Blackthorn

Chapter Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

MAVEN

It happens so fast, I’m too stunned to pull away.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

His mouth is gentle, but his hands on my face are firm. Sliding his tongue past my lips, he kisses me with surprising tenderness.

If he’s trying not to spook me, it’s working, because I instantly melt into the soft heat of his mouth, sagging against him and inhaling his warm scent through my nose.

When he finds no resistance, he winds his arms around me, holds me tight against his body, and deepens the kiss until it’s ravenous.

I cling to the broad muscles of his back and fight to maintain my equilibrium.

I feel as if I’m standing on the deck of a ship far out to sea that’s caught in a powerful storm and being tossed this way and that, the sails are about to snap under the howling winds, and we’re taking on water faster than the crew can pump it out.

When I’m breathless and trembling, he breaks the kiss to murmur against my lips.

“There she is. Hello, stranger. I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

I bury my face in his broad chest and hide.

Chuckling, he holds me as I struggle to orient myself.

I hardly know which direction is up, but I’m still on my feet, so that’s something.

With his big warm hand cupping the back of my head and the other wound tightly around me, he’s the buoy that’s keeping me afloat …

but also the storm that threatens to drown me.

He’s a master manipulator, Maven. You can’t trust him. Don’t go down this road again.

Tears stinging my eyes, I push away from him and take a step back. He lets me go, staring at me with a hunger I feel all the way through my bones.

When he opens his mouth to speak, I hold a hand up to silence him.

Then I turn around and walk out.

Once again, he lets me go. As I head to the front door, I keep expecting to hear his footsteps behind me, but there’s only silence. I exit through the front door and run out into the yard, my pulse beating wildly, my lungs on fire, and my lips burning.

He kissed me. Ronan kissed me.

And damn it all to hell, I loved it just as much as I used to.

I walk blindly into town, narrowly missing getting run over by a car when I step into the road without looking.

Barely conscious of where I’m going, I navigate to the courthouse in a fever dream of senses both heightened and dulled.

My body is on fire, but my brain isn’t processing thought properly.

I can barely see or hear. I’m all throbbing nerves and pulsing blood and no awareness.

Finally, I arrive at the courthouse. I ask the clerk behind the counter to direct me to the vital records. I don’t know what my face is doing, but it must be something dire, because the nice young man says tentatively, “Are you okay?”

I pull myself together, straightening my shoulders and forcing a smile. “Yes. I’m fine, thank you. I’m looking for death records for my family from the last century. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“Of course. Third room on the right, just down that hall. Everything’s computerized.” He adds proudly, “Vermont has one of the best record-keeping systems in the country. Some of the records for this county go all the way back to 1642 when Solstice was founded.”

That sounds promising.

I thank him and walk unsteadily down the corridor until I make it to the room marked Records.

Inside, I find another clerk sitting behind a desk working on a computer.

This one is an elderly woman wearing eyeglasses on a chain around her neck and a pilled blue cardigan.

She looks up, smiling, and I tell her what I’m looking for.

“Your best bet is to do a computer search. That computer against the back wall is set up for it. If you want a certified copy of anything, you can either order it online with a credit card or I can process the request for you. The certificate usually takes about ten days to come in the mail.”

“I’m just doing some research on my family tree. I won’t need any documents.”

She smiles. “Okay, dear. If you have any problems or need help, just let me know.”

I head to the back of the room where I see a computer on a desk.

The room is standard-issue government building, with worn white linoleum tile yellowed with age, flickering overhead fluorescent panels, ugly beige file cabinets lining the walls, and a dozen large waist-height cabinets in the middle stuffed with thick folios on both sides.

I pull out the plastic chair, sit down in front of the computer, and hit a key to bring up the screen. It flickers to life, displaying the county clerk’s logo, a hyperlinked menu of services offered, and a search bar.

I click on the certificates link and am taken to a page where I can enter the information I’m looking for. I have to refine the search a few times to get it right, but eventually have success.

The first entry is for my mother. Apparently, Granny’s death certificate hasn’t been recorded yet. I quickly scan the document.

Elspeth Delphine Blackthorn. Cause of death: Traumatic injury.

No surprises there.

Contributing factors listed include injury to multiple body regions, bone fractures, skull fracture, the list goes on. It’s difficult to read. I start to tear up again.

The last time I saw her was the night before she died.

She told me she loved me like she always did and kissed me good night.

I rushed out the next morning, late for school.

I was in English class when the principal called me into his office.

The aunties were there, distraught and panicked, certain that their sister’s death wasn’t accidental.

It never occurred to me until this moment that maybe they were right, although for a different reason than they thought. Maybe Elijah Croft had nothing to do with it.

Maybe she jumped.

My stomach turns at the thought. It still doesn’t explain the wheelchair tracks in the snow, but the obvious explanation there is that the groundskeeper alerted Elijah before he called the police and Elijah went to see for himself.

A simple solution, but one that doesn’t sit right.

Why bother denying he was ever there if he could simply say he was called there because the church was on his property? It makes sense he’d be summoned to the scene of a deadly accident. Jumped or fell, a body was discovered on his land. It wasn’t as if he had to drive cross-country.

So why lie?

I click away from the document and click on the next entry.

It’s for Granny’s sister, Persephone. Drowning, accidental.

The next entry is for her other sister, Tisiphone.

Injuries sustained in an automobile accident.

Great-Granny Cleda’s accidental death by trampling must’ve been quite the sensation in her day.

I delve further back into the records from the nineteenth century, growing more and more alarmed by the unusual deaths of all my ancestors.

Cracked her head on the low lintel of a doorway.

Caught fire when cooking over an open hearth.

Fell from a ladder.

Struck by a cricket ball.

Tripped into a well.

Choked on a pear.

Dragged by a horse.

The further back I go, the more astonished I become. I’m related to the clumsiest and most accident-prone people in all of human history.

When I get to my great-great-great-great-great-something or other, I stop and stare at her cause of death.

Crushed by falling tile.

That one’s a little too close for comfort. I keep clicking and scrolling, becoming more convinced with every minute that passes that our family DNA is warped by a gene for attracting disaster.

The last entry on the list is the only one that isn’t listed as an accident.

Megaera Blackthorn. Executed. Hanging.

On the scanned document, the handwritten notes underneath the cause of death indicate she was tried and convicted of witchcraft.

I sit staring at the screen so long, my vision blurs. When I blink and shake my head, I realize there’s one other strange and conspicuous thing about my dead ancestors.

All of them were women.

Frowning, I click away from the death records and pull up births. I type in our last name and the county, and wait as the data populates. It takes a while to sift through the information, but the results are unequivocal, though statistically should be nearly impossible.

The Blackthorns only give birth to daughters.

Or only the daughters are allowed to survive.

Feeling faintly ill, I search for another explanation. But, horrifying as that thought is, it’s more probable than every generation of offspring being female for the past three hundred–plus years.

The odds against it are astronomical.

Rattled and confused, I exit births and enter into marriages.

There are no results for Blackthorn. Not one, going back as far as the founding of the town.

I wipe my clammy hands on my skirt and swallow the acidic sting of bile rising in my throat. As I’m about to stand to leave, my cell phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket and look at the screen. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“It’s Ronan. Don’t hang up.”

Hearing his voice makes my pulse jump. “How did you get this number?”

“You were at my house.”

“So?”

“I have software on my computer that locates and identifies nearby devices.”

I’m too stunned to be angry. “Is that legal?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t say that like you’re above breaking the law to get what you want.”

“I’m not, but in this case, I didn’t have to. Technology is amazing. I’m calling to find out how you’re feeling about that kiss.” His voice drops. “Because I’m dying to do it again. Right fucking now. Come back.”

“No.”

“Fine, I’ll come to you. Where are you?”

I cover my eyes with my hand and hunch over the desk, overwhelmed by everything.

“You’re not saying anything. You still there?”

“I’m still here. Don’t ask me why. And don’t make some smart remark, either.”

“Okay.” He pauses. “So we’ll just breathe at each other for a while. I can do that.”

“Baloney. You can’t shut up for more than ten seconds at a time.”

“Only with you. With everybody else, I’m the silent and mysterious type.”

“Please. You forget I knew you when you were a teenager and the most outgoing guy in any room. You’re an extrovert on steroids.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is gruff. “People can change.”

“No, they can’t. They just get better at pretending. And stop trying to soften me up. I don’t trust you one bit, and I never will.”

“When did you become such a cynic?”

“Gosh, let’s see. Maybe it was the same week my mother died, I found out I was pregnant, and the asshole I was hooking up with told me to get rid of it and turned his back on me. Could be then. Just a wild guess.”

He doesn’t say anything for so long, I think he hung up. But then he exhales, and I know he’s still on the line.

I feel sad for myself that I’m glad he’s still there.

“I was wrong. I was stupid, scared, and completely fucking wrong. I know that now. What I did to you … what I said … it’s unforgivable. I don’t have an excuse, except that I was young and dumb. There are things I should’ve told you, reasons why I…”

After a tense pause, he continues. “If I had to do it over again, I’d do better. You deserve better than how I treated you. You did then, and you do now.”

I close my eyes, draw a slow breath, and concentrate on releasing the knot of pain in my stomach. “Well. Thank you for that. I’m not sure what else to say. I have to go now. I’m in the middle of a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“A family situation.”

His tone sharpens. With every sentence, his voice grows louder until he’s almost barking. “Your grandmother? Did you find out something? What’s happening? Tell me.”

“God, relax. You’re like a dog with a bone.”

I’m surprised when he does a complete turnabout and chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. Let’s talk about the kiss. Was it as good for you as it was for me? Because my dick is still rock-hard.”

The image of his erection jutting out proudly from his undone zipper makes my face turn red. “I told you I have a fiancé.”

His tone turns challenging. “So you cheated on him by kissing me.”

Shit. “Um. Y … es.”

“Fucking hell, Maven. You’re the worst liar in the history of the world.”

My temper snaps. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to rehash our tragic dead romance—”

“It’s not dead.”

“—because I’m busy dealing with my ludicrous life—”

“It wouldn’t be ludicrous if you’d let me back into it.”

“—and I’ll only be in Solstice for a few days—”

“Not if I have any say in the matter.”

“—so you’ll have to excuse me because I’m hanging up now. And you don’t have any say in the matter.”

“I’ll shut down the train station so you can’t leave.”

I open my mouth but close it again because he’s rendered me speechless.

“I’ll have all the roads closed, too, if I have to.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“You tell me, since you seem to have me all figured out. Do you think I’m joking?”

I say flatly, “You can’t keep me in this town against my will.”

His tone turns thoughtful. “Funny thing about that. I actually can. Would you like to know why?”

“Don’t say it.”

“I’m Ronan Croft, that’s why.”

I’m seething but some delusional part of me is also impressed by this show of self-confidence. I’d call it arrogance, but it’s not. It’s simple fact: he knows he can do what he’s threatening to do.

Unfortunately, so do I.

“I’ll hike out through the woods.”

“With Bea? Somehow, I doubt that.”

“It’s amazing how you think you’re not a villain. This is textbook villain behavior right here!”

He drawls, “I’m not the one pretending my child belongs to someone else. That’s pretty villainous, don’t you think?”

I fume in silence until the urge to scream passes. “I rescind my request for help with my grandmother. I never want to hear from you or speak to you again.”

“I’d believe that if you weren’t moaning into my mouth and desperately grinding against me not even half an hour ago.”

My cheeks grow hot. “I beg your pardon. I was not grinding against you.”

His voice drops to a low growl. “Baby, you haven’t been fucked right in years, and we both know it. Now stop being stubborn and get your ass back over here. We’ve got a lot of unfinished business to sort through.”

When he disconnects the call, I block his number. Then I sit with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, wishing I’d never come home again.

The past is a dark and dangerous place, and it’s filled with devils wearing the faces of friends.