21. The Monster in the Bloodline
THE MONSTER IN THE BLOODLINE
ERIC
E dmund is still outside: a ghost waiting for permission to haunt.
He stands close to the patch of green that cradles long-dead family members.
It’s far enough from the front door to pass for innocent and close enough that it’s not.
No pacing , I note. Of course not. That would be too honest for someone like him.
Restraint and logic would have me pass by him and return to my brother (for Edmund’s sake, not mine), but the situation has left a sour taste in my mouth, and I promised myself I’d stand guard.
There’s no ignoring it. He startles when he sees me, masking it with a smile that doesn’t quite look human.
More puppet-like, adhering to the strings that give it life.
Harmless .
He isn’t harmless, though.
“She alright?” he speaks before I have the chance to.
The attempt at dominance in this conversation nearly makes me laugh. He scratches the back of his neck, clear blue eyes jumping from me to the shut cottage door as though he’ll get an extra glimpse of Francesca.
“She’s never really been the best at asking for help,” he explains.
“You’re a concerned cousin,” I echo his meaning, and he nods his head quickly in emphasis. However, he goes dead-still once I continue. “And yet you were standing between her legs.”
Irritation curdles in my belly when he feigns confusion.
He has that same look that Francesca does when their brows dip a little in the middle.
Where hers comes across as endearing, his makes me want to rip those caterpillars from his fucking forehead.
The thin smile comes next with a calculated tremble and head tilt.
I’ve known men who hide darker thoughts behind charm.
I was raised by one.
“Your Highness, I’m afraid you’re reading too deeply. You misunderstand what you saw.”
“No, you misunderstand who you’re standing in front of.”
His breath hitches, but he argues his point anyway. “She was upset. Touch grounds her.”
“But your hand, of all things, happened to land on the inside of her thigh.” He has no response to that. I scoff, trying to scrub the image from my brain before I lose my shit.
Shower , I told her, then come to me. She took too long, and I thought perhaps this morning’s gallivanting tired her, but no. I would’ve preferred finding her snoring on her little couch. It would’ve been better than finding her goddamn cousin groping her.
“Lady Francesca is occupied today,” I add when it’s clear he’s waiting for me to say something else.
His smile jumps at the corner, and a sheen of genuine bewilderment slides into place on his features.
“She didn’t say that.” He reins himself in as soon as we both detect how cutting his response is. Another throat clear. “She said she’d see me later. For reading.”
“She was being polite.”
A scoff. “I’ve known Chess since the day she was born. You met her, what, like three weeks ago?” And there it is. The claim. Though his point is fair, it’s utterly irrelevant. “Whatever you’re misunderstanding, Chess knows the truth of it.”
“And what truth is that?”
“I’d never hurt her.”
“Even so, her entire body relaxed as soon as I entered the room. That, to me, speaks louder than childhood memories.” He flinches, a movement too raw for him to even attempt to hide.
A flush burns its way from his neck and towards his ears. “She trusts me.”
I don’t bother asking whether he’s convincing me or himself.
The answer is obvious.
I dip my head in agreement. “She does. But that’s not enough to warrant the look you gave her when her robe slipped.”
My hand flexes in the pocket of my slacks, itching to punch him in the nose. Turning away from the violence that landed me here in the first place, I nod towards the castle.
“Go.”
“But Chess?—”
“You’re dismissed , Cousin Edmund.” The fucker hesitates, and my tone hardens. “Leave while I still pretend to believe you were only confused.”
He grasps at the out I give him like a dying man. I see the panic. The need. He latches onto the word ‘confused’ as though it’s his salvation. Like if we say it enough, it’ll change what I saw. What he did.
It won’t.
But I let him pretend anyway as he stalks off.
Leftover adrenaline urges me to do something instead of stewing in my irritation.
I should be satisfied that I’ve chased off that rodent, but my gaze keeps shooting back to Francesca’s shut door, bouncing between that and the drawn curtains.
The song from the woods prickles in my throat, and I take two steps forward.
Instincts maybe, or perhaps the need to see the evidence of her safety for myself.
But then I’m reining myself in. No, not like this.
If I walk through that door, I’ll be asking her to soothe the noise in my head instead of offering her comfort.
Interrogation burns like a torch in my gut, and I fucking know that as soon as the first question leaves my mouth, I’ll be burning this cottage down. This safe haven.
The last thing Francesca needs is another man weaponising his worry.
I pivot slightly, my feet subconsciously pointing down the path to the gardens.
Down the path to the Keybearer . As my stride eats away the distance, I tell myself another lie, that I only plan on admiring the stone whilst Francesca finishes getting ready.
The lie tastes like a craven’s saving grace, a useless one because that rope is already fraying: the statue will have it out with me, sooner or later.
She greets me with the sharp-edged calm of an executioner’s axe.
To call avoiding this faceless woman patience sounds noble, but that would imply control.
I stand there, gazing at the gap in the veil, and finally pin the true word to myself.
Cowardice . Since when have I taken the easy way out?
Waiting, out of supposed respect, for Francesca to yield her stories at her own pace, when in reality, I’ve just been too frightened of what I’d uncover were I to actually tug at one of these numerous threads wrapped around me.
Ridiculous.
Especially when something is happening right now.
Right under my nose. And cowardice with a high IQ is still cowardice, unfortunately for my pride.
No more waiting for curated answers. Nietzsche would say I’ve already unmasked the illusions, just by standing here, unwilling to wait for a curated truth.
Just cut it from the source, Eric.
I reach forward, and it takes me a second to register the acidity in the air.
My ears burn against nothing as the background noise swallows itself whole.
No gardeners, no rustling of leaves and no distant chatter.
Even the wind holds its breath. And then I see it: a lone crow perched on a low-hanging branch, staring.
I stare back, obviously. Long enough to wonder if it’s real.
The quick blink snaps me out of my thoughts.
Laughing might make it go away, but coming from me at this moment, it would sound like hysteria.
Omen? Possibly. Not an omen? Also possible.
Ah, fuck it.
My fingers trace the bow of the massive stone key, seeking out the cavity seam that I told Kai about.
The woman waits, and a shy click shatters the spell when I brush over a metal bump.
A needle-thin compartment sighs out of the key’s throat, barely wide enough to hide a secret.
And yet it stinks of one, all while being empty.
I shake my head; this panel couldn’t have held anything other than a folded note. If the Keybearer once held a message, it’s already been received. It’s been received, read (and possibly obeyed), and I’m left with the certainty that this statue has spoken to somebody before me.
Solve for x , but x has fucked off before I could figure it out.
I slide the panel back into place, and it latches seamlessly with a polite little click , followed by the impossible sound of a throat clearing.
Impossible, because it’s silent enough for me to have heard somebody enter my space.
I turn too fast, and Redford spits my false assertion back at me because there stands Pascoe.
Very old, very immaculately dressed and very much possible.
His polished Oxfords are ink stains against the white landscaping gravel framing the walkway—an area he shouldn’t have been able to occupy, not without the gravel ratting him out.
The small pair of pruning shears in his wrinkled hands looks stupid.
If he’s out here to prune roses, then I’m the Muffin Man.
Very fucking subtle. Who in fuck’s name are we trying to fool here?
He looks at me for a good few seconds. Then the statue.
When he doesn’t look at the crow, it cocks its head inquisitively.
A thick grey brow lifts, but I beat him to the conversation. “I admire your dedication, Pascoe. Surveilling me while pretending to landscape.” I gesture towards his shoes. “Word of advice, though, gardeners usually have dirty shoes.”
He gives the ghost of a smile. Nothing fond or amused about it, more like some aged facial muscles have spasmed. “Strange thing, how crows never forget a face, especially once they’ve marked you. Years could pass, and they’ll still come back to the same branch.”
Ignoring the way the star of the show caws, I fold my arms across my chest and say flatly, “I’ve had interactions with crows before. Never heard of the Royal Bird Show? 2016. One tried to mate with my mother’s hat. Highlight of my year.”
The shears give a miserable snip , and a few petals flutter to the ground. “Bird shows would be too much of a spectacle for me, unfortunately, Your Highness. At Redford, I concern myself with only one crow, and I’m afraid you’ll find his actions far less entertaining.”
“Well?” I say to the bird. In my head, I hear my mother’s voice chastising me for mocking the elderly. But he mocked me first with his bum attempt at camouflage. “What did you do to piss off dear Pascoe?”