21. The Monster in the Bloodline #2
He murders a perfectly healthy rose. “Mock him at your own peril, sir. You’ll find that this crow’s immensely loyal to his first fascination. He doesn’t range far, rotting on the same branch and waiting for it to feed him, even when it bears nothing of sustenance.”
Crow lore. Good. Great , even.
The thing is, mockery only works when the other person is playing along. But we’re not talking about birds anymore. At least, I think we aren’t. I swallow his words for what they are. A warning. And I’m not dumb enough to ignore warnings on this property.
He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, merely slips his shears into his pocket and recedes as though he’s the personification of Hamish’s hairline.
Gravel crunches this time. I’d call it dismissal if the entire thing didn’t read like a high-budget play.
With his lines delivered, there’s no reason to linger, is there?
I look back at the tree because at least some form of life should witness my retort.
But there’s no crow. No feathers. Branches bare.
I didn’t even hear its wings lift. Either it switched to silent mode, or I’m actually trapped in psychosis.
My brain doesn’t really like the gap presented here.
I rewind the performance: the way I mockingly spoke to the bird, then again, Pascoe never looked up at it…
He looked at me the way one stares at a reflection, and not once did that gaze lift high enough to catch the bird.
His grammar delivers a solid punch to my sternum: He .
The man gendered the bird but never looked at it.
I press my thumb against my pulse as the taste of old coins fills my mouth.
Fuck this place, honestly.
The grass licks my shoes on my way back to the cottage.
I count each breath until I’m close to the door.
Hopefully, Francesca won’t see the math happening behind my eyes.
It takes her another three minutes to get dressed before I hear the door open and shut.
The keys jingle in the background, the planter slides into place, and then her hand is in the crook of my elbow.
We don’t say anything as we walk. The scent of lavender assaults my senses when a particularly rough gust of wind frees her hair from the scarf around her neck.
It blows high enough to hit the corner of my lip.
She breathes out a ‘ sorry’ , barely audible above the wind.
Her hands fight to tame the hair as she tugs at the fabric, and I want to tell her it’s fine, but I can’t open my mouth.
If I do, I’ll bring him up. I’ll ask why she let him so close, and I already know I won’t like the answer.
Better to note that she looks like herself again.
Or at least close enough. I, meanwhile, have had a conversation with a bird that may or may not exist and a glorified butler who also may not have been there.
I don’t say any of this, just hold her arm a little closer.
At the car, I pull the back door open, drawing an eyebrow twitch from Philip. He shuts the door for me after helping Francesca with the end of her dress, actively trying to draw my gaze. He doesn’t get it. My feet lead me back to the castle, to my brother.
I keep Kai in the dark about my early morning adventures and the statue that seems to have changed her mind about me.
Chances are that he’ll see it as a reason to stay and protect me from whatever bogeyman hides in the dark here at Upper Nowhere.
My brother, the martyr, charming . That, and I genuinely don’t think I’d be able to get anything done with my second shadow trailing me everywhere.
Kai’s bags are already packed by the time I make it to him. I lean my weight against the wall, pretending not to judge the way he does his tie in the hopes that he doesn’t notice my foul mood.
The plan goes to shit, obviously.
“You’ve got that Father Bariston look again.” He meets my gaze in the mirror, looping the fabric and strangling it. There’s caution in his tone, gentle enough to not provoke me. “What happened?”
“Her cousin’s a fucking weirdo.”
He gives an amused smile. “Really? That’s a shame. Been stalking her profiles all night, and the red hair was really doing something for me.”
“I’m talking about Edmund, you ass.” He pulls a sour face, as though I’m the one behaving oddly. “What?”
“Edmund? Brother, I thought we already established he’s a fucking weirdo? Baked Bean’s warning should’ve been enough.” I don’t say anything. “Besides, suppers with him alone showed us he doesn’t have to try very hard to be unsettling, so for you to be glooming like that… What else did he do?”
I keep my eyes ahead and pause before speaking, selecting my words carefully. “I found him standing far closer to her than any cousin has the right to be.” Kai freezes, pivots slightly to face me. “It wasn’t innocent, Kairos. At least, not on his part.”
He processes what I’ve said and abandons his tie completely. I take the opportunity to occupy myself and step forward to fix it, lest my mind wander back to the cottage. The silk is uneven and too tight. I undo the knot with one clean pull.
“Did she do anything about it?”
Reluctantly, the memory slips back in. “No, just… tolerated it, I suppose. She simply sat there. Waiting. Seemed like she breathed for the first time when I interrupted.”
“That’s worse, then? That she didn’t react?” he asks with a sigh.
His breath lands squarely against the base of my throat, where my shirt gapes open just enough to feel it.
I glance down, irritated more by the reminder than the sensation itself.
That’s what I get for leaving my coat at Francesca’s.
The shirt feels too thin now. Too open. I knot his tie with a grimace, then step back.
“Far worse.” Resolve hardens in my chest, the image of her wide-eyed and frozen on the counter flickering through my mind. “I had to give him an exit before I did something beyond stupid, but I’m not going to pretend that this interruption wasn’t long overdue.”
The conversation ends, and Kai, sensing the finality in my tone, doesn’t try to revive it. A flurry of footmen strides in when he rings the bell, and then we’re off to the car. Kai sits up front with Philip, much to the driver’s dismay, leaving me to slide in next to Francesca.
The spot where Kai is supposed to be becomes a chasm, with neither willing to risk the crossing.
Likening the drive to a procession feels more than accurate, but I keep that comment to myself.
Doubt anybody would’ve heard me over the sound of Kai yapping anyway.
His voice ricochets off leather and glass, too-long limbs pointing out landmarks and asking Philip a million and one questions.
He says something about marmalade, so I tune him out.
Philip seems to be on the same wavelength, considering he turns on the radio.
Thankfully, Kai goes quiet, muttering one last thing about cows and sheep.
Francesca’s breath halts as music fills the small space. And again with the next song. Then another time. She sits hauntingly still, bracing herself for Connie Francis to come wheezing through the static once more. Every time the song changes, she straightens, just slightly.
I wait until the fourth song before leaning forward and saying, “Philip, kindly turn that off.”
He obeys without a word; a single twist of the dial, and the sound dies down. When I settle back, I feel her looking at me with an expression of utter gratitude, like I’ve reached into her bones and stilled something that trembled for who knows how long.
Thanking me would be too easy. Sheffolk to the bone, she turns away instead, legs crossed and mouth set because her gratitude has no place to go that won’t scare her.
I saw her afraid. Because I heard that song in the woods, watched her get backed into a corner by her own memory, and listened to her speak of ghosts—and I didn’t call her mad.
Now she’s sitting next to the man who made it all real, who stands in the way of her chalking it all up to nothing to worry about.
Of course she’s silent.
What would she even say?
Our procession continues, lyrics replaced by gravel being crushed and the mournful melody sung by the trees as we pass.
The private jet, sent by the Crown, is already waiting when we pull up.
Philip takes care of the bags whilst the three of us stand in a somewhat awkward silence.
The wind off the airstrip bites; it claws at us, smelling of fuel and dying leaves, and the jet waits behind like a massive warning.
It may as well be another hound wearing my father’s golden leash.
Kai steps forward and takes Francesca into his arms. I watch her tense for the slightest moment and then allow herself to sink into the hold. She smiles as they separate. There’s a silent collision when our gazes brush, but her eyes dart away before I can chase the gratitude in them.
Perhaps, in time, she’ll ache for the truth she coaxed from my mouth by the lake, for the way my brother’s presence softens edges and fills hollow quiet.
As it does now.
“Well, Lady Francesca, I can’t pretend to understand Sheffolk, but you made this little trip memorable, I think. My stomach will be thinking of last night’s biryani for the next few days.”
The duffle bunches his shirt as he hikes it higher up his shoulder, and he dips into a dramatic bow. He earns a scoff from me with his next comment.
“Keep an eye on this one for me; he’s notoriously terrible at relaxing.”
“Sheffolk doesn’t exactly scream relaxation , now does it?” I add in, broadening that grin of hers. “I’m more likely to die than get some actual sleep.” The trees beyond the runway shift in the wind for emphasis.
Francesca side-eyes me. “Best make it poetic, then. Wear something embroidered when you finally collapse. Maybe I’ll even have Philip recite a poem; you do know how he adores you.”
About as much as I enjoy crowded gatherings, I suspect. “You’d compose it yourself?”
“If you die interestingly enough, perhaps.”
A crack of laughter leaves Kai, a brash sound that draws a withering frown from Philip, who receives a wave in return. “Keep your haunted countryside,” Kai snorts. “I’ll drink to leaving this cult of death behind, that’s for certain.”
The moment shatters upon my brother’s teasing, and she reaches out to squeeze his hand, addressing him with vague amusement. “Safe flight, Your Highness. Thank you for tolerating Sheffolk for a few days.” To me, she says, “My grandparents will be back in an hour or so. Be ready for judgement.”
I don’t even have a moment to respond. She walks off without another word, leaving me standing with a smirking Kai. He visibly wrestles between saying something useful and something funny.
Thank fuck, he chooses neither and goes for truth.
“You already look claimed by the land. Pale as fuck, with the scent of death clinging to you, brother dearest.”
“Then may it bury me quietly.”
We don’t hug. We don’t even say goodbye.
Maybe it’s because we never really learned how to.
Goodbyes don’t exist back home, just polite removals.
He has no idea what he’s returning to within those gilded palace walls, and worse yet, he’s completely blind to what I’m potentially staying behind in.
His hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for me but remembers whose sons we are.
He offers a half smile, brittle at the edges.
The shape of that smile speaks for itself.
I’m sorry to leave you to this fate.
His apology is unneeded, evidently. I’ve made peace with my exile.
In the distance, I can make out Anthony standing at the base of the jet’s stairs.
Seeing that loyal hound only reminds me that splitting from Kai isn’t the mercy I tell myself it is; it’s a sentence.
He’s not going home, not truly, only stepping back into the leash.
The scars left behind from mine are invisible, but they burn all the same.
I give my brother a nod, a simple acknowledgement of pacts made in boyhood and the dread we both refuse to name.
He glances past me to the car, where Francesca sits behind tinted windows.
I read the thoughts that swirl in eyes identical to mine—misgivings about Edmund, caution about the very much haunted castle, and the beginnings of brotherly advice.
It’s all there.
But the moment’s too thin for confessions. In the end, he settles for humour, an old defence when time runs out. “You always did like punishment.”
“I just prefer it honest,” I mutter, eyes trained on the pale flank of the jet.
Just a step forward, and for a second I think he’s going to hug me. Even Anthony’s shoulders go rigid from his vantage point. But Kai only bumps his shoulder into mine. “Don’t go quiet, Eric. Not on us.”
“I never learned how, remember?”
His laughter is a scrap of my childhood, and I cling to that relic from when our world still felt safe.
He steels himself, jaw clenching as the wind snatches at his hair, golden and wild.
Much like himself. Kai doesn’t turn to check if I’m watching; he knows I am.
My eyes have followed him all his life, and neither exile nor a poisoned kingship could loosen that grip.
The stairs devour him whole.
The fuselage doors shut.
And Sheffolk inhales, lungs drawing me in with no promise of return.