends forward, holding out a hand toward her. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Both women gasp in unison.

  Brady’s mom slowly lowers the ice cream from her mouth, the top scoop plopping onto her lap with her trembling. She glances toward Joan, who hasn’t moved in nearly a minute now, as if he’s already turned her to stone. Neither woman returns his shake.

  “Perhaps the gossip hasn’t truly done me justice,” he says, and slips his hand back into his pocket. “Feel free to report my ass, if you’d like. I’ll give my lawyer a heads-up. And in the meantime, I strongly suggest you watch your words when you speak, or refer, to Isadora Quinn.”

  Not a word is spoken between the two women, and I’m beginning to wonder if he cast some kind of dark spell over them, because I’ve never seen Brady’s mom so silent after a confrontation.

  As Lucian makes his way back toward the car, I exhale a shaky breath, trying to figure out whether to laugh, or cry, at the fact that he just verbally Hulk-smashed the bane of my existence.

  The moment he falls into the seat beside me, a burst of laughter escapes me, and I double over, my muscles still trembling with the adrenaline rush. Catching a glimpse of Brady’s mom cleaning up the mess from her lap, I laugh harder. “You are so on her shit-list now.”