RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,1
hired as my escort hadn’t done his job properly once we reached our dreaded destination. As if the guy realizes this, too, he reluctantly hauls his ass out of the car and heads for the rear of the vehicle, dumping my belongings onto the small sidewalk in front of Wolf Hall.
He then has the audacity to wait for a tip, which just plain isn’t happening. Who aids and abets in the destruction of someone’s life, and then expects a thank you and a hundred-dollar bill for their troubles? I’m three-parts gasoline, one-part match as I snatch up my stuff and begin the hike up the steps toward Wolf Hall’s formidable double oak doors. The marble is worn, bowing in the middle and smooth from the thousands of feet that have trudged up and down these steps over the years, but I’m too sour right now to enjoy the delightfully satisfying feel of them underfoot.
The driver’s already gotten back in the car and is swinging out of the turning circle in front of the academy when I reach the very top step. A part of me wants to dump my bags and run after him. He isn’t one of Colonel Stillwater’s regular employees, he’s an agency guy, so he doesn’t owe my old man anything. If I offered him a couple of grand, he might be persuaded to drop me off in another state somewhere, far from my father’s prying eyes. My pride won’t let me beg, though. I’m a Stillwater, after all. Our pride is our most notorious trait.
My only means of escape burns off down the driveway, leaving me faced with two heavy brass knockers, one mounted onto each of the double doors in front of me. The knocker on the left: a grotesque gargoyle, clasping a patinaed ring in his downturned mouth. The knocker on the right is almost identical, except for the fact that his mouth is turned up in a leering, garish smile that sends a chill deep into my bones.
“Creepy much?” I mutter, grabbing hold of the knocker on the left. The sad gargoyle’s far from pleasing to look at, but at least it doesn’t look like it’s about to leap down from its mounting and devour my fucking soul. A resounding boom thunders on the other side of the door when I slam the knocker against the wood, and I realize with a sense of irony that the noise is similar to that of a gavel being struck, sealing a criminal’s fate.
“Wouldn’t bother knocking. It’s open.”
Holy shit.
I nearly jump out of my fucking skin.
Spinning around, my legs nearly quit on me as I scan the darkness, searching for the owner of the voice that just startled the ever-loving shit out of me. It takes a second, but I locate the shadowy figure, perched on the rim of a white stone planter off to the right, thanks to the pop and flare of a glowing ember—looks like the cherry of a cigarette.
“Jesus, I didn’t know there was anyone out here.” I pat a hand against my chest, as if the action will slow my jackrabbiting heart.
“Figured,” the deep voice rumbles. And it is a deep voice. The voice of a man who’s smoked more than a few packs of cigarettes in his day. It’s the kind of voice that belongs to a car thief or a back-alley gambler. The cherry of his cigarette flares again as he pulls on it, momentarily illuminating the structure of his features, and I catch a lot in the brief swell of light.
His black t-shirt is at least five sizes too big for him. He’s way younger than I thought. Instead of a disgruntled, jaded professor in a motheaten blazer with patches on the elbows, this guy is young. My age, by the looks of things. He must be a student here at Wolf Hall. His dark hair hangs down into his eyes. His brows are full and drawn together into a steep frown. From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I can only see him in profile, but his nose is straight, his jaw is strong, and he holds himself in a regal, lazy way that lets me know exactly who he is before I’ve even learned his name.
He’s one of those kids.
The arrogant, cooler than cool, silver-spoon-halfway-up-his-ass kids.
It’s part and parcel of being an army brat. You get lumped in with the privileged and the spoiled rotten on a daily basis. And you get to