Eldrith Manor

Prologue

Lynx

Many years ago

The big hand strikes seven thirty. I’m officially late to drop my little brother off.

Which means I’m going to be late for work.

Fuck.

I was lucky to get a job with the railroad at this age—I practically begged them on my hands and knees so I could try to save our mother. Her medical bills were piling up—some still aren’t fully paid—so I really can’t get fired.

Dylan pokes at the last scoop of porridge we have, his feet swinging back and forth, nowhere near the ground, at the broken table in the corner of the shared room.

“Can I eat something else? This makes my tummy hurt,” he whines, pushing the food around with the burned spoon.

His curly blonde hair hangs in his eyes, uneven from the last time I tried to cut it with a blunt pair of scissors.

Dylan is five, and the other kids his age all have jobs after school, but I promised our mom before she died that I’d keep him out of work and try to give him the luxury of an education. That I’d work myself to the bone to give him a better future.

He lowers his head when I shake my own. “We don’t have anything else. I’ll get us some bread on the way home.”

“Can I stay here with Mommy?”

“No.” I rush around, trying to find his shoes.

It’s been over two months since our mother passed away from her illness, but Dylan is still in denial and thinks she’s going to walk in the door at any moment.

I tried to explain, but he just didn’t get it. When he’s a little older, I’ll tell him all the stories we have from when she was alive.

I lift a box of her clothes to look under it, then drop it down and run a hand through my dark hair.

Where the fuck are his shoes?

Mom made this look easy. I should’ve paid more attention to how she did things—maybe then I’d know what I was doing when I became Dylan’s guardian. I don’t have a clue. But I figure as long as he’s got food on the table, clothes on his back, and a roof over his head, I can learn as I go.

Finally, I find his shoes under the messed-up rug and hand them to him. The laces are frayed, and the material is hanging on by threads. My next pay, I’ll take him to get new ones.

I pull on my cap and slide on my boots. “We need to leave, kid.”

“Can you put my shoes on?” he asks with a toothy grin.

I want to teach him how to tie his laces, but I don’t have time, and I’ve never been able to say no to him anyway.

I get down on one knee and slacken his laces, inwardly sighing when more stitching comes undone, though I had tried my best to patch it up.

He’s growing too fast, and Mom was the seamstress out of us.

Slipping one on then the other, I make a mental note to try and stitch the shoe again later.

Dylan messes with my hair as if sensing my turmoil, and I give him a joking glare. “There’s no time to play right now.”

“Do you promise to play with me later, Lynx?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “How many times do I need to tell you? Lincoln. It’s easy to say.”

“I prefer Lynx.”

“It’s a stupid name,” I reply, shaking my head as I tie his laces. “Come on.”

“Promise? At the spot by the big, big tree?” He’s looking up at me hopefully—his blue eyes are identical to mine, the same shade as our deadbeat father’s.

My shoulders fall, and I lift my pinkie finger, hooking it with his. “I promise.”

He grins all the way to the front door.

The other families that stay here are already at work because the sun rose not long ago. They aren’t fond of me—our piece-of-shit father made sure of that. He was all too happy to beat everyone around, and the landlord didn’t care as long as we paid.

We’re thirty minutes late by the time we leave the apartment.

My little brother’s cold hand grips mine for dear life as I walk us through the busy street. Rain pours from the sky and soaks us, Dylan making no effort to avoid the puddles or stay under the meager cover provided by the other buildings.

“Do I need to go?” he whines.

“I have to go to work,” I tell him.

His smile drops, like it always does. I want to punish the world for taking Mom from us. If she hadn’t gotten sicker—if we’d been able to afford all the medicine she needed, then maybe she’d still be here.

Maybe, if she were still alive, the light would return to my brother’s eyes. But I’m all he’s got. His only family member and friend.

“I want Mama’s stew.”

I look down at him as he skips. “You want me to try to make it?”

“I can help!”

I smile harder—it would be a diabolical mess if we even attempted that. But for him, I will.

I move Dylan out the way of an old man with a pipe, then we cross the uneven road, dodging one of the automobiles I can only dream of owning one day. It would help get me and my brother out of this rough town. Away from all the gangs and thieves and kidnappings.

There could be more work elsewhere. More opportunities.

Dylan stops outside a shop window and points to a dog stuffed toy. “Can I get the doggy?”

“We can ask Santa.”

For the next ten minutes, he talks about reindeers and snow and the Christmas tree he’ll draw on the wall with the chalk I got him for his last birthday.

We reach the entrance to his school, but before he runs in, he turns and hugs me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Don’t forget your promise,” Dylan says. “We can play.”

“Can’t wait,” I reply, crouching to hug him back. “Go, before your teacher gets more upset that you’re late.”

The teacher who opens the door taps her foot and gives me her usual disapproving look. I glare back at her without my brother seeing.

I always need to bite my tongue given the way they treat me.

It’s not like I asked to be this way—circumstances made me useless, and I don’t need teachers looking down on me because I’m struggling.

Sending Dylan to an orphanage isn’t an option.

The suggestion was made when Mom died, but I stood my ground.

I’m old enough to care for him, and there’s no way I’ll allow him to become an orphan.

Dylan’s out of sight after a long, exaggerated wave goodbye by the door, so I take a deep breath and turn around, jogging to the tracks for my shift.

It’s not too far, but I still need to walk across a field filled with puddles and scrap metal to reach the rails we’re working on.

The construction has been underway for a few years.

When I was taken on, I was told I’d have five years total in this part of the city before I could move on, wherever the tracks traveled.

My plan has always been to move with the job and take my brother, but that’ll only happen if I’m chosen by the boss.

The rain is still heavy when I reach the main doors. I fish out my time sheet and hand it to the supervisor to have it stamped with my time of arrival and the date. I have to hand it in at the end of every week to be paid.

“Taylor,” someone calls from behind me—because we never use our forenames here. “They want you at the office.”

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Being late is going to get me into deep shit, which means a lesser chance of being taken to the next location.

Steam bellows from metal tanks as I walk past them toward the staircase leading up to the office. I knock twice and wait for Stuart’s “come in” before pushing the door open.

A pipe clamped in his mouth, the boss of this entire place blows out smoke and plays with his moustache. “Take a seat, boy.”

The word boy coming from him pisses me off. I’m twenty, the same age as his son, Andrew, who he likes to show off because he’ll take over the family business one day.

“This is the fourth time you’ve been late.”

I frown. “Sir?”

That’s a lie—I’ve been late twice, counting today, and we already spoke about the reason for the first time. I was at my mother’s funeral and came in three hours later, as had been planned and agreed.

“Your shift started an hour ago.” His pipe crackles as he sucks, coughing up a lung without covering his damn mouth. “I won’t have sloppiness working here. Hand in your time sheet and get off the premises.”

My eyes widen. “Wait,” I say, sitting forward. My voice is shaking as the words spill out. “I’ve been here every day, working late most shifts and taking on overtime. I don’t know where you’re getting the information that I’ve been late, but, respectfully, sir, that isn’t true.”

A sly smile curves his lips. “Are you calling me a liar, boy?”

“No. I’m asking you to double-check that you have the right employee.”

“Lincoln Taylor. Twenty years old, son of the deceased Tabby Taylor, brother of Dylan Taylor. Crippled with debt left by your late mother, behind on rent, close to eviction, and let’s not forget about the child you’re trying and failing to raise.”

I sit back, completely dumbfounded, my mouth hanging open.

My silence has him grinning. “Did I get that correct?”

Swallowing, I put my hands on my lap under the table and squeeze my thumbs. “Yes.”

“Then I have the right employee. Now, stop wasting my time and leave. Don’t expect any final pay for your attitude.”

“You can’t do this!” I slam my palms down on the table, making two construction manuals drop to the floor.

Shaking, I grit my teeth. “Don’t do this,” I beg. “I need this job. I’ll be better. I’ll work harder.”

He stands, his face contorting into all types of anger as he tugs at the cuff links of his crisp white shirt. Then he pulls the gold stopwatch from his waistcoat, places it on the table between us, and checks the time.

He can’t do this. He can’t.

My entire body is trembling, my stomach coiling, and I think I might vomit everywhere.

“I’m going to ask you one more time before this gets physical. Get off the premises.”

Holding back panicked tears, I imagine my brother going to the orphanage. The future I’m trying to build.

Dylan.

“Please.”

Staring me down, a long moment passes before he grunts and turns toward the door. He swings it open. “Can someone get this kid the fuck out of here?”

My eyes fall on the gold stopwatch, engraved with some sort of crest. Two lions and flames. I’ve never stolen anything, but that watch alone will get me and my brother out of this city. The decision takes only a split second.

Three guys pile in and grab me by the arms and collar; they drag me out of the room, down the stairs, and throw me out the front door. I fall on my face so mud coats my cheek and clothes.

Stuart chuckles by the entranceway. “If I see you again, there will be consequences.”

It takes everything I have not to tell him to go fuck himself as I push myself to my hands and knees. Ignoring all the eyes on me, I grit my teeth, tense my body, and limp out of the grounds.

As soon as I reach the corner of the road, I slouch against the wall and pull the heavy stopwatch from my pocket, eyeing the way the gold sparkles. This is my ticket to everything. I need to get home, pack our things, and get Dylan. We’ll be leaving tonight.

For good.

I’ll take it to the fencer, get as much coin as I can, and start fresh.

My steps feel lighter as I reach the apartment building, but as I go to enter, a firm hand grabs my shoulder from behind, turns me, and a heavy fist smashes into my face so hard, I see stars before I’m dragged down a nearby alleyway.

Stuart’s raging eyes burn into me. “Where is it, you ungrateful peasant?”

He isn’t alone—Andrew, his son, is beside him, scowling and shaking his head.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Check his pockets,” Andrew snaps when I don’t reply—because I’m too terrified to speak a word.

Stuart finds it in the right side of my breeches, yanks it out, and shakes it in front of my face. “Do you know how much this is worth, boy? Do you? This has been passed down through my family for generations, and you thought you could steal it from me?”

He pulls a knife from his pocket. It’s not like any other knife I’ve seen. The handle is black, the sharp blade a gunshot gray with engraving along the metal. As he waves it in front of my face, I notice it has the same crest as the watch. Then he presses the blade to my throat.

My eyes widen when I realize what he’s going to do. “No. Please!”

“Stealing is a sin,” he sneers. “And what happens to sinners?”

“They go to Hell,” his son says, laughing. “Do it.”

“My brother needs me,” I whisper as fear wraps so tightly around my throat, the words come out strangled. “I’m… all he’s got.”

No. Dylan.

I can’t leave my brother.

He has no one else. I promised Mom I’d look after him—I promised playtime and stew.

“Pl—”

The second the blade cuts through tissue and muscle in the middle of my chest, and the blood pours down my front, I should feel pain.

I should feel like I’m unable to breathe, to think, to scream.

Instead, my skin blisters from the rising heat surrounding me, and the flames engulfing my body and ripping through my soul.

I’m screaming. Yelling. Begging for them to help me.

Dylan’s eyes are there.

He’s crying. He’s looking for me. He’s…

And then I’m falling, swallowed into the ground, where everything goes black.

Then the world turns red.

And all I can hear are the screams.