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The rest of the drive is quiet. The silence is long and increasingly disturbing as no one mutters a word. For one of them, it’s not surprising considering he hasn’t spoken at all throughout this entire endeavor, but the other is a mouthy asshole. Him keeping his mouth shut is suffocating me like a pillow over my face. It creates a vacuum, and the quiet alone is way worse than the noise.
As the tree line thickens, I begin to suspect where we’re going—the mansion on top of Asher Hill. It looks the exact same as it does every time I drive by, yet it possesses a new and unique beauty each time you see it, but I’ve never broached the gates until today. The car slows to a crawl as we approach the small guard shack. A middle-aged man, dressed in a suit and strapped with a firearm, appears from within the stone building. The older gentleman up front in the SUV nods to him, and then, never breaking the silence, the iron gate swings open slowly, allowing us to creep in.
I look around in awe. The tenacious blossoms lining the drive create a prelude of beauty almost like nature’s graffiti as you travel down the drive. The different varieties of ivy and ferns grow vicariously through the cracks and crevices of the winding stone path. The house seems more vibrant up close, yet the dark shutters on the second floor loom over us the closer we get. Overall, it more than exceeds your expectations from the decadent marble fountain to the gargoyles perched at the highest peaks, dwelling in their own surrounding silence. History and folklore say that gargoyles were originally added to architecture to ward off bad spirits. Let’s hope they do their job.
The hum of the car comes to a halt, signaling we’ve gone as far as we need. The quiet twin opens his door and exits the car. The other one turns to me. “Come on, Flower.”
Before I know what is happening, his oversized, firm hand grabs me by my arm, yanking me from the car. I stumble out into the driveway but regain my balance quickly. “Fuck you,” I mumble under my breath.
He doesn’t react. It is almost like he doesn’t even hear me but more likely that he doesn’t care. He continues his plight of dragging me across the driveway. We approach the concrete steps giving access to a large wooden door. It is carefully etched and possibly even hand carved. Each side contains a faded stained glass with a wrought-iron cover that matches the fence line. The handles are painted with a thin a layer of bronze, and an old keyhole is located below. It has likely been here for generations yet remains mostly unregarded until today. I can’t help but wonder what it has seen or what it may see as I walk through its threshold. The silence is broken as the heavy door slams behind us. It sends a loud echo throughout the house. He drops my arm and ushers me in front of him.
I comply with no indication of where to go. The older man and quiet twin have faded away as we come inside, leaving me with the arrogant, mouthy one. We pass numerous doors, none of them as magnificent as the first. There’s a kitchen along the way, which houses what appears to be a five-star dining culinary collection of stainless steel. I even think I see a library out of the corner of my eye, before he finally pushes me to the right, directing me into a dim-lit room at the end of the hall.
This room is different from the others. It is empty and cold. Nothing fills the room other than a single metal table with a matching chair. The air is stagnant, and the pungent smell of dampness engulfs your nostrils like the smoke from a fire. There is no flooring other than the stained concrete, and I don’t think those stains were put there intentionally. The lack of windows keeps the room poorly lit, relying on only the dull glow of a lamp off in the corner.
“Wait here” is all he demands before walking out, leaving the door wide open.
I weigh my options. I can wait like a sitting duck, or I can run and hope like hell I can make it past the guard at the end of the drive. I figure trying is better than doing nothing.
Peeking my head out of the door and into the hall, I look around to see if anyone is watching. Once I’m confident I’m alone, I slip out. The glistening marble floor makes no noise as I pad across it. I try to go back the same way I came, only this time I take in all my surroundings.
Elegant gold picture frames house pictures of different men in suits, some appearing as if they’re from another time. Expensive-looking vases perched on end tables are scattered across the house, and each one contains an array of colors like the gardens along the drive. The thick crown molding bridges the small spaces from the wall to the ceiling. And the spiral staircase resembles a child’s slinky toy that has been stretched from one floor to another.
My eyes wander everywhere but in front of me. Rookie mistake. The beauty of the designs and flawless fixtures of the house suck you in like a vortex, and I become so in awe that for a moment, I forget about where I am.
“Going somewhere?” a voice booms.
I turn my head and there, standing in front of me, is the man in the red tie. Only this time, there is no red tie. He’s wearing tattered, generously worn jeans that hang low on his hips, a chaste black T-shirt, and slippers. He looks almost normal other than the stitches running down the right side of his face.
“I—” I clear my throat.
“Walk with me.” The way he says it demands my attention.
I test the waters and step closer to him. My body pauses, waiting to see if he will make a move to strangle me. When he doesn’t, I close the gap between us, and although my muscles slightly relax, my guard remains as strong as ever.
“Why am I here?”
He looks to me again, running his eyes down the entire length of my body and up again, paying special attention to my arm where Tweedle Dee grabbed me. His blood is almost dried on me in a messy pattern.
“Did they hurt you?” he questions with a raised brow.
I look to my arm and let out a laugh. “No.” I cross my arms over the front of me and attempt to conceal the motion of me grasping at the reassurance of my comb.
He nods, not questioning any further. “I have a proposition for you,” he states as he begins walking down the long hallway. Not sure if it is fear or curiosity, but I follow.
I stay quiet, wanting him to elaborate on this proposition before I ask any questions. One thing that my father always taught me was that when an offer was on the table, the first one to speak loses.
“I need someone to be my right hand, someone people won’t suspect. Women don’t generally fit in this lifestyle, and I’m betting on that to figure some things out.”
Lifestyle? What the fuck does that even mean?
“Why me? You don’t even know me.” I stop walking and stand behind him more confused than ever.
He turns to me. His face appears a little softer. “I know your name is Charlotte Welsh. You’re twenty-five years old, quick on your feet, and lethal, if need be. I know more about you than you think.” He turns back toward the hall and starts walking again, urging me with his eyes to follow. After a few steps, he stops and turns back around.
“How do you know all of that?” I take a few steps in his direction, wanting to be close so I don’t miss a word he says.
“I knew your father, and I made him a promise.” He speaks with a new conviction I haven’t heard before.
