Fates and Curses (The Ashmark #1)

Chapter 1

ROWAN

Whoever said road trips were fun never had a ferret riding shotgun with them. Especially not one with a flair for drama and zero respect for personal space.

Archie, my fluffy-tailed menace of a companion, darts across the dashboard, launching into a full-blown war dance like he’s hopped up on caffeine and chaos.

His brown tail flicks across my face as I grip the steering wheel, doing eighty down the interstate and praying we don’t end up as roadkill thanks to his antics.

The sad part? This vermin is the closest thing I have to family now.

For twenty-nine years, my mom was the only person I could depend on.

But now she’s gone—fuck cancer by the way—it’s just me and ol’ Archie.

My elderly-by-ferret-standards sidekick, who looks more like a mischievous raccoon with his onyx face mask, and refuses to acknowledge normal life expectancy.

Sixteen years old, and he is still acting like a trash panda on espresso.

“We’re almost there,” I mutter as he wiggles his butt defiantly. “Can’t you chill for five minutes without risking vehicular manslaughter?”

Archie chitters at me before leaping into the passenger seat, curling up inside his green Snuggie like the smug little rascal he is. I flip him off and take the next exit.

My stomach flips the moment the towering trees of Raven Hollow close in around the two-lane road. I’ve never been here before, but my skin prickles, my chest tightens, and sweat slicks my palms.

Why the hell does this feel familiar?

I shake off the sensation. I’m here for one reason: to get the house papers signed.

I can’t believe Iris forced me into this. My grandmother—selfish to the bone, even now—holds the last key to my future. I didn’t want to cave to her demands, but grief has kept me stuck long enough. Two things stand in my way: my immortal ferret and Iris’s signature on the deed.

The house I grew up in. The place Mom and I filled with memories, until it became the prison where I watched her fade piece by piece.

It’s been over a year since she passed. I’m ready to be free. To travel. To find whatever’s waiting beyond that small Montana town.

Now, after nearly eight hundred miles, an aggressive amount of coffee, and a questionable gas station burrito, I’m almost there.

The GPS drones its countdown as I turn deeper into the Oregon forest. Trees knit overhead like skeletal fingers, swallowing the last of the sun. The road shrinks to a single lane, mist creeping low across the asphalt.

By the time the wrought-iron gates loom ahead, my headlights flick on, cutting through the twilight.

The black metal of the entrance is twisted and intricate, looping into an elaborate NS at the center, and opens automatically to let me pass through.

NightShade.

Even hearing the name in my head sends an uncomfortable ripple down my spine.

Back home, it was practically a curse word. A whispered secret my mom never wanted to explain, tucked between vague warnings and empty answers to my questions. She would only ever tell me, ‘If Iris ever sends for you, run in the opposite direction and don’t look back.’

I always thought she was being dramatic. Now I’m not so sure.

Mom swore no one—not even my grandmother Iris—would control my future. And yet, here I am, because Iris still holds the deed. After a year of probate dead ends, I’m out of options.

I should’ve known that meant Iris was exactly the kind of woman who would try once she got the chance.

The tires crunch over gravel as I follow the winding drive, trees parting just enough to reveal the place I’ve been told to avoid my entire life.

NightShade Manor. Supposedly a hotel, though from here it looks more like a gothic fever dream.

Towering stone walls rise like they’ve stood for centuries, clawed by ivy and cracked with age.

Windows glow a faint amber on the upper floors.

And turrets. Actual turrets, reaching like they’re trying to pierce the sky.

The whole thing looms, daring me to regret stepping inside.

I roll to a stop in the circular drive. No crickets. No birds. Just the rustle of wind—and something else. A low hum, faint as a heartbeat, raises the hairs along my arms.

Beside me, Archie stirs. I’d thought he’d finally fallen asleep, but his tiny pink nose is twitching like crazy. He stands up on his back legs, beady eyes unnaturally wide.

“Hey…” I reach over, brushing a hand down his back. His fur is puffed, muscles tense beneath my palm. “What’s wrong?”

Archie doesn’t answer, obviously, but he does something even weirder. He hisses. Full-on, tiny predator hissing, his little fangs bared as he locks onto the manor with a look I’ve never seen from him.

Someone’s clearly not happy.

That alone is enough to spike my heart rate. Most days, he has the survival instincts of a golden retriever—bold, nosy, and allergic to common sense.

But now? He looks like he expects the manor itself to bite back.

“Same,” I mutter, shoving the car into park. The breeze carries jasmine, pine, and something smokier, sweet against the acid twist in my gut.

I exhale slowly, gripping the steering wheel a second longer like it might anchor me to reality.

It’s just a building. We won’t even be here that long.

“In and out,” I tell Archie. “Just like we talked about.”

He scampers up my arm, nudging my cheek with his cold nose in an oddly tender gesture for a creature who recently tried to crawl inside a vending machine to get away from me.

“Thanks for the moral support, little dude.” I blow out a harsh breath and step out of the car. “Let’s get this over with.”

The paved walkway radiates heat beneath my boots as I face the manor. The towering structure stretches up as if it’s trying to swallow the sky, the last slivers of sunlight bleeding away beyond the treetops.

The wind dies, the air stills, and somewhere within the shadows of the forest to my right, faint and unsettling, I swear I hear laughter.

Archie tucks himself closer to my neck, burrowing until he’s half-hidden in the strands of my golden-brown hair. His tiny claws grip tighter than usual.

I reach up to peel him off, intending to put him safely back inside the car, but before I can, the front door creaks open with the kind of theatrical timing only this place could pull off.

A young woman steps onto the porch, all easy charm and effortless beauty. Honey-dark hair braided over one shoulder, hazel eyes glinting in the glow behind her.

“Welcome, Rowan. I’m Liz. Liz Briggs.” Her voice is warm, practiced, unsettlingly chipper. “Please, come inside. Your grandmother is so excited to see you.”

I scoff under my breath. “Yeah, I bet she is. Years of scheming finally paid off.”

Liz’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something sharp in her eyes, like she heard me and found it amusing.

I tighten my jaw, straighten my shoulders, and force my legs to move. The smooth path ahead leads to the wide, ornate doors of NightShade Manor, and every step I take feels heavier than the last.

Inside is just as grand, just as unsettling: vaulted ceilings, polished stone, antique furniture. And at the far end of the hall, sharp as her pink blazer, stands the woman Mom warned me about, and that I haven’t seen since I was a young child.

Iris Prescott.

Silver hair pinned in an elegant knot. Blue eyes, sharp enough to cut. She radiates command—her smile tight as she assesses me like property.

“Rowan. You’re even lovelier than I imagined.

” Iris’s voice is smooth as silk, lined with that unmistakable tone of someone who always expects to be obeyed.

Her sharp blue eyes rake over me like I’m something she’s sizing up for auction, lingering just a second too long on the ferret clinging to my shoulder.

“You have no idea what it means to me that you’ve finally come home. ”

Home?

I almost laugh, but what’s the point? She can play the doting matriarch all she wants. As long as she signs the paperwork I mailed her weeks ago, I’ll let her think this whole moment means something.

Then, I’m getting the hell out of here.

She moves toward me, arms already stretching open like this is some sweet family reunion. My first instinct is to take a step back. My second? Slap myself for not already being halfway back to Montana.

But I force myself to stay still, to smile, and to be civil. I need to find a way to fake whatever version of “normal” she’ll find the least offensive.

At least until I get what I came here for.

When she hugs me, it’s like being embraced by a particularly stylish statue. Cold, unyielding, and not nearly as pleasant as the vanilla-lavender perfume she seems to be bathed in.

Especially since the other woman—Liz, still posted like an eerily attentive doorman—is watching us like we’re a soap opera she’s already been spoiled for.

Iris pulls back, but not without latching onto my hands like she owns them now. Her grip is deceptively tight.

“You’re a little early, and I haven’t quite finished my work,” she says, as if I’m an employee who showed up before my scheduled shift. “Come wait for me at the front desk. I just need ten minutes.”

I subtly try to reclaim my fingers, but nope. Grandma’s apparently been doing pushups and power-lifting over the years.

“I see you brought a friend,” she says, finally releasing me once we stop in front of a mahogany desk with shelves and keys on the wall behind it.

There’s a sharp little twitch in her mouth when she glances at Archie, who I can see glaring at her from the corner of my eye, with all the fury his four-pound body can muster.

“How… nice,” she adds, like she just stepped in something mildly offensive.

I give her a tight smile. “He’s harmless. Practically dead at this point, so I can’t really leave him alone.”

Archie chooses that moment to snort and dig his claws into my collarbone. Subtle, dude.