“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 bannisters and matching dark walls like something out of a gothic horror movie. Rich tapestries hang from gilded rods, along with paintings that I would bet cost more money than my aunt makes in a year. Maybe even two years. The extravagance of this place is overwhelming, and yet, the dark and neglected tones that linger beneath all of it tug at some invisible string inside my chest.
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.”
“If you think she’s gonna take pictures of the guy’s underwear, I can assure you it ain’t gonna happen.” Aunt Midge gives an unappealing snort and chuckles. “His tidy whities are safe with Isa.” No sooner do the words tumble from her mouth than the smirk on Aunt Midge’s face fades to a frown. “Professionally speaking, of course.”
Face screwed up in what must be a grimace reserved for the most uncouth locals, Rand rolls his shoulders. “Yes, well, just the same, we’d like to cover all bases.” His dark eyes fall on me like a stormcloud, and I’m guessing the guy’s assuming I’m like most other teenagers of my generation who have social media. In truth, I probably don’t exist in today’s modern world, considering I don’t even have a phone with internet. Mine is a simple design, meant only to field the occasional frantic call, or text, from Aunt Midge when I’ve stayed too long at the library.
Without hesitation, I sign the document.
“I hope it doesn’t state in the contract that she has to call him Master, because we Quinns don’t answer to anyone that way.” If I didn’t know this job was already in the bag, Aunt Midge would surely be reason for this guy to reconsider. “Always been captain of our own ships.”
“Mister Blackthorne is fine. Though I don’t suspect you’ll have much contact with him during your time here. As I said, he’s a man who values his privacy above all else. And he’s quite busy.”
With the kind of urban legends that surround this place, I wonder what makes a man like Rand remain faithful to his much-loathed employer. Money?
It takes a couple minutes to fill out all of the paperwork and sign the documents, and when I’ve finished, I let out an exasperated breath. “Hope I didn’t just sign my soul over.”
“Of course you did.” Rand’s voice carries no trace of humor.
Frozen in my seat, I dare a glance toward Aunt Midge.
The chasing sound that fills the room might be mistaken for a chuckle, but one that hasn’t gotten much practice in the last couple of years. Rand sits with a hand covering his mouth, his eyes bunched in mirth.
For a moment, I feel like I’m caught in an episode of The Twilight Zone, the room blanching to white and black in some alternate version of reality.
Thankfully, the laughter doesn’t last long, dying down to a sigh.
Removing a handkerchief that he sets to his eyes, Rand clears his throat. “Well, then. Allow me to show you around Blackthorne.”
“Shouldn’t I meet Mrs. Blackthorne first?” Make sure the woman even likes me?
“We’ll do that last. Mrs Blackthorne tends to be very … disagreeable first thing in the morning.”
Chapter 2
Lucian
Sixteen years ago …
Drawing back the rock I’ve tucked into the pouch, I line my slingshot up with an acorn hangs from a limp branch, one mostly hidden in the early morning darkness and thick foliage. Snapping the rubberband, I let the shrapnel fly through the air, until it hits its mark, and something black, far bigger than an acorn, falls to the ground with a thud.
“Oh, shit, you hit a bird!” My best friend Jude scrambles to his feet over the crackling brush, and I follow after him as he slides to the ground beside what looks like a large raven. “Shot his eye out! Look!” he adds in his native British accent.
Where there should be an eyeball sits the fleshy remains inside a bloody socket. The mutilated organ lies a couple feet away from the animal.
“It was an accident.”
“Fucking hell, that’s disgusting! Pretty sure you killed him.” Jude’s lips stretch into a smile as he looks up at me. The delight in his eyes reminds me of a child, instead of the sixteen-year-old I’ve grown up with most of my life. “Couldn’t do that again if you tried. Nailed the bastard.”
I kneel down alongside the fallen creature, studying the lack of movement in its chest. Some believe it’s a bad omen to kill a bird. Seagulls are said to carry the souls of fishermen. Killing an albatross means getting lost at sea. I’ve no idea what it means to kill a raven. “It’s bad luck.”
“Nah. That’s crows. Ravens are just evil shit-eaters.” Nabbing a stick beside him, Jude lifts the bird’s tiny, dark eyeball and flings it at me.
I leap back, but not before it lands square on the crotch of my pants. “Asshole!” The eyeball tumbles to the ground, and I grab a nearby stone to chuck at him.