Chapter Five
FIVE
MAVEN
I can’t sleep again that night. The house is eerily quiet but it feels as if it’s watching, waiting, biding its time. Every time I move my head, shadows slink away from the edges of my gaze. Twice, I think I hear muffled sobbing, but when I listen harder, the sound fades into silence.
Finally, somewhere around midnight, I abandon my room.
After checking on Bea, I head downstairs.
Except for the embers smoldering in the fireplace in the great room, the house is still and dark.
The wood floor is cool under my bare feet, worn smooth from the steps of generations.
In the kitchen, I pour water into a glass from the tap, then stand looking out into the night while I drink it.
Then I wander back into the great room to peruse the shelves of books.
I flip on a floor lamp and pull out a slender volume about herbal home remedies, then stand there scanning the pages until a noise distracts me. It’s a thump that came from directly above my head.
Frowning, I look up at the ceiling.
Closing the book in my hands, I cock my head and listen hard into the silence. I hear nothing. But a sudden urgent need to check on Bea has me tossing the book onto the coffee table and returning quickly upstairs.
I find her exactly where I left her, sound asleep.
Relieved, I brush my knuckles against her cheek to feel for fever, but her temperature is normal. So I tuck the blanket around her, kiss her forehead, and tiptoe out. In the hallway, I turn to go back to my own room, but spin around when a flash of light illuminates the darkness.
It vanishes as quickly as it came, but it originated from under Granny’s bedroom door.
My scalp tingles. My pulse ticks up a few notches.
Is someone in Granny’s room?
Why the thought should unnerve me so much, I don’t know. But it’s precisely that it does that makes me straighten my shoulders and march resolutely down the hall.
I step inside and flip the wall switch. The room floods with light.
It’s empty, but there’s a presence that’s palpable, emanating from the furniture, the walls, the very air itself.
Lorinda Blackthorn left her mark on this space. The same way she left her mark on everything she touched. She was larger than life, and I didn’t get to see her before she died to say a proper goodbye.
My heart throbs with a dull ache.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to my mother before she died, either.
Stepping farther inside, I glance around. Nothing looks out of place. The bed is made, the drapes are drawn, the room is tidy. Perched on the rough wood mantel above the unlit stone fireplace, Quill watches me suspiciously with his dead yellow eyes.
“Give me a break, bird. It’s been a long day.”
I cross to the wooden dresser, trying to shake the strongest sense that the owl’s dead eyes are following me. I pick up an ornate silver picture frame, its finish dulled with age. It displays a large black-and-white photo, taken in front of the greenhouse, of seven females of various ages.
Granny Lorinda and her two sisters, Tisi and Perse, flank a woman with gray hair wound atop her head in tightly coiled braids.
The younger women wear plain, long-sleeved wool dresses with white aprons tied around their waists.
Great-Grandma Cleda wears a severe, high-necked black dress and an expression as cold as a headstone.
She died long before I came along, but her reputation as a woman who took zero shit and scared the bejeezus out of the townsfolk is legendary.
Clinging to Lorinda’s skirts are two small girls, Esme and Davina. In her arms is Elspeth, the baby.
My mother.
I remember this photo well, mainly because of the answer I received when I asked where everyone’s husbands were. My mother’s laugh was a pretty thing, bright and full of mischief.
“Husbands? The Blackthorn women are far too smart to fall for that old trap.”
By that point, I already knew my own father was regarded as nothing more than a means to an end, some disposable man my mother made use of when she felt the time was right for her to have a child.
His identity was never revealed to me. I still don’t know if he was a stranger passing through or someone I saw at church every week.
It’s the Blackthorn way and has been for as long as anyone can remember: men are only tools, and love is only for fools.
I set the picture back in its place on the dresser and cross the room to the walk-in closet. When I pull open the door and flip on the light, I’m met with more silence. Granny’s clothing hangs in neat rows. A dozen or so pairs of sensible shoes are lined up beneath.
There’s nobody hiding inside.
I turn to leave, but stop when my toe catches something on the floor next to the door. It’s a thick black leather-bound hardback with metal clasps and an oak tree carved on the cover. It must’ve fallen off the shelf above, where several other books are stashed.
Was the thump I heard a book falling off a shelf?
I lean down and pick it up, surprised at its heft. When I lift the cover, I discover it’s Granny’s journal. I recognize her typical slanted, spidery script.
Smiling, I flip through the pages, bypassing dated entries, small drawings, and recipes for teas and tinctures. Then I hear the faint sound of cold, metallic laughter echoing through the house. It’s distant but chilling. Emotionless.
When I lift my head to listen harder, it cuts off abruptly. The room falls back into silence.
Unsettled, I reach up and slide the journal between two other books on the shelf. I leave the closet, frowning when I see the door to the bedroom is shut. I don’t remember closing it, but I must have.
When I grasp the door handle, it refuses to turn.
I try to twist and rattle it, but the stubborn thing won’t budge. Propping my hands on my hips, I sigh, then look around the bedroom for anything I might be able to use to jimmy the lock open. Not seeing anything that could work, I grow exasperated and give the bottom of the door a kick.
It suddenly gives, popping open with a soft click, then swinging wider with a faint, reluctant sigh.
Even more uneasy now, I stand and stare at the handle for a moment, then head back downstairs for something stronger than water to help me sleep.
At the top of the landing, I glance out the window and freeze.
Outside the iron gate at the end of the driveway, a man stands staring up toward the house. He’s tall and broad shouldered, dressed all in black, a lone figure that might as well be part of the landscape for how still he is.
Finally, he moves.
Behind his cupped hands, a tiny flare of light illuminates his face. The tip of his cigarette glows orange as he inhales. Then he tilts back his head and blows three perfect smoke rings into the air.
My stomach drops. My pulse goes haywire. Then emotion floods me, and I have to grit my teeth against it, it’s so strong.
Smoothing my palms down the front of my nightgown, I hurry silently down the stairs to the main floor. I grab a knitted blanket from the back of the sofa, throw it over my shoulders, and, as quietly as possible, open and close the front door.
My pulse thundering in my ears, I walk barefoot down the dirt driveway.
Calmly smoking, the man waits for me at the gate. As I approach, his attention never wavers from my face.
His eyes are the color of pale arctic ice. They’re ringed in a thicket of dark lashes. His hair is thick and inky black, waving down from a widow’s peak nearly to his shoulders. His jaw is strong, his lips are full, his burning gaze promises both hell and redemption.
He’s striking in the way of a Caravaggio painting, all dramatic contrasts of divine light and velvety shadow, every tensed muscle suggesting violent action even when at rest.
He’s the one who first taught me that the most beautiful things in nature are those that will kill you the fastest.
Ten steps away from the gate, I stop. I don’t know if I’m shivering from the cold of the night or the heat of his gaze.
“Ronan Croft.”
“Maven Blackthorn. Is there some reason we’re being so formal?”
“Yes. I prefer to pretend we never met. What are you doing here?”
He tilts his head and considers me. A faint, sardonic smile curves his full lips. “I’ll give you three guesses.”
God, that voice. Honey and smoke, velvet and sin, rough yet soft and seductive. It’s pure sex.
I should’ve brought the pistol.
“You need to leave.”
“Is that a fact?”
He draws on his cigarette and blows a smoke ring straight at me. I don’t flinch as it lazily approaches, widening and wobbling until it teases itself apart a foot from my face, then disappears.
“That’s a filthy habit.”
“I’ve got worse.”
“Don’t I know it.”
He leans a shoulder against the gate and smiles. I can’t decide if I want to grab a fistful of dirt and hurl it at him or slap that smirk off his arrogant face.
Either one would probably amuse him. I decide on cold disinterest instead.
“Go away, Ronan. Don’t come back.”
Ignoring my demands, he looks me up and down, his gaze frankly sexual.
“You’re looking well. More intimidating than usual. Must be the hair. Did you ask your stylist to match it to the color of your soul?”
I remember this. The unshakable confidence. The playful, caustic humor. The way he could pin me in his stare and make me feel like I was the only person in the world.
Or invisible.
“Actually, I asked her to make it match the color of yours. Go away before I shoot you.”
He lifts his brows. Not in fear or surprise, I’m simply entertaining him.
“With a firearm?”
“No, with a speargun.” My tone drips sarcasm. If only it were acid.
“Ah. Needed some protection from the local sharks, hmm?”
He glances over my shoulder at the house, then looks back at me. His pale eyes hold a challenge.
The emotion his appearance initially caused in me flares abruptly into rage.
“I hate you.”
He chuckles. “You said that out loud.”
“Good. I don’t want there to be any confusion.”
He sucks on his cigarette, exhaling through his nostrils so smoke billows out in gray, dragon-like plumes. When he speaks, his voice is soft and intimate, a hand languidly caressing my bare skin.
“You don’t hate me, Bugs.”
“If you want to keep your kneecaps in working order, don’t ever call me that again.”
“I don’t hate you, either. Not even a little bit. Not even a particle.”
“Stop talking and go.”
“Did you think about me over the last dozen years?”
“Sure, lots of times. They all involved violence.”
He nods, as if that answer makes total sense to him. Then he wordlessly reaches through the gate, holds out the cigarette, and waits.
His patience is another thing I remember. He was never in a hurry, never seemed to rush. Then again, when you’re a prince and everything revolves around you, you’ve got all the time in the world.
After a moment of debate, I step closer and carefully remove the cigarette from his fingertips. Unlike his heart, his hands are warm. I take a drag, exhale, then drop the cigarette and grind it out under the ball of my bare foot.
He chuckles again, pale eyes glinting with amusement. “Still such a badass.”
“If my aunts catch you sniffing around here, there will be hell to pay.”
He cocks his head, regarding me with an unreadable expression. “Did you ever tell them about us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Still ashamed, hmm?”
“More like riddled with regret. Goodbye, Ronan.”
“Goodbye, Bugs.”
He doesn’t move. I exhale hard and glare at him, which makes him smile.
“Oh, those eyes. Those lovely, spellcasting eyes. How they’ve haunted me. If only you knew the power they’ve always held over me. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so cruel, little witch.”
“You have no right to talk to me about cruelty, you hypocrite. And don’t call me a witch. You know I hate that.”
“Of course I know. That’s why I said it.”
I take a moment to remind myself that murder is a felony before speaking again. “Your father made an appearance at Granny’s viewing. Make sure he doesn’t come to the funeral.”
“Why? Are you planning on pushing his wheelchair into traffic?”
“I hadn’t been, but thanks for the good idea.”
He straightens, pushing off the gate with an elegant, effortless shrug of his shoulder. I look up at him, surprised by his height.
He’s grown since I last saw him. Grown taller and filled out through the chest. No longer a boy with a pretty face and a devastating smile, he’s now something far more dangerous.
A man.
I wrap my arms protectively around my body and take a step back.
His glittering icy gaze rakes over me from head to toe and back again. He moistens his lips.
“One more word out of your mouth, Ronan Croft, and so help me God, I will end you.”
For reasons known only to him, he finds my threat amusing and laughs.
“If only you could.”
We stare at each other through the gate’s rusted iron bars. In the distance, a lone wolf howls. Farther off in the forest, another one raises its muzzle to the sky and answers the call. Their song is haunting.
My throat tightens. My chest aches. I find myself fighting tears, a horrifying situation I haven’t experienced since the last time I saw him.
“Goodbye, Ronan. We’re done here.”
“Are we?”
After a hot, lingering glance at my mouth, Ronan turns abruptly and walks off into the night, his stride long and sure. He doesn’t look back.
I’ll never forgive myself for wishing he would.