Ace of Betrayal (Hand of Revenge #1)

1. “Coming Home - Part II” - Skylar Grey

“Coming Home - Part II” - Skylar Grey

Walker

I specifically chose the red-eye because I assumed the airport would be mostly deserted at two o’clock in the morning. There aren’t many people here, but I still keep my head down as a precaution, lifting it occasionally to scan for anyone who might recognize me.

There’s a tired-looking mum in front of me on the autowalk, three bags in one hand and a toddler barnacled to the opposite hip. As soon as we step off, the little girl loses the contents of her stomach all over the gleaming tile floor and the front of her mother’s quilted jacket.

I force my hand to stay at my side rather than covering my nose. I can’t walk around them and pretend not to see, even if that’s what my exhausted muscles are screaming at me to do, so I offer to get some paper towels. I like to think I’m a nice person.

I have immediate regrets.

Because inside the restroom, like the Ghost of Christmas Past, is none other than Lux Colombia-Clarke.

I don’t know what she’s doing here, but the look on her face makes it evident I’m the last person she expected to run into at WNX.

Our gazes collide in the mirror over the sink, where she is swiping pink gloss onto her luscious, already-cotton-candy lips. Even with my eyes closed, I would recognize that scent of rose water and vanilla anywhere.

Her long blonde hair is as flawless as always, flowing down her back like a golden river. My own brown mane is pulled into a sloppy ponytail under my hat. It takes approximately one second for recognition to light up her eyes, those perfectly pouty lips forming an equally perfect O.

That’s when I bolt.

Tossing the paper towels at the mum still covered in vomit, I run for the exit, my Carl Friedrik trunk clanging behind me as it hits every bump in the floor.

I slide to a halt next to the dark blue sedan waiting outside.

The wind picks up and whips pieces of rubbish across the car park, and a travel brochure advertising Wesbourne, the Land of Fairy Tales smacks into my bag.

I flick it off and lean down toward the open window of the car.

After confirming it’s the Uber I ordered before leaving Oxford, I lift and heave my fifty-pound trunk into the backseat like a maniac and climb in after it. If the driver questions the wisdom of chauffeuring someone who appears to be a fugitive, he wisely chooses not to say so.

The car has the kind of fake pine scent that comes from those little trees people like to hang from their mirrors, but it looks passably clean. After a quick hello and a pair of raised brows, the man drives off without another word toward the address I entered into the app two weeks ago.

I tried to avoid this trip. I really did.

But when I told Dr. Riordan I was going to write my dissertation on the effect G.R.

Huntington is still having on horror literature today, he grinned as if he expected no less.

Then he said the words I wish I could scrub from my memory: “You’ll need to do your research back in Wesbourne, won’t you? ”

I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure I can access everything I need right here at Oxford.”

“Walker, this is your dissertation. It makes sense to go to Huntington’s homeland for research.

” He took a step closer, close enough that the scent of bay rum tickled my nose.

“We expect a thorough analysis and a bibliography full of references.” Then that smile, all white teeth against brown skin.

“Besides, it will be good to go home, won’t it? ”

Good to go home.

I’d rather chew glass.

If I could hole up in the Wesbourne Archives with enough caffeine to keep me running twenty-four-seven, then maybe. That was my original plan.

Until I ran into Lux fucking Colombia-Clarke.

I have no doubt the entire country will know of my return before I even make it across town, never mind the fact that it’s two in the morning. Lux has the mouth of a broadcast speaker. And while most of Wesbourne couldn’t care less about me being home, there are a handful of people who will.

I’m not above a little social media stalking, and although I haven’t posted anything in the past two years, my accounts are still active.

The last time I checked, they were all still friends, posing in those ridiculously choreographed photos Lux is forever taking, grinning at the camera like they’re in a teen soap opera.

What story have they been sold? It was impossible to tell from Lux’s face. The only emotion I could read was shock. Although in hindsight, I’m pretty sure her eyes were also red-rimmed and glassy, like she’d been crying.

My brain trips over that last thought. Lux never cries. Ever. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her tear up, and they both involve faking it.

I give myself a mental slap. I can’t be worrying about Lux, for god’s sake. She’s about to become the reason I won’t be able to slip into town and quietly do my research without drawing the attention of the exact people I’d rather keep in the dark.

The exact person I’d rather keep in the dark.

I didn’t expect it to still hurt this much, being back here. I prepared myself for pain at seeing old things changed, new things appearing, but I wasn’t ready for the tight knot I now feel in the pit of my stomach.

The city streets glow from the light spilling out of windows as we cruise down Twenty-Fifth Boulevard.

The occasional neon sign throws splashes of color onto the pavement.

Ahead of us, the Bay River Bridge looms large in the darkness, its steel arches one of the city’s most photographed sights during daylight.

We cross it, driving noises echoing across the water below us.

I release the pent-up breath in my lungs.

I haven’t spent much time on the southern side of the bridge.

The further from the river we get, the smaller the houses become.

Streetlamps spotlight postcard-sized lawns.

Discarded toys cast eerily shaped shadows against the buildings.

It gives me a strange feeling, like I’m home, but I’m not.

Were I to see these same houses during the day, I’m sure I’d find them cute and charming.

I would look at them and think, So this is how the other half lives.

Instead, all I can do is question whether I made the right decision or not.

Coming back and staying in this part of town.

When I found an old Victorian manor on Airbnb that allowed a long-term rental, I pounced on it.

Bonus points are: a) it looks like something directly out of a Poe story; b) it’s secluded and private, even though it’s within city limits; and c) it’s as far from the Hills as possible without making the trek to the Archives a nightmare .

I’m not planning to stay long. I’ll get the research materials I need from the Archives and be on the first flight back to London and the safety of Oxford. As long as I keep to myself and stay far from the Hills and downtown, it should only take me two weeks, three tops.

As the car turns onto a street lined with broccoli-top trees, my heart rate kicks up. These homes are larger and farther from the road. Their intricate architecture screams “I was here before your grandfather was born!”

Wesbourne sits between the United Kingdom and the United States, and we’ve borrowed heavily from both of their styles. Brick-lined streets, glowing lampposts, arched porticos with floral arrangements framing the doors, perfectly trimmed hedges lining the driveways.

As we pull up in front of my Airbnb, I recognize the pointy spires pricking the sky. Stephen King would have a field day with this place. A single light illuminates the front door, which is set in an arch in the stone facade.

The driver stops the car a short distance from the house.

Three stories loom above us, complete with several turrets and a widow’s walk.

I swing my tote bag onto my shoulder, laptop whacking my back, and hoist my trunk out of the back seat.

The heavy thing bumps along the gravel path as I walk to the door, getting stuck in the tiny pebbles the whole way.

The driver peels out of the driveway like he has better things to do than watch me struggle and absorb the guilt of not helping me.

Out of habit, I attempt to avoid a small crack in the cement. I take a step that’s too large, and it causes me to stumble against my bag. When it occurs to me what I’ve done, I stomp on the crack to show anyone watching that I am not the same girl who left this place.

The house beckons like the old witch from Hansel and Gretel, motioning with her bony fingers for me to step inside, take a look around .

But I’m exhausted. I booked a first-class ticket assuming I’d be able to sleep on the plane, but between the nausea in my stomach and the apprehension in my brain, I wasn’t able to do more than fret.

Inside, the air smells musty and stale, like it’s been a long time since someone threw open the windows.

It reminds me of the library back in Oxford.

I picture the rows of books lining the walls, where you can get so lost in a project you forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget that there’s a whole other life you left behind.

I’ll get some candles. They’ll dispel the mustiness and put me in the right mood to keep my mind where it should be—on my research. Not on the drama that is about to unfold when Lux opens her big mouth.

Who knows, maybe no one will even care that I’m back.