Chapter 1 Lore
ONE
Lore
I FUMBLED IN the dark, ungloved hands frantically roving across walls papered in tattered silk, cursing at the thick layer of dust marking my every move.
I might as well light a torch and wave it around for the Collector.
Perhaps he’d think me mad and look for less troubling prey.
I tucked that away as my last option, still hoping to escape this neglected manor the good old-fashioned way first: by jumping out a window and running for the woods. That always seemed to work in my favorite books.
Though maybe it was time to stop pretending I was in a mystery novel.
Stories had gotten me into this nightmare. It was a tall tale that drew me here in the dead of night, searching for my own adventure.
Foxglove Manor was supposedly haunted by the killer’s victims, and when the hunter moon rose, ushering in the harvest season, curious souls could spy the dead seeking revenge.
What the folktales failed to mention was the very real, very bloodthirsty murderer who still stalked these abandoned grounds, hoping mystery-loving fools ventured here alone.
How else might the infamous Collector harvest more souls to add to his collection?
Rain thrashed against the lone window at the end of the narrow corridor, sounding as frantic as my heartbeat.
I’d come upstairs because of the promise of freedom the window had offered, unaware that it perched too high to reach, its single eye impassively watching my attempt to cheat death.
I pushed against the solid wall, refusing to admit I’d found a dead end.
A single sconce without a candlestick seemed to mock me.
Or maybe it was trying to get my attention. Blessed, dusty thing.
I gave the misunderstood yet valiant candleless sconce a little tug, and chunks of plaster crashed to the hardwood in a loud, unmistakable invitation for the Collector to come kill me.
Why wasn’t there ever a secret lever when you needed one?
Maybe the old manor house was the true villain.
I drew in a deep breath, trying to ignore the walls of fate closing in.
Main characters always got out of trouble at the last possible second. There was an art to dramatic effect. One they perfected.
If only I could channel my inner heroine under duress.
At this rate, I’d be lucky to even be considered a side character. At twenty-four, I was about to die in some brutal, ritualistic death, and I’d only just entered this cursed manor house.
Thunder boomed menacingly, rattling the windowpane.
I couldn’t tell if the storm was trying to scare the life out of me before the killer arrived, or if it was just as upset about my soon-to-be violent ending.
I shook my head. I’d now reached the anthropomorphizing stage of denial.
A floorboard creaked on the stairs, followed by another.
Like any rational adult facing certain demise, I squeezed my eyes shut, debating my next move.
I could either pretend my fierce yet fluffy animal familiar had finally come to my rescue or admit that the dagger-wielding lunatic had caught up with me and I was as far from a main character with a magical sidekick as one could be.
Logic was so boring. No wonder I was doomed.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the hulking shadow of my stalker before plunging me back into darkness. He was here, he was inches away…
A rough hand clamped onto my shoulder, shaking me.
“Lore!”
I screamed, jolting upright… blinking as reality came crashing back and the book in my lap fell unceremoniously to the floor.
It took another long second to piece together what had happened.
I was still in the library where I worked.
Little half-eaten pastries, empty mugs of tea, and uncorked bottles of sparkling wine were scattered across low tables.
The monthly book club I hosted had met earlier tonight to discuss the first release in the Collector series, a thrilling murder mystery that featured a fearless heroine tracking a killer who’d attacked her twin in the opening installment.
It was all terribly brutal and thus thoroughly engaging.
My best friends, Blake and Agatha, offered to help me clean, but I’d sent them off so they could dive into the sequel.
I’d stayed behind to read one more chapter before locking up, and, well… one chapter quickly turned into ten.
I blamed the author for whatever addictive substance she’d woven into the story. It was like a delicious potato chip—eating one was simply out of the question.
I glared up at my brother.
“Gods’ blood, Fable. Don’t you ever knock? I was just getting to the good part.”
He gave me a bemused look. “It’s a public library. And we’re late.”
“Late for…”
“The traveling—”
“The traveling caravan!” I glanced at the clock and cringed. We still had some time to wander around, but we needed to hurry. “I completely forgot.”
“I figured. Blake stopped by and said I probably needed to drag you out of here.” He plucked my novel from the floor and shook his head at the title. “You started rereading Harvest Moon already?”
I snatched the book from his grubby paws and dusted it off.
“After our discussion tonight, I wanted to scan a few passages. I must have dozed off for a minute.”
A knowing smirk curved his lips. “You mean you and your cohorts were obsessing over the villain again.”
“Obsessing is a bit overstated.” I wrinkled my nose. “He’s just…”
“Dark, brooding, misunderstood?”
“Layered, you snob. He lives by his own moral code, killing the worst of society.”
My brother’s grin widened.
“You’re rationalizing violent, sociopathic behavior because his cheekbones are described as: ‘as sharp as the blade he wielded.’”
He wasn’t wrong, but, as the youngest sibling, I would never admit it on principle.
I placed the book back on its shelf and started quickly gathering up the discarded plates while Fable went for the empty mugs.
“Say what you will, but vigilante justice makes for exciting stories when it’s done well.”
“Because committing murder is such an admirable quality in a mate.”
I waved off his very logical response.
“No one wants to read about normal, well-adjusted people. They want the misunderstood villain with the sassy pet dragon. Tell me you’re not more intrigued by the man who will torch the world for his true love rather than sacrifice himself for the greater good.
The first creates glorious tension; the second makes you bawl until you’re a snotty, distraught wreck, lying catatonically on your bed, staring at the ceiling while wondering when you became such a masochist. No one wants to watch their true love die a horrible, slow death, even if it’s honorable. ”
My brother barked a laugh. “I would worry about you, but a sassy dragon is hard to beat.”
“You, sir, are a man of infinite wisdom, no matter what your fellow professors say.”
It was a dirty lie that had both of us grinning at each other.
My brother was wickedly intelligent, especially when it came to dissecting novels, and I adored teasing him.
He’d been away teaching at the most prestigious university on the island for the last few months, and I’d missed him and our lively debates.
It felt good to have him back, even temporarily.
Blake and Agatha never shied away from dissecting every book we read, but teasing my brother was one of my favorite pastimes.
Fable’s main area of study was the emotional impact of stories on mortals.
Like everyone in our family, he was just as obsessed with fiction.
Wholesome, good-natured. My brother looked the part of a storybook hero.
Dark hair, dark eyes. And enough easy banter to carry him through an entire narrative on his own. He had eligible men and women fawning over him, not that he ever seemed to notice. His first true love was reading.
I matched him in coloring but missed out on the leading-lady gene.
Unlike my brother, I had no horde of adoring suitors lining up.
Even with a name like Lore Brimstone, which practically begged for a dark, romantic adventure, I was doomed to never be a main character in real life for one insurmountable reason—I had no tragic backstory.
No dead or terrible parents.
No murdered sibling or dark family secrets.
No snarky animal familiar to speak with, mind to mind.
And—much to my constant dismay—no fated mate trying to strike a questionable bargain with me.
Just a bookish family who spent our evenings passionately discussing our favorite reads of the week over dinner.
Worst of all? We all loved one another. Fiercely.
With so much stacked against me, I accepted my lot in life as a secondary character destined for cat ownership, and that was that.
I liked cats and books, and honestly that wasn’t the worst fate.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true; I wanted to fall wildly, madly, wholeheartedly in love like the characters in my books.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t someone who fell in love easily, though.
I only courted a few suitors, and while they were perfectly lovely, there was always something missing.
I didn’t want to marry any man; I wanted the right one for me.
Someone who loved me and my quirks, not despite them.
The same way I wanted to adore who he authentically was at his core.
I grabbed my cloak from the peg on the wall and fastened it around my shoulders, preparing for the cool evening air.
Before I turned off the lights, I swept my attention around the little library, ensuring all was well for the morning shift.
The books were returned to the shelves, the chairs had been rearranged back into the seating section, and I’d put out the fire.
Satisfied everything was in place, I followed my brother out and locked up.
The library was nestled on top of a hill, surrounded by towering evergreen trees that stood so close together it was only accessible by foot.
We set off down the dirt path that led into the village center, and I inhaled the cold, salty breeze blowing in from the ocean.
Bellington was a small port town that was famous for… well, not much. But it was a quaint place that seemed to be taken directly from the pages of a novel.