Straps across my face limit the movement of my jaw, where I lie bound to a stiff bed in the middle of a mostly empty, dark cell. An incessant chill burrows deep within my bones, over the thrum of anxiety that’s only mildly subdued by the drugs they’ve forced down my throat. Restraints at my wrists and ankles ensure that I won’t leap from this bed and follow her when she leaves.
“This place is hell.”
A hospital, from the looks of it, but far from any place designed to heal. Their method is torment. Aversion therapy. Experimental medicine that hasn’t been approved by any governing body. I doubt any practicing doctor has ever set foot inside.
Considering where it’s nestled, deep in the northern woods of Vermont, it’s a wonder my parents managed to stumble upon it.
“You’re ill, Lucian. The doctors here … they’ll help you.” Tears gather in Mother’s eyes that’re red and swollen, from days of crying, no doubt. “They’ll make you better.”
“There’s … nothing wrong with me.” I manage to grit the words past the tight clench of my teeth that’s reinforced by unyielding leather stretched across my chin. The pressure against my jaw sends a throbbing ache to my skull that pulses behind my eyeballs, and the shape of her blurs behind a watery shield, while little snippets of memory, things they’ve done to me here, flash through my head.
Injections. Drugs. Clamps. Cuffs. Electric shock. Hissing. The screams.
“Take me home!”
“She’s lucky she’s already dead, or I’d insist she get the worst of it.” Fingers curling around the strap of her designer purse, she stares off, lips clamped tight with her disgust, but then her eye twitches, and her expression changes into what I surmise as satisfaction. “My God, do you have any idea what they do to female child predators here?”
Chapter 1
Isadora
Present day …
“You seem nervous.”
Cigarette smoke mingles with the warm, salty sea air that’s breezing through the cracked window, as my aunt taps her thumb like a metronome against the steering wheel. “Yeah, you would be, too, if you paid any attention to the rumors, as you call them.” Cheeks caving with a drag of her smoke, she doesn’t bother to look away from the road ahead, toward me.
Wind whips my too-long hair, which I don’t fuss to brush away, while the old junker she affectionately named Hal in an ode to her ex rattles along the seaside road. The early morning sky, with its heavy gray clouds, is the foreboding threat of a storm later, and the barometric pressure seems to be adding a nice dose of anxiety to her already cantankerous mood.
“What bliss it must be to ignore everything around you, like it’s all one big lie.”
I have heard some of the rumors of Blackthorne Manor. A modern-day castle that sits on the edge of a seaside bluff, otherwise known to the locals as Bonesalt, for the white clay and sand that covers its steep walls. The place is now owned by the only heir, Lucian Blackthorne, affectionately called the Devil of Bonesalt. And I’ll be tasked to serve as a companion to his ailing mother over the next few months. “Oh, right. What’s that again? He runs naked through the woods to eat animals alive? Or is it the one where he bathes in human blood?” In mocking, I shake my head and point at nothing in the air. “No, wait, you’re talking about the one where he sneaks into town to snatch children from their beds at night.”
“Go ahead. Poke your fun. Won’t take long for you to find out for yourself.”
“That people in this town have too much time on their hands? Already knew that.”
“That the man is madder than a hatter. Why else would they call him The Mad Son.”
Oh, Lucian Blackthorne is also said to have spent some time in a psychiatric ward, earning him the second nickname, but just like every other ridiculous rumor that surrounds the guy, I’m not sure I believe that one either. “You’re just pissed that you don’t really know anything about him. Facts, anyway.”
“It’s unnerving that a man keeps to himself that way. Just isn’t right.” Tongue resting on her lip, she shakes her head. “Only ones who stay away from people are the ones who have something to hide.”
“Maybe he just likes his privacy.”
“Most murderers do.”
Snorting, I shake my head and look away, knowing it’ll piss her off. From what I’ve read, his wife committed suicide