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“You don’t have to listen to everything I say, kid. You know that, right?” The glance she shoots back at me holds a smile that actually touches her eyes this time. “Sometimes, I’m fulla shit.”
“More than sometimes, I’d say.”
With a slap on my shoulder, she snorts. “Smartass.”
A few more miles up the road, the fog breaks, and the forest opens to a clearing. A black wrought iron gate, with Blackthorne Manor etched into the metal at either side of an unwelcoming skull with white stones for sockets, greets us at the entrance. Standing off to the side of the driveway is a silver box with a black button, and Aunt Midge reaches through the window to press it. Seconds later, the gate opens onto a long narrow driveway flanked by more trees, and the path widens to an expansive neglected lawn ahead.
The occasional shrubs and bushes that dot the unkempt landscape must’ve once been trimmed into shapes, given their odd contortions that now simply make them look old and tired. In the center of a circular drive stands a dried-up cement fountain, and the figure of a woman whose single arm reaches up toward the sky, her other arm broken at the elbow.
“Place looks downright abandoned,” Aunt Midge says, slowing the car to a stop.
Gaze shifting to the front entrance, I stare up the stone staircase, which is guarded by menacing gargoyles at either side, toward an enormous turret situated beside the most elaborate wooden doors I’ve ever seen in my life. Carved in thick cherry timber, they match the topiary boxes that house small, wilting shrubs.
I’ve never actually laid eyes on a castle in person. Only in books and on the internet. Blackthorne seems far too elaborate for this town, as if I’ve slipped into some medieval time bubble.
The doors open up, and a man in a crisp suit, with gray hair and spectacles, fills the gap. Given the stories I have heard, it doesn’t seem likely that he’s the master of the house, particularly as he doesn’t wear the scars said to mar Lucian Blackthorne’s face. The very scars that earned him the devil moniker.
The Devil of Bonesalt. My new boss.
What fodder that’ll make when Aunt Midge begins her shift this evening at The Shoal.
We exit the vehicle, and I follow aunt Midge up the staircase, my eyes drinking in the forlorn beauty of this place. I don’t know why it speaks to some part of me, but where Aunt Midge looks like a cat who just got the shit scared out of it, with her shoulders bunched and her jaw clenched, I find the place oddly intriguing. Peaceful, really. Almost like a graveyard.
Movement draws my eyes to a window three stories up the turret, where I can just make out the shadowy figure of someone standing there. The surrounding darkness conceals much of the face, but the discernible parts are big and imposing. Definitely masculine. If I had to guess, I’m staring up at Lucian Blackthorne.
Or one of his rumored bodyguards.
It’s amazing how many stories surround a single man.
“Isadora Qui
“That’s her.” Aunt Midge hikes a thumb in my direction. “I’m her aunt. Just makin’ sure everything is kosher before I drop her off.”
His face crinkles into a frown as his eyes appraise me, prompting me to look down at the outfit I’ve chosen to wear for my first day. Ripped up jeans tucked into rubber fishing mucks, and the only T-shirt I own that doesn’t have a coffee or ketchup stain. Imagining the way I look through his eyes, with my long ink black hair, the tattoo visible on my right forearm that reads Invulnerable in bold, cursive print, and the dark eyeliner that Aunt Midge likens to Alice Cooper’s just to tease me, has me thinking casual dress holds a vastly different meaning here. The guy probably thinks I’m another local punk. Oddly enough, dressing this way keeps me out of trouble. Keeps others away. In high school, I was called Goth Girl and considered most likely to shoot up the place.
Couldn’t be farther from the truth. While my classmates partied on the weekends and wreaked havoc, I stayed home reading books and listening to Chopin.
I’m polite to a degree, when others are polite to me, and defiant when I have to be.
“You said it was casual dress, right?”
“I suppose we all have a subjective interpretation of the word. Very well. Come on, Isadora.”
“Isa, or Izzy, is fine.”
He steps aside, ushering us through the doors that stand at least twice my height. A large brass knocker in the shape of a lion makes me wonder if it’s ever actually been used, and I stare up at the intricate carvings that decorate an otherwise benign doorframe while passing through the threshold.
“I’m Mr. Rand, Master Blackthorne’s assistant,” the man says from behind. “We spoke on the phone.”
We come to a stop in an elegant foyer, with a beautiful, dark gray, marble floor, the center of which holds a crest that I’m guessing is Blackthorne. An obscenely large and gaudy crystal chandelier hangs over a winding staircase that converges into an upper level, the dark, wooden ba
Like an undercurrent of sadness hangs on the air.
“You did say you play piano, correct?” Rand asks, while I continue to scope the place out.
“Yes. I can play. I’m not like Mozart, or anything, but I can play some songs.”
“Mrs. Blackthorne enjoys classics. Are you versed in those?”
“Chopin, Liszt, Bach … sure.”
“Excellent. The office is to the left. Please follow me.”
Rand takes the lead toward an arched door that I have to believe was custom fitted, and pushes through to an open space filled with elegant cherrywood furniture and leather. The rich scent of expensive cigars and wealth assaults my senses as I step inside. Books line the shelves alongside a credenza, and I take note of a few that appear to be business references.
On the shiny surface of the mostly-clean desk is a stack of white papers that reflects the dim light they’re below.
“Please, take a seat.” The older man gestures toward two small, leather chairs set before the desk, before rounding the other side to a much bigger chair.
The unyielding surface catches my fall as I plop into the seat. As a side gig, I’ve cleaned enough homes outside of Tempest Cove to know expensive furniture is neither comfortable, nor practical, and this chair is no exception.
Though, with as many business transactions as I imagine take place in this room, perhaps that’s the point.
“I’ve drafted the contract we discussed over the phone.” Rand pushes half the stack of papers toward me.
I slide the documents in front of me. They’re written in the overwhelming language of the serious businessman I imagine Blackthorne to be, although I frown down at the confidentiality agreement laid out on the first page. “What’s this?”
“The last companion we hired took it upon herself to snap selfies, which she proceeded to post to social media. Master Blackthorne is very particular about his privacy. During your time here, you will be entrusted to roam the castle freely, which invariably places the master in a compromised position.”