Master of salt & bones

After Nell put Mrs. Blackthorne to bed earlier, there really wasn’t much for me to do, aside from sitting in that unsettling room full of dolls, until Nell suggested I go grab something to eat. Kinda depressing, really. Nell sat on her phone, smoking cigarettes out on the balcony most of the time, while Mrs. Blackthorne lay passed out all afternoon. Can’t say I’d have the energy to do much of anything, if that was my life.

I shove another forkful into my mouth, focusing on the taste of the oniony green stuff mingled with the succulent chicken flavor. For a girl who grew up on seafood and cans of spam most of her life, I actually have a fairly picky palate. Gourmet food is something new to me. Something I’ll have to get used to while living here.

Movement in my periphery draws my attention, and I slowly turn my head to where an enormous figure sits off to the side, watching me. A black, beastly animal that looks like a dog and a horse had a baby sits on its haunches, staring at me. Its head is level with mine. Meaning it could lean in and chew my face off, if it felt so inclined.

A monster.

My muscles turn rigid. My jaw stiff.

Slowly, so as not to set it off into attack mode, I look around for a master, anyone who might claim ownership of this thing, but it’s just me and the beast.

Staring at one another.

“Um. Hi.”

Its ear twitches as it slides its gaze toward my plate. A long string of drool falls from its chops, and only when I lift my fork does the animal break its stare to look up at me, though only for a second, or two, before returning its attention to my food.

At least there’s enough chicken on my plate to maybe afford me a few minutes to reach the door, before it can tear after me and make me its next meal.

“Do you … um. Like chicken?” So as not to draw too much attention, I slide my hand into my lap to grab the napkin there, and more drool oozes from the dog’s mouth. A downward glance shows a tiny pool of it on the floor in front of its enormous paw. Jesus. Like a lion’s paw.

With as much subtlety as I can muster, given the tremble ru

“Let’s just … see if this will buy me some time. Okay?”

My muscles spring on instinct, and I toss the chicken to the dog, who makes a snorting sound as he catches it midair. Not a second later, he straightens again, tongue sweeping over his jowls, eyes locked on my plate.

“Did you even taste that?” I could set the plate down and run, or leave it on the table and hope the scramble to get to it affords me extra time. Doesn’t look like it’ll buy me much, considering this beast just scarfed down a chunk like it was air.

The fork clinks against the china as I lower the plate to the floor, noting the unwavering attention of the dog staring down at the food once it’s set before him. He doesn’t make a move, though. Only a quick glance up at me breaks his concentration before he goes back to staring down at the food.

Like he’s waiting for something.

I take the opportunity to slide out of my chair, pushing to my feet. Still, the dog doesn’t go after the plate of gourmet chicken I’ve just offered him. Hoping that’ll buy me a few extra seconds, I back slow and easy toward the other end of the dining table.

An endless strand of drool hangs like a shimmering cable from the dog’s mouth, but for some reason, it won’t. Touch. The food.

“What the hell are you waiting for? Eat!”

As soon as the words pass my lips, the dog lunges for the plate like it’s in a hurry, its body poised to run as soon as every bite of chicken is gone. Taking the cue, I spin on my heel, and race out of the room and down the hallway.

The surrounding darkness conceals the path ahead, and for a moment, I’ve lost my bearings in this house. Momentary brainless with fear thrumming through my veins--not a good combination.

Any second now, that beast is going to come plowing through the dining area, looking for me. Why the hell would they let it roam unattended?

I search the obscure walls for something familiar to help lead me back to my room, and when I dare a backward glance, I see the dog barreling straight for me.

“Oh, my God!” The air withers in my chest as I force speed from my legs, and when I look back again, the damn beast has already gained on me, hoofing it on all fours.

It’s going to maul me right here in this hallway.

The staff are going to come back tomorrow morning to find my body half eaten by a monster.

Aunt Midge was right. This was stupid. So fucking stupid it hurts.

An unyielding force hits me from the side and something grips my shoulders. A scream rips from my chest as the ache of the blow settles into my bones, and I look up to see a massive chest with a light covering of dark hair behind the few unbuttoned clasps of a black shirt. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric that clings tight to massive biceps that’re bunched at either side of me, while fingers dig into my arms. A chiseled jawline, dusted in a five o’clock shadow, bears grisly scars and slices, the fine lines of contractured skin fa

He releases me and I take a step back, my whole body quaking as I stare into liquid amber eyes, which are narrowed in a royally pissed-off expression that screws up the mangled half of his face. Ghastly to look at, but nowhere near the monstrous appearance I’d heard others describe. Personally, I think he’s kind of handsome, in a rough, edgy sort of way, but I’ll keep that to myself. In a matter of seconds, my eyes suck in as many details as they can grasp.

The flawless half of his face lends insight into how he might have once looked --olive-toned skin, deep chestnut colored hair that has a slightly ruffled appeal, the perfect symmetry just begging to be captured by a sharp charcoal pencil, while the other half is ruined by the scars for which he’s known.

Shadows hide much of what I imagine is hard to look at in bright light, but those eyes practically glow with malice as he stares back at me.

Don’t stare. Shit!

“I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I was just …” The dog. Christ, the dog! I turn away from the man to find the dog sitting at attention behind me, its tongue lolled out to the side, tail wagging.

As if the bastard was playing with me?

Turning my attention back toward the man, undoubtedly Lucian Blackthorne, whose stature and size leaves me feeling small and insignificant, I lower my gaze to his hands, the right mutilated by fewer scars than his face. Strong with long fingers and a map of veins that extends up into his forearms, they seem well designed for throttling, if he gets the notion. “He chased me.”