Shadow Days (3 page)

Bosque spoke to the thin man. “Thomas is the head of the house staff. I’ll leave his number with you, Shay. Don’t hesitate to contact him in my absence.”

I nodded.

Thomas bowed deeply in my direction. “It will be a pleasure to serve you, Master Shay.”

A strangling sound bubbled forth from my throat.

“Perhaps dropping the formalities with my nephew would be best,” Bosque said, smiling. “These young people have different sen-sibilities about the world.”

“Of course, sir,” Thomas said. “Dinner will be served at seven thirty.”

“And our guests?”

“They are expected at seven, sir.”

“Very good.” Bosque put his hand on my shoulder, steering toward the staircase on the right side of the circular foyer. “Let me show you your room. Your things will be sent up shortly, if they haven’t already arrived.”

“Guests?” I asked as we climbed the staircase.

“Two dear friends are joining us for dinner,” my uncle said. “A close business associate of mine and his son, who will be one of your classmates. I’m sure you’ll become fast friends.”

Great. Uncle Bosque was making playdates for me.

17

My eyes wandered to tall double doors at the center of the balcony, but Bosque led me away from them toward a long hallway.

I pulled back, pointing at the closed doors. “What’s in there?”

His eyes shifted onto me, then away. “The library.”

“There’s a library?” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m afraid the library is one place I’ll ask you to stay away from,”

he said.

I started to protest, but Bosque shook his head. “It’s not a tradi-tional library, Shay. It houses valuable books. Collector’s items and personal records. I have to ensure its contents remain in pristine condition. Only a trained archivist can use its collections.”

“Can’t I at least see it?” I asked.

“You have plenty of books, Seamus,” he said. “Any you need you can order and have them sent here. There’s nothing of interest to you in my library. Please respect my privacy.”

His words had a note of finality that quelled my instinct to push the issue further, but it was like a bur under my skin. Bosque knew I’m a reader, and he knew I liked old stuff. Antiquity rated as interesting bordering on cool in my book. Plus, I hated the way he was treating me—like a kid who might mess up his fancy house. I was a senior, not a preschooler.

Anger had stoked up in my gut enough that I was about to argue with him again when the art lining the hall he strode down caught my eye. The burning outrage in my stomach went ice cold, quickly becoming nausea. I tripped over my own feet and stopped to stare at one of the dozens of floor-to-ceiling paintings. A naked man, almost life size, was bent backward in the portrait. Shadows swirled around him, snaking along his pale skin as if they were alive . . . and slowly twisting him apart. Though no physical implements of torture were present in the painting, the man’s torment was clear. I forced my eyes off the picture and turned around to examine the painting on the opposite wall. This portrait held a woman, her clothing no more than 18

rags dangling from her body. She was on her knees, head bowed in defeat. Gashes covered her shoulders, stomach, and calves. Crimson pooled beneath her, darkening until it bled into the swirling void that filled the rest of the canvas.

“Are you coming, Shay?” Bosque had reached the end of the hall and was turning a corner.

I nodded, worried I’d gag if I tried to speak.
What the hell kind of
art is this?

It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that art was full of violence. I was pretty sure I’d seen a hundred depictions of the martyring of Saint Sebastian alone in museums throughout Europe. But something about these paintings made me sick. They weren’t tragic at all—they failed to evoke the grief of death, loss, and sacrifice that martyr portraits aimed for. The paintings that filled this mansion seemed to depict torment with a life of its own and torture that was still occurring. Why would my uncle want to collect images like that? Why would anyone?

I didn’t want to give it too much thought and decided I’d just look straight ahead when I walked down this hall. My eyes flicked over a marble statue at the corner where my uncle had turned. Its beautiful, gleaming shape resembled the work of classic masters of sculpture. The man looked like any rendition of Greek or Roman heroes of myth with one exception. He had wings. Not pleasant, silky-feathered angel wings. The long, folded appendages sprouting from the sculpture’s shoulders looked like they’d been stolen from a giant bat, or possibly a small dragon.

“Weird,” I muttered under my breath as I passed it, liking it better than the paintings but not that much better. “Too weird.”

I found Uncle Bosque waiting for me at the end of another hall.

He opened the last door on the left.

“Your abode.”

I stepped into the room and was kind of relieved that unlike the 19

rest of the house, it wasn’t as big as an airplane hangar. The bedroom had dark wood accents and a lot more of a bed than I’d had in a while, but otherwise it felt like a place I could make my own. My trunk was already sitting at the foot of the bed, and several shipping boxes were stacked near the closet. A brown-wrapped package rested amid the bed linens.

“This is great,” I said. “Thanks.”

“The bathroom is two doors down across the hallway,” Bosque said. “The cleaning staff is here every Tuesday. If you set out your laundry, they’ll wash and press your things for you. They will also keep your room and the bathroom in pristine condition.”

“Uh . . . can they not do that?” I asked, shoving my hands in my jeans’ pockets.

“Excuse me?” He eyed me curiously.

“The bathroom is fine,” I said. “Yes, pristine. All good there. But my room is my room. I’d rather not have strangers scouring every inch of it on a weekly basis. I’ll keep it clean. I swear.”

He laughed. “If you’re worried about their discretion, you needn’t be. I’m certain they would understand if you have gentlemen’s literature among your other books.”

I coughed, feeling a blush scramble up my neck and into my face.

I didn’t know what was worse, that my uncle had just referred to porn as “gentlemen’s literature” or that he assumed I had some.

“That’s not it. Seriously.” I didn’t look at him while I spoke. “I haven’t ever had a personal cleaning staff. I don’t need one now.

What I need to know is that I have some real privacy in this mega-mansion.”

Bosque smiled, his gaze telling me that he didn’t believe I was anything other than a teenage porn hoarder, which made me even more uneasy about the wacko paintings in the hall and what kind of

“gentlemen’s literature” he might have stashed in that library.

Yuck.

20

“As you wish. I’ll instruct your staff to treat your bedroom as sacrosanct.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bosque.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “Is this house usually empty? I mean am I the only one living here? Because it’s pretty huge.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “The art collection is rare, and I do allow the local historical society to schedule tours when I’m not in residence.

I’m sure they’ll be disappointed that the premises are being returned to private occupancy only.”

“History, huh?” I said. “When was it built? I didn’t think they had places like this out west.”

“One of the reasons the tours were in demand,” Bosque said. “In terms of architecture it’s one of a kind. Built in the late nineteenth century by one of our ancestors who did quite well in the Colorado gold rush.”

“Pikes Peak or bust?” I ask. “That one?”

“Glad you to hear you’ve taken in some history at those schools I’ve sent you to,” he said, stepping toward the door. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Dinner is in a few hours.”

“Uncle Bosque?” My voice felt small, more childlike than I’d ever want it to be. “Are you going to live here too?”

He looked at me, squaring his shoulders. “You know the nature of my work.”

I clenched my teeth, wondering why I’d even care about sharing a house with an uncle I barely knew. Still, he was my only family.

“I’ll be here tonight,” he said. “But tomorrow I’ll be traveling again. I’ll return when the school’s admissions process is complete.

I want to be certain everything goes smoothly when you first matricu-late.”

“Right,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting for you in my study,” he said. “It’s at the far end of the west wing. When you’re ready, come find me and we’ll take a 21

tour of the house before dinner.”

I nodded, suddenly exhausted.

Bosque left and I flopped onto my back. My head struck the package sitting on the bed. I’d forgotten it was there.

The mailing label showed it had shipped from Portland, mailed overnight to arrive today. I opened it up to find my hoodie folded neatly around a plastic bag full of chocolate chip cookies. Kate’s handwriting looped across a note card.

Don’t forget us. Xoxo

It wasn’t anything but thoughtful, and still I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Tomorrow I’d be alone. In a place where I had no friends. In a house big enough to shelter an army but that was home only to me.

If I was going to stay sane the next few weeks while I was waiting for the school to let me enroll, I was going to have to get creative.

Very creative.

I rolled onto my stomach and texted Kate.
Don’t know how I’ll
make it without you. Sure you won’t be cold without my hoodie?

My phone buzzed almost instantly.
I wouldn’t say no if you sent it
back. Miss seeing your face already.

I was about to text back when I realized I could do better.

22

tHree

A

i stAred At tHe sCreen, wondering where all these facebook people had come from. Either Ally had done some serious recruiting or people think making friends with strangers online is a good way to spend time. I was still in the middle of designing my blog when there was a knock at the door.

“I expected you’d want that tour by now,” Bosque said.

“Sorry.” I closed my laptop. “Got distracted.” The blog would have to wait.

I kept pace with my uncle’s long but casual strides through the arched halls.

“There is little within these walls that is without value,” he said.

“I trust you’ll take care to treat your home with care.”

“No problem,” I said, gawking at one of the sicko paintings and then at my uncle. He glanced at the painting, then back to me. I’d been waiting for him to say something about them. Silence.

Awkward.

Our walk through the estate took almost an hour, leaving me with not infrequent thoughts that I could easily get lost in the place.

The second and third floors were filled with bedrooms and quiet parlors, while the fourth floor had some more bedrooms and a lot of storage.

24

The larger gathering spaces of the mansion were clustered on the ground floor. The kitchen was enormous and reminded me of something out of
Beowulf
—built to feed a horde of ravenous thanes and not one solitary guy like me. The dining room featured a table that could seat two dozen guests. four places were already set with bone china plates, sparkling crystal goblets, and gleaming silver utensils. I was glad the place settings were clustered at one end of the table.

Otherwise dinner would have required us to shout our conversation along its length. A ballroom, its floor so polished that I could look down and see my own face, adjoined the dining room. The last room Bosque showed me was what he called a “gentlemen’s lounge” and to me looked like PETA’s worst nightmare. The walls were covered with taxidermied beasts ranging from familiar—wolves, foxes, deer heads, and mink pelts—to exotic—a huge lion rug, with head still attached, covered the floor next to the fireplace. Bosque helped himself to a cigar out of the tall humidor and I wondered why “gentlemen” liked to look at dead beasts while they had after-dinner drinks. I half expected to find neat stacks of my uncle’s “gentlemen’s literature” on the end tables—a thought that made me shudder.

When my uncle swept his hand around the room and said, “All of this is yours,” I managed to stop myself from cringing.

“This is your legacy, my dear nephew.” He smiled, gazing at me.

“I hope you will enjoy your days at Rowan Estate.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s really . . . impressive.”

“Isn’t it, though?” he said. “I’m delighted you’re here and can appreciate the fortune your ancestors worked so hard to provide for you.”

“Are there family records?” I asked. “Like in the library?”

His smile vanished. “I’ve told you that the library is off-limits.”

“I know, but—”

He cut me off. “All you need to know about the past is before 25

you. This place. These creature comforts are the gifts your family left you. Names and dates on pages are but a shadow in comparison.

Don’t bother thinking about it.”

I opened my mouth and his eyes flashed. I had to look away. I’d never gotten used to the unsettling silver shade of my uncle’s eyes.