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Isadora
Present day …
“You seem nervous.”
Cigarette smoke mingles with the warm, salty sea air that’s breezing through the cracked window, as my aunt taps her thumb like a metronome against the steering wheel. “Yeah, you would be, too, if you paid any attention to the rumors, as you call them.” Cheeks caving with a drag of her smoke, she doesn’t bother to look away from the road ahead, toward me.
Wind whips my too-long hair, which I don’t fuss to brush away, while the old junker she affectionately named Hal in an ode to her ex rattles along the seaside road. The early morning sky, with its heavy gray clouds, is the foreboding threat of a storm later, and the barometric pressure seems to be adding a nice dose of anxiety to her already cantankerous mood.
“What bliss it must be to ignore everything around you, like it’s all one big lie.”
I have heard some of the rumors of Blackthorne Manor. A modern-day castle that sits on the edge of a seaside bluff, otherwise known to the locals as Bonesalt, for the white clay and sand that covers its steep walls. The place is now owned by the only heir, Lucian Blackthorne, affectionately called the Devil of Bonesalt. And I’ll be tasked to serve as a companion to his ailing mother over the next few months. “Oh, right. What’s that again? He runs naked through the woods to eat animals alive? Or is it the one where he bathes in human blood?” In mocking, I shake my head and point at nothing in the air. “No, wait, you’re talking about the one where he sneaks into town to snatch children from their beds at night.”
“Go ahead. Poke your fun. Won’t take long for you to find out for yourself.”
“That people in this town have too much time on their hands? Already knew that.”
“That the man is madder than a hatter. Why else would they call him The Mad Son.”
Oh, Lucian Blackthorne is also said to have spent some time in a psychiatric ward, earning him the second nickname, but just like every other ridiculous rumor that surrounds the guy, I’m not sure I believe that one either. “You’re just pissed that you don’t really know anything about him. Facts, anyway.”
“It’s u
“Maybe he just likes his privacy.”
“Most murderers do.”
Snorting, I shake my head and look away, knowing it’ll piss her off. From what I’ve read, his wife committed suicide and his son went missing. Somehow, the locals equated that to a double homicide. “If you honestly thought he murdered her, you wouldn’t be driving me to his house.” I glance back at her. “So, why are you driving me to his house?”
“Because I know ya well enough to know you’d find a way, with or without me. That, and I figured the drive would give me enough time to change your mind.” After a quick once-over, she huffs. “Should’ve known you’d be stubborn. You don’t have to do this, you know. There are plenty of jobs--”
“Bartending?” It’s a knock at my aunt, but I’ll resort to a whole list of unsavory jobs before I’ll consider doing what she’s done day in and day out for the last twenty years. I refuse to be yet another Qui
“Hey, The Shoal’s been good to me. Good people. Good work.”
Shitty pay. “Look, I’m not doing this to rattle your cage. We need the money. You need it.”
“I don’t need it this bad, Isa.”
This bad.
Tempest Cove is a town ruled by its superstitions. Etched in the northern cliffs on a small island off the coast of Massachusetts, it’s a place where most of the redheads are single, and no one, no matter how ambitious, leaves port on a Thursday or Friday, because Sunday sails never fails. Women are said to be bad luck aboard a ship, and there’s no whistling for fear of a gale. Also, the dudes walking around with shaggy hair and unkempt nails aren’t bums, but die-hard fishermen who believe good hygiene spoils a catch. Hell, half the regulars who close down The Shoal every night look like they stumbled in from the streets, because of their crazy superstitions.
Here? It’s just the way of life.
They also believe that if you cross paths with a Blackthorne, you’re doomed to an unfortunate and indeterminate fate.
Which probably explains why I got the job of looking after Mrs. Blackthorne based on nothing more than a phone interview. No one else in Tempest Cove is crazy enough to tempt their luck by working for them.
I just happen to be desperate enough.
As I understand, the family owns the most successful shipping company in the whole United States, so I’m not the only crazy person in need of a paycheck. To be fair, though, the business is said to operate out of Gloucester, where their employees aren’t likely to know much about the family history, like folks here.
Or what folks here think they know about them, anyway.
The only thing I really know about the Blackthornes is that they are the richest family in Tempest Cove, true royalty, and they own the only castle I’m aware of, which can be seen from any point downtown.
Oh, and they’re cursed, too. Supposedly by a siren, although some accounts reference a sea witch. Depends on who’s telling the story.
Ask anyone in Tempest Cove, and they won’t so much as bat an eye at the mention of a sea witch, or siren. They believe in such things nearly as much as the God they insist will deliver them from the evils of the world.
Including the Blackthornes.
“What about an education?” Eyes on the road, she doesn’t bother to look at me, while she sucks in another drag of her cigarette. Good thing, because we’ve already gone over this, and I’d hate for her to see the exasperated look on my face. “You have a gift. One that shouldn’t go to waste.”
Since childhood, I’ve had an unca
Sons become fishermen. Daughters become their lonely wives. It’s been that way for generations.
It so happens, though, my mother has been, and still is, the reigning whore on this island who’s kept their husbands from becoming lonely, too. A somewhat colorful deviation from the town’s norm, I suppose. While my real father died when I was born, my mother insists it could’ve been any of the men who got her pregnant. She’s always made a point to tell me how lucky I am to have a whole damn town as a father. My own personal kingdom, she once called it.
As if that makes it easier to fit in here.
What I wouldn’t give to be ignorant to this town’s disapproving stares and whispers. The way the women shield their husbands and sons, as if I walk around with snakes wriggling about my head, ready to turn them to stone.
Unfortunately, I grew up as the daughter of a si
“Need money for an education,” I answer, drawing a dollar symbol in the nicotine stained film on the window beside me. “That’s the problem. I’m cursed with impractical potential. Just like you’re cursed to meddle where you shouldn’t.”