Chapter Three
THREE
MAVEN
I don’t sleep that night. Lying in my mother’s old four-poster wood bed, its finials carved into hissing gargoyles, I stare at the shadows slinking across the ceiling as my brain picks through a graveyard of memories, overturning mossy headstones to reveal the dark soil and wriggling insects beneath.
Ronan.
His eyes, his scent, his mouth on my skin … I loved him with a desperation that felt like madness.
No greater fool exists than a teenage girl ensnared in the trap of first love.
When the gray light of dawn curls its skeletal fingers around the edges of the curtains, I drag myself from bed, splash cold water on my face, and dress. Then I check on Bea in the room down the hall, the one I occupied as a child.
She’s still asleep, arms flung out to the sides on the mattress as if in her dreams, she attempted to fly.
The house is weaving its spell over her already.
I press a soft kiss to her forehead, smooth her hair away from her face, then stand looking down at her for a moment.
Though on the verge of adolescence, she’s small for her age, so she’s often mistaken for being younger.
She often acts younger, too, but that changes from day to day.
Sometimes, she’s still my baby, but with puberty on the horizon, those days are numbered.
Her moods are already beginning to shift as quickly as her hormones do.
I worry what other changes adolescence will bring. My own experience with it can only be described as traumatizing.
When I enter the kitchen, the aunts are already there. Esme waves me into a chair and sets a steaming mug of murky green tea in front of me while Davina hums over a pan on the stove.
“How did you sleep, love?”
“Great,” I lie, avoiding Esme’s eyes. I didn’t tell them I saw Ronan standing outside the gate last night. It would’ve incited a riot. “What about you?”
“Not so well, I’m afraid. Bad dreams.”
“Really?”
Looking pale, she nods. “Snakes. Huge dark snakes slithering around the house, trying to get in. They were hunting for something.”
Davina glances over her shoulder at me. When she returns to her cooking, she’s not humming anymore.
Through the kitchen window, I see Q in the yard outside, chopping wood on a block.
He doesn’t look strong enough to hoist a book over his head, let alone an axe, but, like so much else in Blackthorn Manor, his appearance is deceptive.
He splits open a log with a single, powerful strike, then tosses the pieces onto the small pile beside him.
It never occurred to me until this moment that chopping wood while wearing a tattered wool relic of an opera cloak might be considered odd. Then again, everything about my family is odd and always has been.
I sniff the tea Esme set in front of me and try not to make a face at the pungent smell that stings my nostrils. It’s sharp, herbal, and oddly sour.
“Do we have coffee, by any chance?”
“I made that herbal blend just for you.”
Her stiff tone and baleful stare indicate her displeasure at what was obviously taken as an insult to her hospitality, so I smile and let it go.
“Good morning.”
I turn to see my daughter standing in the kitchen doorway in her pajamas, sleepily rubbing an eye with her fist.
“Morning, sweetie,” I say, thankful for the distraction.
Bea yawns. Shuffling over to the table, she plops down beside me, then smiles shyly at Esme. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you, little dove.”
Davina turns from the stove to smile at Bea. “Pancakes for you, darling?”
Bea looks at the pan on the stove and blinks in surprise. “You mean like, you made them?”
“Of course I made them. How else would they appear?”
Bea stares hungrily at the pancakes. “Mom never cooks. Unless it’s like frozen pizza or something. For breakfast I always have cereal.”
When Davina gazes at me in disapproval, I feel a little defensive. “I don’t have time to cook. Between my work and Bea’s schooling, I’m too busy. Besides, we have dozens of great restaurants that deliver within a mile of the apartment.”
Davina opens a cupboard, removes a plate, and uses a spatula to slide three pancakes onto it. She sets the plate in front of Bea, along with a fork.
Watching her sitting in the place where I always sat for meals as a child, that strange foreboding creeps over me again. It’s like déjà vu, only darker and with teeth.
I remind myself that we’ll soon be safe back in New York, far away from this house with all its secrets and this town with all its hidden trapdoors.
Davina takes pity on me and changes the subject from food. “We’d like to arrive at the funeral home at ten. Will you be ready to leave soon?”
“Ten? Doesn’t Granny’s viewing start at eleven?”
Her pause is brief, but it carries a weight. “We want a few moments alone with Mother to say goodbye before the circus begins.”
I’d ask why they arranged for a public viewing at all if they’re so concerned about privacy, but I already know the answer.
They might be the town outcasts, but they’re far too proud to hide.
Q enters the kitchen, carrying a load of firewood in his arms. He nods a greeting at Bea, then fixes his piercing dark gaze on me.
I lift my chin slightly to let him know he doesn’t have to worry. I won’t let Bea out of my sight. Solstice might be a small town, but it’s plenty big enough to get lost in.
Lost and never found.
At a quarter to ten, we’re gathered in the foyer, four silent females in black waiting for Q to bring the Caddy around.
Bea’s patent leather shoes are polished to a mirror shine. Her unruly hair has been tamed into a single braid, matching my own. She looks even smaller than usual, her slight figure overpowered by the knee-length wool coat dug from the back of one of the many closets in the house.
It belonged to me once, long ago. It was my mother’s before that, and her mother’s, too.
This house doesn’t let things go easily.
“Your dresses are pretty,” says Bea.
“Thank you, darling.” Davina regards me. “What do you think?”
I take a moment to assess their long, formal beaded gowns and elaborate headwear. “I think if you were going for elegant Victorian beekeepers in mourning, you nailed it.”
She lifts a gloved hand to the wide brim of her veiled hat and smiles. “I knew you’d say something clever to lift our spirits.”
“I forgot to tell you,” says Esme, turning to Davina. “Did you hear that Elijah Croft was attacked by a flock of ravens the other day?”
“Ravens?” muses Davina. “How strange.”
“Yes. Very. I heard they nearly pecked the old man’s eyes right out of his skull.”
“They aren’t usually aggressive to humans. Maybe they were protecting a nest.”
Esme glances at me, her expression unreadable. “Or maybe they know evil when they see it.”
Q pulls into the driveway. Bea and I follow behind as the aunts sweep hand in hand out the front door, their long red hair cascading down their backs like fresh blood.
Eight minutes later, we’re all standing inside the relentlessly beige parlor of Anderson’s Funeral Home, listening to an old man in an ill-fitting suit murmur his condolences as he wrings his hands and trembles and does everything short of fainting at our feet.
The Blackthorn women have an uncanny ability to terrify people.
“This way, this way,” he stammers, gesturing down the hallway. “Lorinda is in our best reception room, of course.”
We enter a large room with hideous maroon shag carpeting and wallpaper with a gaudy red-and-black floral pattern that could cause seizures if stared at too long.
Four windows are draped with heavy burgundy velvet that blocks out any trace of daylight.
Overstuffed leather sofas line the walls and half a dozen rows of upholstered chairs are arranged in front of a gleaming black casket, which is flanked by huge sprays of red tiger lilies that lend their cloying perfume to the stale, unmoving air.
Davina looks around in horror. “Good God. Remind me to get cremated.”
With a gulp, Mr. Anderson backs out of the room and disappears.
Esme marches over to one window and throws open the velvet drapes. Daylight floods the room. She turns back to us and huffs. “The best reception room, my behind! Who decorated this place? Dracula?”
“The Marquis de Sade would be my guess,” says Davina. “One wonders if the Andersons are color-blind.”
“This room would be an abomination even in black and white.”
Davina sighs. “Well, it will give people something to talk about.”
“Something else, you mean. I hope they don’t send those awful lilies to the funeral tomorrow. That stench is already giving me a headache.” Esme marches over to another set of windows, muttering about the stupidity of men.
I suspect Mr. Anderson is in for one of the more unpleasant days of his life.
When Bea squeezes my hand, I glance down at her. “You okay?”
She stares warily at the open casket and inches closer to me. She’s never seen a dead person in real life before. I wind my arm around her shoulders and press a kiss onto the top of her head.
Davina reaches out and strokes a gloved finger gently down Bea’s cheek. “Death is nothing to fear, sweet girl. Nature remakes everything she creates. We’re not finished when we die, we’re simply transformed into something better.”
Bea looks dubious. “Mom says there’s no afterlife.”
Davina smiles. “Your mother is very smart, but she doesn’t know everything. Now, come along and meet your great-grandmother.”
She takes Bea’s hand. With me on one side and Davina on the other, we lead her toward the casket. When we’re standing at the edge, looking down at the body inside, I can’t help but smile.
Even in death, Lorinda is fierce.
She looks wild, a creature who walked straight out of the forest with captured prey between her teeth. Her long white hair is unbound, her strong jaw is clenched, and her closed eyes appear ready to snap open any second and scan the room with the feral intelligence that left most people quaking.
If there is an afterlife, Granny’s kicking ass in it.
We stand in respectful silence for a moment, until Bea says, “What’s that?”
She points at something wedged between Lorinda’s elbow and the cream satin lining of the casket. I lean over and pluck it out.
It’s a feather. A glossy black bird’s feather, as long as my forearm.
Smiling, Davina shakes her head. “Oh, Mother. You and your birds.”
Bea looks at me in confusion, but gets distracted by the sight of Davina withdrawing an elegant pearl-handled knife from a pocket of her dress.
“Here. Put this in the casket.”
Bea stares at the knife Davina’s offering her as if it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. Which it undoubtedly is.
“Why would you want that in her casket?”
“Because she’ll need it where she’s going.”
I look at the ceiling and exhale in a gust. Why is my family so determined to be flamboyantly strange? It’s as if they’re getting paid for it.
“Your mother can sigh all she wants, Bea darling, but before we can pass through Death’s cleansing fire and be remade, we have to battle some nasty characters in our journey through the underworld.”
“For God’s sake, Auntie D. She’ll have nightmares for months.”
She dismisses my parental concern with a flick of her wrist. “Life is a knife fight. Why should the afterlife be any different?”
“That’s just great. Thank you. I’m sure she’ll be discussing this in therapy for years to come.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Blackthorns don’t need therapy. We make other people need therapy. Bea, put the knife in the casket along with these.” She withdraws a pair of silver coins from her bodice.
“What are those for?”
“To pay the toll to the ferryman to cross the River Styx.”
When Bea looks at me, I regret I didn’t prepare her better for this visit. I should’ve made up something plausible, like we used to be circus folk.
I say drily, “He doesn’t take Visa. Just put everything in the casket, honey, and we’ll deal with your mental trauma later.”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. I’m good.” She takes the knife and coins from Davina’s hands and turns back toward her departed great-grandmother, lying in state like a queen.
Davina clasps her hands over her waist and smiles at me. “Don’t make such a sour face. It could’ve been worse. Esme talked me out of sending Mother off to the great beyond with Quill by her side.”
Quill is a great horned owl with yellow eyes and a five-foot wingspan that Granny found when it was a chick. It had fallen out of a tree in the yard. She nursed it back to health, and the two became inseparable.
When Quill died, Granny had it preserved and mounted for display. The gruesome thing has been gathering dust for years on its perch above the fireplace in her bedroom.
Seeing my expression, Esme says, “Here.” She draws a small silver flask from her sleeve.
I watch my daughter carefully slip money and a weapon under a corpse’s cold white hands. Then I accept the flask, unscrew the cap, and take a big swig of whiskey.
With any luck, I’ll drink myself straight through the entire weekend.