I woke up sore and miserable, and put together a stale breakfast from the vending machine. Then I washed up as best I could in the bathroom—I still smelled like fire—and got back on the road, speeding toward the last place in the world I wanted to go.
It was funny, when I thought about it. I would never have imagined circumstances desperate enough to make me seek sanctuary in Bristol.
Sanctuary. A strange word. It reminded me of churches, but there was nothing holy about my father.
According to legend, the devil made a deal with the town’s founders: he would keep Bristol prosperous, and in exchange, Bristol would provide him sanctuary. He’d be safe from harm there, and nobody he wanted to hide from would be able to find him. Presumably so he could go about whatever evil he was into unchecked.
It must have taken an awful lot of power, to draw up that contract. I had no idea how that kind of magic would work, but I knew for sure it was complicated beyond the ability of anyone I’d ever met.
For a lot of the townsfolk, that legend was just an amusing bit of local flair, the kind of thing that added some spice to Halloween and campfires. But I knew better. Bristol was brimming with magic and witches, and that alone suggested an increased presence of the supernatural.
And then there was the small fact of being the devil’s daughter.
Growing up, I never met or even saw my father. Whatever protection Bristol afforded him appeared to extend to whoever he just didn’t feel like having a relationship with. But I always knew who he was. From toddlerhood, I was as aware of Devilborn as I was of my real name.
My mother had had some sort of dalliance with this devil—surely consensual, judging by how proud she was to have borne his child—and if nothing else, that had sealed her job security at the Mount Phearson Hotel. Everyone knew that Miss Underwood was the devil’s creature. Was she his lover, too? She always regarded my mother with a certain amount of scorn, bordering on anger.
But Miss Underwood also always made sure I was taken care of. Materially, anyway. When I left Bristol, the day after high school graduation and without ever looking back, it was Madeline Underwood who Williams College mailed my tuition bills to. At the time, I thought I was choosing Western Massachusetts mainly because it was a long way from Bristol. But it wasn’t as long a way as I thought. It was only after I ended up in Lenox that I noticed I’d traded one mountain town for another.
And now Miss Underwood was dead, and I was driving back to claim her hotel for my own. I tried not to take it as a sign of something awful when a thunderstorm struck just as I crossed the border into North Carolina. But I couldn’t tell which direction it was blowing. Was I driving into the darkness, or away from it?
It turned out to be neither. It passed quickly, and mostly sideways. So much for omens.
The sun had gone down by the time I wound my way up the mountain road. (The mountain road was all Phearson Road was ever called among the locals, who acknowledged no mountain other than Mount Phearson.) And there, nestled in a dip between two peaks, like a hat between a devil’s horns, was Bristol. Same as it ever was.
I was home.
You might think it was foolish of me to expect Bristol to be exactly the same, after I’d been gone for seven years. But Bristol wasn’t like other towns. It never changed. That was the whole point of having a deal with the devil: shops and restaurants didn’t fail. People didn’t die when they went off to war; they came home and took over their parents’ businesses. And who would move away, when they knew they had a home where they were guaranteed to prosper?
Most of them did know it, on some level, even if they outwardly declared the legend of the Bristol devil to be just that. Despite the citizens being fairly evenly split between those who believed in magic (because they practiced it) and those who didn’t (because they were more comfortable pretending not to see it), magic was always there, a constant in the air, even if you never put a name to it.
But the town had changed. The diner on Main Street was gone, replaced by a sushi restaurant. Across the street from that was a coffee shop called The Witch’s Brew that didn’t look familiar either, but I couldn’t remember what used to be there.
And then I came to the edge of town, and pulled up to the Mount Phearson Hotel.
Still white, still sprawling, but now the Phearson was bigger than ever. Or would be, before long. Construction seemed to be happening on all sides except the front, where the lines of the original mansion the hotel had been born from could still be seen. The woods that had encroached so closely on the right side had been cleared to a greater distance, to make room for what looked like it would be a low, square building when it was finished.
I parked my car and stared out at the hotel for a few seconds, counting the windows, like I’d sometimes done to calm myself as a child sitting alone on the grounds, away from the watching eyes inside. But now the view was interrupted by scaffolding and piles of building materials.
What are you waiting for?
No good answer presented itself. Having no luggage or even a purse, I stuffed my phone-slash-wallet into my pocket and headed to the main entrance, which presided over its rather chaotic surroundings with as much dignity as ever.
I expected to feel a lot of things when I walked in: dread, fear, loneliness. That sense of smallness and ignorance that never left me as a child, like there were a thousand conversations going on just beyond my hearing, looks loaded with messages being passed over my head, a whole other reality that I was powerless to know.
And I did feel those things, but not as strongly as something else, the last thing I would have expected: comfort. Even safety. Maybe my run-ins with Kestrel, my moments with Cooper, the lingering acrid smell of the apartment fire in my unwashed hair, had all taken a bigger toll than I realized. At least this was familiar ground.
It was almost like coming home.
Here at least, the Mount Phearson hadn’t changed. The lobby—crowded enough to suggest a healthy business, considering it was a slow time of year, but not so crowded as to feel that way—was still decorated in dark woods and shades of cranberry and cream, still dominated by the gray stone fireplace.
And boy, did that ever dominate; it was big enough for probably six people to stand in, side-by-side and fully upright. The smell of wood smoke was the first thing that struck me, and it was so different from the last smoke I’d smelled that I teared up at the sheer pleasantness of it.
Sitting with a book in one of the rocking chairs in front of that fireplace was my favorite pastime as a girl. I was only allowed when there were plenty of open seats, and even then never in one of the prime spots directly in front of the fire. But even off to the side, it was plenty warm, and at Christmas Miss Underwood would line the mantle with stockings and candles, while the smell of gingerbread from the entrants in the gingerbread house contest filled the lobby. It was the coziest place in the world.
The memory seemed odd now. I hadn’t thought about the Mount Phearson at Christmas in years. It occurred to me, as it never had as a child, how strange it was that Miss Underwood always made such a fuss over it. It was a peculiar holiday to love, when you were in league with the devil. But I supposed she did it for the guests.
“May I help you?”
The heavyset woman who approached me—Rosalie, according to her Mount Phearson Hotel name badge—wore an expression of combined caution and condescension. I guessed I’d been standing there too long, staring at the fireplace like an idiot. Teary-eyed, no less. Not to mention I couldn’t have looked very respectable, after sleeping in my car and then driving all day with no shower. She probably thought I was there to rob the place, or at the very least, that I couldn’t afford to stay there.
“My name is Verity Thane,” I said, trying not to sound tentative about it. “I’m—”
But apparently I needed no introduction, because Rosalie’s eyes widened before I even got to my last name. “Oh my goodness, we weren’t told to expect you!”
“
No, it was kind of… I had a bit of… it was kind of last minute,” I stammered. “I had a house fire, or an apartment fire, to be accurate, and there was a lot of confusion. I didn’t have much chance to make plans.”
Her eyes got even wider as I spoke, until I thought she was bound to give herself a headache. “Well, come on and let’s start by getting you a room right away.”
She walked me to the desk—still an actual, antique desk at the Mount Phearson, not a counter—and introduced me to a lanky young man leaning against the wall behind it, whose name I immediately forgot. (Jimmy? Jamie?)
While she clicked away at the computer, Rosalie assured me they would have set up something special if they’d known I was coming. “And obviously Mr. and Mrs. Boyle would have been here to greet you personally. They’re out of the building tonight, at a charity event for the Garden Club.”
“Mr. Boyle is the hotel manager?” I asked, recalling the name from a couple of Mr. Pickwick’s emails. I’d have to tread carefully with him, it seemed, if he was involved with the Garden Club.
The phrase Garden Club might sound flowery and harmless, but in Bristol it was just code for Devil’s Coven. They were—or had been—Madeline Underwood’s people. Being my father’s daughter protected me from any real mischief at their hands, but they were a sinister bunch, nonetheless.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Rosalie. “He and Mrs. Boyle still live in the owner’s suite. We didn’t know, of course…” She trailed off, looking not just uncomfortable but fearful. Did she think I would insist their things be removed immediately?
I smiled and took the room key she offered me. “Keycards, huh? About time.”
Rosalie laughed. “Progress reaches even the farthest corners of the earth, eventually. You can thank Mr. Boyle for getting rid of the old-fashioned keys, when you meet him.”
“Really, it’s for the best he’s not here,” I said. “I’m exhausted and as you can see, not very presentable. I just want to go to bed.”
“You’ll find a robe in your room,” said Rosalie. “Why don’t you wear that for now and I’ll send someone to gather your clothes? We’ll have them washed by morning.”
I thanked her, thinking of that long ago night I’d spent in the laundry room, washing Miss Underwood’s dress before going back to my own dismal room alone.
Now I had a nice corner room on the third floor, and within ten minutes of my arrival in it, a beautifully presented fruit-and-cheese plate and a bottle of wine, delivered by Rosalie herself.
“Actually, my shift is just ending, so I thought I’d bring those clothes down myself,” she said. “That way I can make sure the instructions are clear. And I thought you might be hungry.”
“Room service. That’s new.”
“The restaurant is new, and it’s just wonderful,” said Rosalie. “They’re doing three, but the Cask & Barrel is the only one open so far. Cocktails and small plates, mostly. Like a wine bar.”
“Looks like a lot of construction going on.”
“Oh, yes. We—” She stopped and smiled. “But you’re tired. I’ll let Mr. Boyle tell you all about it tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Rosalie. It was nice to meet you.”
I opened the wine as soon as she left. Even as tired as I was, I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep under that roof without it. I wasn’t much of a drinker normally, but I had two glasses, just to be on the safe side, before settling into bed.
My childhood came back, floating in through my senses. The unique, defining smell of the Mount Phearson, a mixture of wood smoke, laundry detergent, and lavender. The sounds of doors opening and closing, footsteps in the halls, frogs outside. It was a strange combination of familiar and unsettling.
But, possibly thanks to the wine, the familiar won out. I was asleep before I knew it, and when I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t remember so much as rolling over in the night. (Judging by how stiff my neck was, that was because I hadn’t.)
My clothes were waiting outside my door, and thanks to the wonders of hotel laundry, showed no trace of what they’d gone through over the past two days. I showered and dressed and wished I had a toothbrush. I was just spitting out my third swig from the hotel-sized bottle of mouthwash I found lined up with the other toiletries by my sink, when there as a knock on my door.
I opened it to find a tall, thin man in a suit that looked out of place on him despite fitting perfectly. My first, whimsical thought was that he looked like he’d stepped out of time—possibly directly from a fairy tale—and put on modern clothes like a costume. There was something almost ageless about him. He was bald, and his eyes had the look of someone with experience, but there were no wrinkles in his dark skin that I could see.
“Miss Thane?” His voice was low and smooth.
“Verity,” I said. “You must be Mr. Boyle.”
“If I’m to call you Verity, you can call me Lance.” He said it like he wasn’t sure it was the wisest choice for either of us.
“Well then, it’s nice to meet you, Lance. I’m sorry I took everyone by surprise. My apartment was just destroyed in a fire. I lost everything but what I had on.” I gestured down at my jeans and sweater.
He nodded, clearly already aware of my situation. “I’m sorry for your loss. You’ll be… staying… then?”
I smiled. “Is your question really whether I’ll be keeping the hotel or not?”
That startled a gravelly laugh out of him. “You’re a direct one. That’s a quality you don’t see enough of, especially in Bristol. But yes, I am curious on that point, if you’re inclined to enlighten me.”
“I’ll be staying. And taking possession of my inheritance.” The words felt impossible. A few days ago I’d have been more than happy to sell the place, take the money, and run. But thanks to Kestrel Wick, I needed somewhere to lay low. And I had no place else to go.
“But even once ownership actually transfers to me, I don’t plan on making any significant changes right away,” I added, wanting to assure him of his job.
Lance nodded, but his face was guarded, and I couldn’t tell whether my intention to keep the hotel was good news or not. “In that case, we have a lot to discuss. We don’t have breakfast available here at the Mount Phearson yet. Shall we go to The Witch’s Brew? We can talk for a bit and then I’ll give you a tour of all the changes going on at the hotel.”
“Sounds like a great plan.”
Even though we were in the mountains, there was no sign of the cold March wind I’d been hunching inward against two days ago in Lenox. Some of the trees were already blooming. Main Street was bright and idyllic, and I couldn’t help but smile at the familiar lamp posts that lined the cobblestone sidewalk.
Balls, could some part of me have actually missed this place? Or maybe I just missed the South.
“You look happy to be here,” Lance said.
This was the last place I ever wanted to be again. And it’s going to take more than a Carolina blue sky to fool me.
I shrugged. “I have… surprisingly mixed feelings. I grew up here, did you know that?”
Lance had an unexpectedly wide and open smile. “Oh, I’ve heard.”
There was something in the way he said it, a tone I hadn’t heard in a long time. One I thought I’d forgotten. I sighed. “I suppose we should get that devil’s daughter thing out of the way, then.”
He laughed and said, “I guess it’s not surprising you got saddled with that, with a single mom, in a town that loves its folktales as much as this one.”
I considered him. He was joking like he thought the whole thing was ridiculous. But he lived at the Mount Phearson, and he’d just been at a Garden Club event the night before. Surely he wasn’t one of those who dismissed the Bristol devil as a mere folktale.
But it seemed he was. “Sorry to make light though, it must have made your childhood hard,” he went on.
“Um… yeah,” I agreed. “I got picked on a lot. For a lot of reasons.”
A savvier kid th
an I’d been could easily have parlayed being the devil’s daughter into some lofty status among the schoolchildren of Bristol. But I was also a maid’s daughter, and then a maid myself. I was poor, and didn’t exactly dress to impress. I was also shy to the point of paralysis, always reading and hopeless at, well, pretty much anything that wasn’t reading. Given all of that, being the devil’s daughter didn’t make me cool. It just made me weird. Maybe even a little creepy. An object of scorn among those who didn’t believe in the legend, and suspicion among those who did.
“So now you’re back, in a position of power in the community,” Lance said with a raised eyebrow. “This might actually be fun to watch.”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “I didn’t come back for revenge.”
“Why did you come back? Sounded like John Pickwick had to do a little convincing to get you to.”
“I have a lot of history with the Mount Phearson. It’s been a big part of my life.” I shrugged, hoping to sound casual. “And I haven’t got anywhere better to go. My apartment just burned down. I wasn’t working a job with a lot of what you’d call upward mobility.” Which reminded me, I needed to call Terry and break the news that I wasn’t coming back. Not that I thought he would take it hard. I’d be little more than a footnote, when he was grieving the loss of Cooper.
We’d reached The Witch’s Brew by then. “Who owns this place, by the way?” I asked as Lance held the door open for me. “It wasn’t here when I left Bristol.”
“Couple by the name of Thaggard,” Lance said. “Nice people.”
Thaggard. The name sounded vaguely familiar. Someone—a football player, I thought—who’d been a few years ahead of me in school. I gave them points for the name of their shop, anyway. Were they poking fun at all the rumors about Bristol being a den of demons and witches, or confirming them? Maybe both. It was probably good for tourist traffic, anyway.
Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1) Page 4