11. A Parting Gift
A PARTING GIFT
LEV
D amp and mold tickled Lev’s nose. It was pitch black inside the tunnel.
Asher clung so closely, Lev felt his breath on the back of his neck. Anxiety was one thing, but the lad started at loud noises and flinched like a kicked dog when Lev had checked his temperature. Not to mention the fear in his eyes at the mere suspicion that Lev knew Ben.
Who the fuck was this Ben Twattington?
“Are you afraid of the dark, Blakely?”
“I don’t like tight spaces.”
“Ah. Rotten luck.”
As far as secret passageways went, this one was the most claustrophobia-inducing, and his least favorite route. Memories lingered in the tunnel. Silas likely lurked somewhere ahead. Or overhead. He glanced at the stone ceiling, but if Silas was there, he was hiding.
“We can circle back and take the long way if you wish,” Lev suggested, slowing his footsteps.
“Nah. I’m fine.”
“Very well.” Lev had no interest in extending their time together. The sooner Blakely was in bed, the better .
What happened in that tower was wrong, and not just because Asher was half his age, or because it was highly unethical to sleep with a protégé who clearly idolized him.
No. The crux of the issue was that Lev was black ink, tainting everything he touched, and Asher was a watercolor painting still wet—Lev would ruin him.
In the tower, Lev had acted like a man possessed with more than the carnal desire only five years of celibacy could inspire. He’d wanted to pry Asher’s mouth open and crawl inside, muck about in his mind, figure out what made his art so haunting, figure out what haunted him.
Lev had no business touching him.He had half a mind to call the whole thing off and send everyone home. But he was greedy.
He’d give himself another chance, keep Asher at arm’s length, treat him as one would a colleague. He’d focus on what was most important—art—and stifle his baser instincts. He’d ignore their chemistry. He wouldn’t fret over why the lad didn’t eat, or why he had the reflexes of a battered wife.
“I thought I saw someone in the last room,” Asher said.
Lev scoffed. “How could you have seen anything in the dark?”
“Lightning.”
“That room is empty.”
Had Silas been there? Lev shook his head. Why was he entertaining this line of discussion? Asher couldn’t see him.
“Why was the door locked?” Asher asked.
Lev’s shoulders tightened. “I don’t think you understand how ancient Lichenmoor is. The land has passed through many hands, been under siege, even served as a tuberculosis sanitarium.”
“I do understand actually. Do you need me to explain the internet to you again?” Searing sarcasm boiled between each word.
Lev resisted the urge to sling back a sharp barb of his own. Better to keep his head than reveal something he shouldn’t, or lose his temper again.
“I’ve lived almost my entire life at Lichenmoor and still haven’t explored all of it. That door has been locked for as long as I can remember and the skeleton key doesn’t work.”
“Hm.”
“What?” Lev asked.
“I said nothing.”
“You said, Hm .”
Asher didn’t answer. Wind whistled through the rafters. The scuff of their footsteps echoed in the enclosed space.
“Why did you invite me?” Asher asked.
“I’m beginning to ask myself that too, Blakely.”
“What have you been doing for the last five years?” Asher carried on, seemingly unperturbed.
“Jesus. Are you with the press?”
“Why am I here? Why are any of us? I don’t believe your story about Lucian’s wishes, or your loneliness.”
Lev stopped. Asher slammed into his back.
“ Argh . Warn me when you stop. I can’t see past the tip of my nose.”
“I’m surprised you can see past your nose at all given how nosy you are.” Lev strode ahead.
“Hey, wait.” Asher’s hastened footsteps telegraphed his fear.
Lev groaned under his breath, but slowed his pace. “I don’t know what I’ve done to lead you to believe that we share a level of trust that permits you to ask me personal questions?—”
“Maybe it was the light frotting in the tower?”
“You aren’t entitled to the truth because I invited you here, or because I lost control with you earlier.”
“Why are you being such a dick when you were the one who started it?”
“As I recall, I very much asked you to tell me to stop. You were the one who rushed to meet my lips. ”
“You’re fucking delusional if you think you weren’t responsible for what happened back there.”
“Watch your tone.” Lev swung back around to face him.
Asher crashed into him and ping-ponged off his chest.
Lev steadied him by his shoulders. “Sorry.”
“Do you drive like this?” Asher wrenched himself out of Lev’s grip. “How many times have you been rear-ended?”
“He’s right, you know,” Silas said.
Great. What a perfect addition to an already aggravating situation.
“I don’t drive anymore, and you’re the one riding my arse.” Lev grabbed Asher’s hand and tugged him forward. “We can bicker and walk at the same time.”
The sooner they got out of that tunnel, the better.
Silas appeared at the end of the passageway, eyes glinting unnaturally.
No matter. If he didn’t move, Lev would thoroughly enjoy barreling through him.
A faint line of light slipped through a gap under the door ahead.
“We’re nearly there,” Lev said.
“Thank fuck,” Asher said.
“Trouble in paradise already, Levvy?” Silas laughed and disappeared. Twat.
“Here we are.” Lev pushed the door open and ushered Asher into the soft light of the hallway.
While Asher blinked and rubbed his eyes, Lev pulled the skeleton key from his pocket and locked the small door before unfurling the tapestry back over it. Silas’s fingernails scratched on the other side of the door. Lev couldn’t wait to retire to his room and hide from both vexing men.
“Has anyone ever been locked inside?” Asher asked.
Lev pocketed the key. “I always keep one side unlocked just in case.” And he always kept Silas locked out of his wing.
He stopped in front of Asher’s door. “What happened in the tower can’t happen again. Your art is brilliant, and you have immense potential. Frotting aside, I am very serious about your education.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
Lev dragged his gaze away from Asher’s insolent lips and opened the door for him with a grating screech.
“Good night, Blakely,”
“Good night.” Asher slipped inside his room and closed the door behind him.
“Oh, and Ash,” Lev called. “I’ll draft a map of Lichenmoor tonight. I think it’s best if you remain in your room until morning. I’d hate for you to go missing again.”
“Yes, sir,” Asher said mockingly.
Replacing the door hinges with a squeakier set would prove useful after all. The lad had no sense of self-preservation. At least Lev would know if he sneaked out.
Lev hurried into his own room and pulled Asher’s sketchbook out of his back pocket.
Asher had conveniently forgotten it on the bench back at the forge.
The simple brown craft paper cover was shiny and worn from use, as soft under his fingers as a fawn’s coat.
Lev peeled the front cover back on the way to his desk.
Asher had written his name, address, and phone number inside. While his handwriting was tidy, each stroke of the pen had gouged deep lines into the paper like he’d pressed down hard and embedded all his tension into each letter.
Lev dropped into his chair. He started at the beginning, planning to savor the experience page by page until he found the four lines that had captured his attention.
A leafy dragon camouflaged in the boughs of a larch tree claimed the first page. An ocean dotted with stars filled the next. On the third page was a fox’s black-socked paw, a glass tumbler exploding into shards.
Each page was dated, starting in July of that year. Asher had crammed notes in between the sketches too. Called dad. Met with Tristan.
Who was Tristan?
A list of groceries: portobello mushrooms, asiago, arugula, brioche buns.
Had Asher cooked for Tristan?
The next handful of pages contained more notes on the Bolton Strid—death statistics and depth estimates, maps of the footpath, sketched flora and fauna.
Why was the lad so fascinated with it?
During the middle of August, Asher had noted the arrival of Lev’s invitation. Lev felt a twinge of guilt reading Asher’s reaction.
Smart lad.
After that, Asher’s focus shifted. He wrote pages of notes on Lichenmoor, drew sketches of Lichenmoor Hall, pasted overhead drone shots, interior pictures clipped from magazines. Tide charts. Weather patterns.
What a nerd. Lev loved it.
Given Asher’s interest in the Bolton Strid, the invitation to Lichenmoor must have felt serendipitous. According to his notes, he’d stopped at the Bolton Strid along the way.
Lev forgot all about the four lines he’d been searching for until he flipped the page.
He dropped the book as if a spider had leaped from the pages. Those four lines were scars, a final parting gift Silas had left with his nails on Lev’s forearm .
He looked at the four lines etched forever on his skin, shiny scars so thin and camouflaged by freckles they were nearly invisible. Asher’s attention to detail was as impressive as it was unsettling.
Asher had fossilized the moment Lev had clutched a fistful of his father’s ashes, and cast them into the ocean. Lev could almost feel the chalky grit of pulverized bone between his fingers.
Somehow Asher had pulled off Lev’s mask, captured the invisible burden of guilt in the curve of his back, the flicker of lost control in the flex of his forearm, the stain that shadowed his palm after he freed the ashes from his fist.
He flipped to the next page, and the next. Almost every page included a picture of Lev—gripping a paintbrush, fingers smudged with charcoal, rain-slick hair curling at the base of his neck, blue eyes in every shade of light. It was fanatical. Obsessive. Fodder for a narcissist.
The lad had been studying him. Stalking him from afar. Exactly as Lev had stalked him. The revelation filled Lev with excitement rather than fear. Which was a problem.
He thumbed through the pages until he reached Asher’s arrival at Lichenmoor. Asher had sketched at least one scene every day—a dark silhouette in the mist, the peephole to Lichenmoor’s front door, Luna at breakfast.
He turned the page and his stomach dropped like he’d jumped off the bluffs and crashed into the ocean, faced with a rough sketch of Lev’s painting, the one his father had forced him to hang on the wall in his studio as punishment, the one of Silas he still couldn’t take down. Even now.
Below it, Asher had written, Someone important.
Then sideways and sloppy he’d added, Who is Silas?