Punk 57 (53 page)
“Mom?” I called out.
She had texted earlier, saying she was going to bed, but it wasn’t unusual for her to have trouble sleeping. She might still be up.
The familiar scent of lilacs drifted through my nose from the fresh flowers she kept in the house, and I looked around the large foyer, the white marble floor appearing gray in the darkness.
I leaned against the stairs, looking up the flights into the three stories of eerie silence above. “Mom?” I called out again.
Rounding the white bannister, I jogged up the stairs to the second floor and turned left, my footsteps going silent as they fell on the ivory-and-blue rugs covering the hardwood floors.
Opening my mother’s door slowly, I crept in, seeing the room in near darkness except for the bathroom light she always left on. Walking over to her bed, I craned my neck, trying to see her face, which was turned toward the windows.
Her blonde hair lay across her pillow, and I reached out my hand, smoothing it away from her face.
The rise and fall of her body told me she was asleep, and I glanced to her nightstand, seeing the half-dozen pill bottles and wondering what she’d taken and how much.
I looked back down at her and frowned.
Doctors, in-home rehab, therapy… Over the years since my father’s death, nothing had worked. My mother just wanted to self-destruct with sorrow and depression.
Thankfully the Crists helped a lot, which was why I had my own room at their house. Not only was Mr. Crist the trustee for my father’s estate, handling everything until I graduated from college, but Mrs. Crist stepped in to be a second-mother.
I was immensely grateful for all their help and care over the years, but now… I was ready to take over. I was ready to stop having people take care of me.
Turning around, I left her room and quietly closed the door, heading for my own room two doors down.
Stepping in, I immediately spotted the candle burning by the window.
With my heart skipping a beat, I quickly glanced around the room, thankfully seeing no one else.
Had my mother lit it? She must have. Our housekeeper was off duty today, so no one else had been here.
Narrowing my eyes, I inched toward the window, and then my gaze fell, seeing a thin wooden crate sitting on the small round table next to the candle.
Unease set in. Had Trevor left me a present?
But it could’ve been my mother or Mrs. Crist, too, I guessed.
I removed the lid and set it aside, peeling away the straw and catching the sight of slate gray metal with ornate carvings.
My eyes rounded, and I immediately dived for the top of the crate, knowing what I was going to find. I curled my fingers around the handle and smiled, pulling out a heavy steel Damascus blade.
“Wow.”
I shook my head, unable to believe it. The dagger had a black grip with a bronze cross guard, and I tightened my hand around it, holding up the blade and looking at the lines and carvings.
Where the hell had this come from?
I’d loved daggers and swords ever since I started fencing at age eight. My father preached that the arts of a gentleman were not only timeless but necessary. Chess would teach me strategy, fencing would teach me human nature and self-preservation, and dancing would teach me my body. All necessary for a well-rounded person.
I gripped the hilt, remembering the first time he’d put a fencing foil in my hand. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and I reached up, running a finger along the scar on my neck, suddenly feeling closer to him again.
Who had left it here?
Peering back into the box, I pulled out a small piece of paper with black writing. Licking my lips, I read the words silently.
Beware the fury of a patient man.
“What?” I said to myself, pinching my eyebrows together in confusion.
What did that mean?
But then I glanced up, gasping as I dropped the blade and the note to the floor.
I stopped breathing, my heart trying to break through my chest.
Three men stood outside my house, side by side, staring up at me through the window.
“What the hell?” I breathed out, trying to figure out what was going on.
Was this a joke?
They stood completely motionless, and I felt a chill spread up my arms at how they just stared at me.
What were they doing?
All three wore jeans and black combat boots, but as I stared into the black void of their eyes, I clenched my teeth together to keep my body from shaking.
The masks. The black hoodies and the masks.
I shook my head.
No.
It couldn’t be them.
This was a joke.
The tallest stood on the left, wearing a slate-gray metallic-looking mask with claw marks deforming the right side of his face.
The one in the middle was shorter, looking up at me through his white-and-black mask with a red stripe running down the left side of his face, which was also ripped and gouged.
And the one on my right, whose completely black mask blended with his black hoodie, so that you couldn’t tell exactly where his eyes were, was the one who finally made my chest shake.
I backed up, away from the window and tried to catch my breath as I dashed for my phone. Pressing 1 on the landline, I waited for the security office, which sat only minutes down the road, to pick up.
“Mrs. Fane?” a man answered.
“Mr. Ferguson?” I breathed out, inching back over to my windows. “It’s Rika. Could you send a car up to—?”
But then I stopped, seeing that the driveway was now empty. They were gone.
What?
I darted my eyes left and then right, getting right up to the table and leaning over to see if they were near the house. Where the hell did they go?
I remained silent, listening for any sign of anyone around the house, but everything was still and quiet.
“Miss Fane?” Mr. Ferguson called. “Are you still there?”
I opened my mouth, stammering, “I…I thought I saw something…outside my windows.”
“We’re sending a car up now.”
I nodded. “Thank you.” And I hung up the phone, still staring out the window.
It couldn’t be them.
But those masks. They were the only ones who wore those masks.
Why would they come here? After three years, why would they come here?
First, to the readers—so many of you have been there, sharing your excitement and showing your support, day in and day out, and I am so grateful for your continued trust. Thank you. I know my adventures aren’t always easy, but I love them, and I’m glad so many others do, too.
To my family—my husband and daughter put up with my crazy schedule, my candy wrappers, and my spacing off every time I think of a conversation, plot twist, or scene that just jumped into my head at the dinner table. You both really do put up with a lot, so thank you for loving me anyway.
To Jane Dystel, my agent at Dystel and Goderich Literary Management—there is absolutely no way I could ever give you up, so you’re stuck with me.
To the House of PenDragon—you’re my happy place. Well, you and Pinterest. Thanks for being the support system I need and always being positive.
To Vibeke Courtney—my indie editor who goes over every move I make with a fine-toothed comb. Thank you for teaching me how to write and laying it down straight.
To Kivrin Wilson—long live the quiet girls! We have the loudest minds.
To Ing Cruz at As the Pages Turn Book Blog—you support out of the goodness of your heart, and I can’t repay you enough. Thank you for the release blitzes, blog tours, and being by my side since the beginning.
To Milasy Mugnolo—who reads, always giving me that vote of confidence I need, and makes sure I have at least one person to talk to at a signing.
To Lisa Pantano Kane—you challenge me with the hard questions.
To Lee Tenaglia—who makes such great art for the books and whose Pinterest boards are my crack! Thank you. Really, you need to go into business. We should talk.
To all of the bloggers—there are too many to name, but I know who you are. I see the posts and the tags, and all the hard work you do. You spend your free time reading, reviewing, and promoting, and you do it for free. You are the life’s blood of the book world, and who knows what we would do without you. Thank you for your tireless efforts. You do it out of passion, which makes it all the more incredible.
To Samantha Young, who shocked me with a tweet about reading
Falling Away
when I didn’t even know she knew who I was.
To Jay Crownover, who came up to me at a signing, introduced herself, and said she loved my books (I just stared at her).
To Abbi Glines, who gave her readers a list of books she’d read and loved, and one of them was mine.
To Tabatha Vargo and Komal Petersen, who were the first authors to message me after my first release to tell me how much they loved
Bully.
To Tijan, Vi Keeland, Helena Hunting, Penelope Ward, and Penny Reid for being there when I need you.
To Eden Butler and N. Michaels who are ready to read my books at the drop of a hat and give feedback.
To Natasha Preston who backs me up.
To Amy Harmon for her encouragement, positivity, support, and courage to break the mold.
And to B.B. Reid for reading, sharing the ladies with me, and giving me a Caliber tutorial at twelve-thirty in the morning. I’ll be nicer when you start sharing your chocolate.
It’s validating to be recognized by your peers. Positivity is contagious, so thank you to my fellow authors for spreading the love.
To every author and aspiring author—thank you for the stories you’ve shared, many of which have made me a happy reader in search of a wonderful escape and a better writer, trying to live up to your standards. Write and create, and don’t ever stop. Your voice is important, and as long as it comes from your heart, it is right and good.
Penelope Douglas is a
New York Times, USA Today
, and
Wall Street Journal
bestselling author.
Her books include the
Fall Away Series
, as well as the standalones,
Corrupt
and
Misconduct.
She dresses for autumn year round, loves anything lemon flavored, and shops at Target almost daily. She lives in Las Vegas with her husband and their daughter.
Subscribe to her blog:
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