Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  “Only one. But I don’t even know if he’s a member. He might be innocent.”

  “Who?”

  “Mayor Boyd.”

  Lips curved upward, he snorts. “Amelia’s father. The scandalous Mayor Boyd who had an affair with a seventeen year old girl. Trust me when I say he’s not innocent. He’s the only one you’ve seen around the manor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know in what capacity Lucian serves this group? Have you ever seen one of his slaves, or noticed any unusual activity? Anyone coming to the manor who, perhaps, didn’t leave?”

  “Slaves?”

  “Yes. This group is known for sexual slavery and sadism.”

  “I … know he’s helped Giulia. A maid who works for them.”

  “I’m aware of Giulia. Any others?”

  “No.” I don’t bother to tell him about Franco, because that would open the box to more digging, and I don’t need a drug dealer seeking me out for having ratted him out.

  “I’m afraid I need one more piece of information before I hand this off to you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Would your aunt happen to have a yearbook handy? From, say, your mother’s sophomore year?”

  “Yeah. I guess. My grandparents had some old stuff stored away. Why? They have copies of yearbooks at the library.”

  “I know. That particular year is missing.”

  With a huff, I glance around the bar one more time. “Sure, I can look in the storage stuff in the attic.”

  “Would you like me to drive you there?”

  Makaio would probably go ballistic, if he saw the two of us leaving the bar and getting into his car.

  “No, it’s not that far. I’ll run home, and I can be back here before dark.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind offering a ride.”

  If Nell’s fate was sealed by having been caught hanging around a private investigator, I sure as hell don’t want to be caught hanging around said investigator.

  “No, I won’t be long. Can I ask what you’re looking for?”

  “Any pictures your mother is in.”

  I frown at that, my suspicions slowly creeping back in. “What does she have to do with your investigation?”

  “She doesn’t have anything to do with Schadenfreude, so far as I know. But she does have something to do with what’s in this envelope,” he says, holding it up again like a dangling carrot to a starving rabbit.

  “Okay. I’ll be back.” I slide out of the booth and am greeted by the look of confusion on Aunt Midge’s face, as I pass the bar toward the back entrance, so Makaio won’t see me leave. “Gotta grab something from home real quick.”

  “Like home-home? Or castle home?”

  “Home-home.”

  “Why you going out the back door?”

  “Cutting through the alley.”

  “You’re walking home?”

  “Yeah. It’ll just take a few minutes.”

  “Hey, Mac, any chance you can give Isa a ride to the house and back?”

  Before he can answer, I shake my head. “He’s been drinking. Look, I don’t get out much these days. It’ll be nice to walk. Haven’t jogged in almost two months. I need the fresh, sea air. Kinda stuffy in a castle, you know?”

  Arms crossed, she sighs. “Be back before dark, okay? That girl may have just overdosed, but that crap makes me paranoid as all get out.”

  She has no idea. “I promise.”

  It takes a half hour to walk from uptown to my neighborhood. The early morning strolls along the boardwalk, with the warm salty air, is something I’ve missed since taking the job at Blackthorne. Dead body aside, Tempest is a relatively safe island, overall. Murders happen, but rarely, and when they do, it’s all over the place, which results in more eyes watching.

  Probably should’ve told Aunt Midge what I’m doing, seeing as I hate lying to the woman, but she’s like an endless vacuum of worry. Besides, I need the time to process everything. Between Giulia and Mr. Goodman, my head is spinning like a hurricane. Snippets of conversation stand out like a word cloud, but none of it makes sense to me.

  You don’t trust Lucian?

  He has asked me for things. To cut him.

  Tell me what you know about Lucian Blackthorne. A man like Lucian Blackthorne can’t afford the blood on his hands with the kind of past he has.

  I want to believe that these are all as much rumor as everything else on this island, and that I shouldn’t trust any of it any more than I trusted the idea that he kept a refrigerator of human blood, but my head is swimming in lies and facts that flit past like quick minnows in the shallow. I can’t grasp anything, and the throbbing ache in my temples is a migraine about ready to wreak havoc on my skull.

  Crossing the neighbor’s front yard, I finally arrive home, and jog up the stairs to the front door. Locked.

  She finally started locking up? Only took the death threat of a drug dealer.

  I fish for the key I stuffed in my pocket earlier, and push inside to find the house still and dark. As much as I try to shake it off, there will always be a small part of me that feels uneasy without a knife in my pocket.

  When I came to live with Aunt Midge, she insisted that I leave the knife at home, because a fifth grader carrying around a pocketknife at school is a no-no. We compromised, and I began sleeping with it under my pillow. Aunt Midge didn’t particularly like the idea, but that’s the thing about growing up as a kid from the streets--people treated me a little differently. I got to eat lunch in the library, while my classmates played at recess. I got out of gym in middle school because I didn’t want to change in front of the other girls, and of course, my counselor assumed something had happened to me to make me that way, so he excused me from the elective. In high school, nobody gave me a hard time, when I skipped the occasional class to sleep in, or read at the park, because I had decent grades, and at least I wasn’t plotting to shoot up the place.

  I’ve always been, and felt, different thanks to my mother, who gifted me with ten years of constantly having to defend myself against whatever predicament she got us into. It doesn’t go away, either. The instincts. The edginess. I feel it even now, padding through the empty house toward the attic. Like something might jump out at me any second.

  Tugging the hook on the attic door, I yank it down and slide out the ladder. I can’t remember the last time I ventured up here. Years ago, it was a place where I hid away with books to read, undisturbed.

  The small, cramped space smells like damp wood and mothballs, and my muscles twitch at the possibility that I might stumble upon a small critter up here.

  I tug the chain, and a naked bulb casts a dull light over the room. Most of the stuff in here belongs to my grandparents. Old dresses and costume jewelry, tucked away in wooden crates and bins. I head toward the back, where Aunt Midge’s old trophies for softball are set out on a shelf above a stack of cardboard boxes. I pull the first one down and rifle through pictures, and posters of bands from the eighties sporting ratted-out hair and endless spandex.

  One particular picture catches my attention, and I lift it from the stack. My mom and Aunt Midge. My mom must’ve been fifteen, or so, seeing as she wasn’t pregnant. That I can tell anyway.

  While living on the streets, she didn’t keep any pictures from home, so I never really got to see what she looked like as a teenager, aside from the couple of school pictures hung on the walls downstairs.

  Long, red hair hangs loose around her shoulders in lazy curls, and her bright eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes that look like she’s wearing mascara. She had an exotic beauty, and paired with her slim, developed figure, it makes sense to me that she’d draw the stares of hardened fishermen on this island. Like bagging their own mermaid.

  Tossing it back into the box, I continue my search, and after about ten minutes, I find the yearbook buried at the bottom.

  Any pictures your mother is in.

  I flip to the index and search for her nam
e, finding three pages where she’s listed. The first is her yearbook picture, in which she smiles between long, red, side-swept bangs. So young and vibrant back then. The second is a picture of her in choir, and in it, she wears a long, purple gown, with a black stole to match the school colors. The third is a National Honor Society picture.

  I had no idea my mother did well in school. She never talked about it much, and neither did Aunt Midge. I stare down at her, where she stands amongst a small group on risers, and I scan the other faces, coming to a stop on one very familiar.

  Holy shit.

  Mayor Boyd stands at the opposite side of my mother, that too-white smile stretched across his face. The darkness of his hair puts him somewhere around forty, I’m guessing, which would make him the only adult in the photo. A mentor, I bet.

  I flip back to the index to look up his name, and find him on a few pages, as well. A staff picture whose caption is ‘Government’, the National Honor Society picture, and a third: track, which he apparently coached. Below the picture is a list of names, and one catches my eye. Not pictured: Jennifer Quinn.

  The woman in these pictures is nothing like the one I’ve come to know. It’s like looking at her doppelganger, or something. As I tuck the book under my arm, I catch the dimming light through the porthole window, telling me it’ll be dark soon.

  I climb back down the ladder, fold it up, and push the door closed. When I spin around, a figure is waiting in the living room, and I let out a shriek.

  My mother sits on the couch, flicking her cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Midge … she doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “She gave me a key.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out what looks like a wad of cash, which she holds out to me. “I just wanted to drop this off.”

  I don’t accept it, but keep my feet planted where I’m at.

  She drops the cash on the table. “Just thought it might help out.”

  “Now, you’re suddenly interested in helping out?”

  She bites her lip and scratches her head with her cigarette-toting hand. “How you been? Heard you, uh … got a job working at Blackthornes.”

  Instead of answering, I let her keep on with her one-sided conversation. I have no interest in telling her anything.

  “Midge says you been spending a lot of time with Lucian Blackthorne.” A smile creeps across her lips as she raises her cigarette. “Like mother, like daughter, eh?”

  “I’m nothing like you.”

  “You’re more like me than you know,” she says around a mouthful of smoke that she blows off to the side. Her gaze falls to the bracelet on my wrist, and I’d be willing to bet she’s calculating how much coke she’d score for what it’s worth. “That’s a whole lot of power for a girl so young. Be careful with a man like that.”

  As if she has any room to advise me on men. “So, what is this? Redemption? You think a little cash is going to make up for dumping me on her doorstep?”

  “I’m … just trying to make things right. Get my shit together.”

  “Why bother? You’re halfway to the grave. Why turn around now?”

  “I want … I want my family back. I want you back, Izzy.”

  “Don’t hand me that bullshit. I know exactly why you’re here. You found out I was with Lucian Blackthorne and you decided it might be an opportunity for you.”

  “No. No, that’s not true. In fact, I think you should stay away from that whole fucked-up family.”

  “I’m sure. Except it was Lucian who got you out of trouble the last time.”

  She stares back at me confused, as if it’s the first time she’s hearing this. “What’s that in your hands?”

  “Nothing.”

  “My yearbook? What for?”

  “You want to do me a favor, Mother? I’ll give you one chance. One opportunity. You want to make things right and be a family again? Tell me who my father is.”

  Turning her face away from mine, she flicks the ash into the ashtray again, and when she brings the cigarette to her lips, I catch the tremble in her hands. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why? Because you fucked so many men you have no idea who he is?”

  “Because he’s a piece of shit who never deserved to be in your life.”

  “Ah, perfect. You two made the perfect match, then.”

  She snorts a laugh and bites her lip, the way she does when her pride has been wounded. “You’re right. Maybe I should’ve stayed with him.” Jaw shifting, she sniffs and drags her arm across her nose. “I couldn’t, though. I refused to stay on this shithole island with him.”

  “You’re selfish. You’ve always been selfish. And this crap about having a family again? It’s just that: a steaming pile of dog shit.”

  “You don’t understand, Izzy. I didn’t …. I’m … not telling you because of me. That’s not what I meant to do.”

  “Do you hear yourself? How ridiculous you sound? The drugs have warped your head so much. Whatever you were in this …” I hold the yearbook up in the air. “Isn’t who you are now.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. That girl is gone. Long gone.”

  “I’m out of here. Lock the door when you leave. And do Aunt Midge and I a favor--lose the fucking key. I don’t need you, Mother. The little girl who did is gone now, too. Long gone.”

  My blood pulses with white hot fury, as I slam through the front door and cut across the neighbor’s lawn. The walk back is riddled with confusion and anger, and I don’t immediately notice the sleek, black Bentley parked at the corner, about a block ahead of me, until its lights flick on.

  “Shit!” I slam to a halt and bang a right through the adjacent park, running across the massive stretch of lawn, until I have to stop and catch my breath. Bending forward, I force deep inhales and long exhales, trying to settle my nerves.

  The darkness settles over me, and in the silence, I clamp my eyes to the mishmash of information pounding at my skull. I want to cry, but I won’t.

  Get it together, Isa.

  Another minute, and I push upright to hustle back before Makaio can catch up to me, when a shadow steps into my path.

  “Well, well. Look what we have here.” The sound of Aedon Ross’s voice scrapes at the back of my neck.

  I turn around to go the other way, but bump into Brady standing behind me. Fear and panic churn in my stomach, muscles tingling with the shock that crawls beneath my skin. “You’re … you’re not supposed to come near me.” Based on a court order, we’re not to talk, or go anywhere near each other, which has been easy up until now, with the two away at college.

  At the sound of Aedon’s chuckle from behind, I spin around, desperate to keep my eyes on both of them. On instinct, my hand swipes over my pocket, where my knife should be, but I left it back at the manor.

  “No, no, sweetheart,” Aedon says, edging closer. “It’s you who are supposed to stay away from him. But we won’t tell, if you don’t.”

  I lunge to the left of Aedon, darting around him, but he captures my arm. I swing out with my free arm on reflex, failing to connect with my intended target. A scream rips through my chest, but is tamped down by his hand covering my mouth. My body is dragged backward, my heels digging into the grass, as they haul me toward the building behind us.

  The park restrooms.

  The potent smell of sewage fills my nose, when we slam through the door. Urinals stand off to the side, the concrete of the bathroom floor tearing at the soles of my shoes. Aedon holds me captive, one arm banded across my chest, while the other seals off the air to my mouth. Brady approaches me, the dark smile on his face brimming with malice and long-awaited revenge.

  My whole body is quaking as I squirm in Aedon’s grasp, to no avail.

  From his back pocket, Brady tugs a pocket knife, much like my own, and twists it around in front of me.

  Salty tears mingle with the snot that g
athers in my nose, as Brady holds my legs, preventing me from kicking out at him. I reach behind to grab hold of Aedon’s groin, and the dirty cement floor of the bathroom crashes into my spine as the two lay me out. Pain shoots up the back of my skull into my sinuses, and spots float before my eyes. Another scream escapes me in the melee, echoing off the walls before being quickly capped by Aedon’s palm. He tucks my arms beneath his bent legs, and traps my head between his thighs, flexing hard against my ears. Brady gathers my legs beneath him, and I’m stretched out on the floor, imprisoned by both of them. Brady leans forward, still holding the blade, and buries his nose between my thighs.

  “You smell like dick, Isa. You always smelled like dick.” He raises the blade again, and I scream into Aedon’s palm, squirming and writhing on the filthy bathroom floor. “I’m going to repay the favor for what you did to me. I’m going to make sure you never enjoy a good fuck again. I hear it’s a common practice in some countries, removing the clitoris.”

  My head aches with the scream that fails to breach Aedon’s palm. Dizziness settles over me. The surrounding blackness closing in.

  The sound of a slamming door yanks me out of that abysmal descent, and Brady turns away from me.

  “What the fuck?” I hear Aedon say over me.

  “’The fuck you want, asshole, get out!”

  I stare down my body to where a massive, shadowy figure takes up the width of the doorway.

  Makaio.

  In the next breath, Brady’s body is hefted up off the floor and thrown backward, crashing through the door of the nearby stall.

  Aedon releases me, and I feel him scrambling about my head.

  I steal the moment to kick myself back against the wall, watching as Makaio makes easy play out of these boys, throwing them around as if they’re nothing more than ragdolls. Hands against my ears, I try to block out the sounds of their screams.

  The sounds of my nightmares.

  My body is lifted up off the floor, the world feeling light as I’m spun around, and Makaio carries me out of the bathroom as if I weigh nothing.

  I finally wrap my arms around his neck, while he strides across the park, my whole body cold with terror as I stare off at the restroom over his shoulder.