Prologue
“You think we’re just going to let you walk out of here, little one?”
“That’s not the way the house works. It’s not the way we work.”
My vision blurs, a combination of tears, euphoria, and confusion. The wine has made me weak. The whispers from the house play over and over in my head.
They move over me, spreading my legs, tightening the restraints. I feel lips at my shoulder, making their way along my skin. Bruising kisses, bites, sucks. Each both better and worse than the last.
A tongue circles my clit, adding delicious pressure with each pass.
I moan.
“You’ve possessed him, Nora. I’ve never seen him like this. You have to know he won’t let you go now.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand. You just need to accept it. You belong to us.”
“To you both?” It comes out as a whisper, my throat raw, my voice barely recognizable.
“And to the house.”
The windows rattle at the wind, the stone walls shake behind the tapestries. A chill passes over me, my body convulses and I come with a tidal wave of ecstasy and relief.
“Always to the house.”
ACT 1
THE ARRIVAL
1
Hemlock House
“You get out here. I ain’t going the rest of the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“I won't turn down that drive.”
I haven’t slept properly in three days and the words feel like a cruel joke.
This entire thing feels like a joke.
I grab onto the lawyer’s letter, still warm from being handled the whole drive here. In hindsight, I should have realized something was fishy when I told the driver Hemlock House was my destination and he grunted, wide-eyed, and took far longer than a normal person should to start up the engine.
My eyes follow the driver’s pointed index finger to the massive iron gates, rusted, but open. The drive beyond is flanked by trees on either side, and winds into a curve. I can’t even see a glimpse of the house.
“That’s . . . quite a long driveway.”
He lowers his finger, and looks at me in the mirror. His gray eyebrows furrow, and his lips turn down in a frown. “Maybe I should take you back to the airport, Miss.”
“What? No. I need to get to the house.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, as if waiting for me to change my mind. And I suppose I’m waiting for him to change his mind, which doesn’t seem likely. I grab my purse and pull out three twenties, enough to cover the fare and tip. I hold it out for the driver, but he hesitates. The look on my face must spur him on, because he takes it, then exits the taxi to get my suitcase from the trunk.
I gather the few smaller bags I have with me, my purse, my backpack, a paper shopping bag from the airport gift shop, and sling them over my arms. The gravel is hard and frozen when I step onto it, and the air around me is bitter cold. I pull my scarf higher up as the wind lashes my face.
