Black & Blue (The Fate & Fire #1)

Chapter 1

The sun shone brightly in the sky and the street was quiet.

Giant oaks lined both sides, casting massive shadows across the asphalt.

Grand houses and pristinely manicured lawns were staples in neighborhoods like this.

The sort of neighborhood where patrol cars were a common sight, and the officers were on a first-name basis with most of the residents.

It was nearing the end of summer, and all the flowerbeds at the base of the trees still overflowed with blooms in shades of red, purple, and orange.

Lawnmowers could be heard droning along lush, green grass.

Sprinklers were sending streams of water over vegetable gardens.

The locals were jogging or walking their dogs down the recently swept sidewalks.

The memories were vivid in my mind. I had lived in this town for the entirety of my adolescent life.

I turned into the driveway of my grandfather’s home in Havenwood, Michigan.

I waited for the bus every morning at the end of this very drive.

There was an immense fence that surrounded the property, and a matching gate that barred entry to anyone who didn’t have the code.

The gate sat open at the moment, probably because my mother was expecting me and wasn’t sure I remembered the four-digit number—assuming it was the same as always.

There was a speaker that fed directly into the house, so whoever was inside would be able to open the gate for people who showed up unannounced.

My grandfather was a private man, and in his line of work, I suppose I could understand why.

A thick grove of trees ran just inside the fence, concealing the large home and the grounds from anyone on the street or even at the gate itself.

I steered my car down the winding paved path to the house.

Driving through a canopy of trees, the massive house appeared before me.

I pulled up in front of the garage, parking in an open space next to my mom’s Jeep.

My window was open, and I could smell the cool moisture from the dew-soaked grass and the pollen in the air as the bees buzzed from flower to flower.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the seat, knowing full well that once I stepped out of the vehicle, reality would set in, and there would be no going back.

As a child, my mother and I had lived here with him; he was the constant male figure in my life.

I spent so much time playing in the yard out front and drawing with chalk in the driveway.

My cousin Charlotte and I would sit on the floor of his study with our toys scattered everywhere while he combed through book after book and specimen after specimen.

Now, here I was, wishing I had made the trip sooner—just to see him one last time.

It looked as though that was one regret I would have to carry with me.

My phone rang, and I immediately answered when my mom’s name flashed on the screen at eleven thirty last night.

She called to tell me that there had been a car accident and that my grandfather had been killed.

She said he swerved to avoid hitting something that had run out in front of him.

That’s what the authorities surmised from the skid marks—it was raining, and the road was wet.

He had lost control of the vehicle and crashed head-on into a tree.

She was told that it was instantaneous, and he hadn’t suffered.

He had already passed when the responders arrived at the scene.

I assured her that I would be leaving first thing in the morning and meet up with her at his house.

I was certain that my mom, Aunt Victoria, and cousin Charlotte would already be there when I arrived.

None of them lived as far from the house as I did.

Sure enough, both of their cars were parked on the other side of my mom’s in front of the large garage.

I missed this house and my grandfather; being here only intensified those feelings.

This was home, and it held so many memories.

The playroom that Grandpa kept for us at the back of the house only got used when we weren’t in the study with him.

The room was filled with dolls and dress-up clothes, stuffed animals, and even a real tea set.

There was an area set up to play house, with a wooden kitchen and cradle, changing table, and highchair for our dolls.

Another corner was set up for when we wanted to play school, equipped with a chalkboard, textbooks, and a desk with an attached chair.

That room was later converted into a game room.

The huge farmhouse kitchen boasted high ceilings, a giant island with stools on one side, where we would prepare big family dinners every Sunday throughout my childhood—even after I left for college.

When I couldn’t make it home, my mother, aunt, and cousin would still gather here with my grandfather.

There was dark wood that dominated many of the main rooms in the home, but not the kitchen.

That room was predominantly white with natural wood trim.

The cupboards were tall, a wooden step stool sat next to the fridge so we could gain access to the top of them.

Aside from that, this was definitely a man’s house—a man that appreciated the good things in life no matter what those things happened to be.

He was even known to partake in the occasional scotch and cigar with friends or colleagues.

I knew I had to get out of the car, and I knew I needed to cross that threshold, and that once I did, the end result would be different than it had ever been before.

He wasn’t going to be there this time, or ever again, for that matter.

All of this—and the fact that I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to react when that realization finally hit me—made my chest feel tight.

I pulled down the visor and flipped open the mirror; I looked like I had been crying.

I guess that would be completely normal in a situation like this.

The loss of a close family member isn’t something that I had ever dealt with.

I hated to cry and didn’t do it often at all.

What reason would I, Joslyn Ray Lawson, have to be sad?

As conceited as that sounds, I am well aware of how blessed I have been in my life.

I am twenty-six years old and have gone my entire life up until this point having only to grieve the death of my hamster, Meatball, when I was nine.

This was new, and I was having a little trouble navigating it on my own.

Asking for help usually isn’t even so much as a blip on my radar. Now was the moment of truth.

“You got this!” I said aloud. I slapped the visor shut and grabbed my bags off the passenger seat.

The dark cloud descended as I stepped out of the vehicle.

This was going to be hard—really hard. My mother was a single mom; my dad had never met me and never wanted to, that I was aware.

She didn’t need any help financially because my family had money since before I was born.

I never asked where it came from, and no one ever offered up the information; it was all quite secretive.

What I do know is that my grandfather was a professor at a university where he taught cryptozoology.

Yes, you got that right—cryptozoology. He studied creatures that don’t exist.

He was—crazy as it may seem—well respected by all his colleagues.

He loved being outdoors in nature, exploring and searching for evidence of creatures like Bigfoot and the Dogman.

He visited foreign countries often and spoke at least seven languages.

He hiked, fished, camped, and had no problem getting his hands dirty.

He also read, researched, and had a way with people that allowed him to gain their trust. They would share their deepest, darkest secrets and experiences that other people deemed utter bullshit.

He made friends with people who others simply wrote off as crazy or mental cases.

His kind soul showed through in his smile, and it had the ability to light up a whole room.

He had the best stories, and he possessed the ability to transport you as he recited them.

He could paint a picture with his words, giving you the details to picture it in your mind.

His audience was always captivated and hanging onto every word.

That was the man that I had loved my whole life.

The only father figure I had ever known.

He raised me, he nurtured me, he loved me, and now he was gone… forever.

When my feet finally made contact with the doormat, I took a deep breath and reached for the handle.

Pushing the door open, I stepped into the foyer.

A sweeping wooden staircase clung to the wall and dominated the space.

Directly beneath the staircase was a set of double doors that opened into my grandfather’s study.

I remember it being a monstrous room that was covered in dark wood; the floors, the walls, even the furniture.

Bookcases were built into three of the four walls.

There were two spiral staircases that led to a loft area above; each was ornate iron and set on opposite sides of a large set of shelves.

The loft held cabinets filled with drawers of all sizes, and in the center was an enormous table that he used to spread his “evidence” out on.

Maps, castings, pictures, hair samples, and any other items that piqued his interest in whichever beast he was currently researching or chasing.

This place was home, and the study had always been my favorite room within its confines. It was the heart.