Crescent (Book 1)

+ 4 +

They always came in the dead of night.

We were on a road trip to the hot springs. It was the longest trip we'd ever taken away from home, and we'd only been driving two days. Dad pulled off for the night to the smallest motel we could find, and we unloaded our things into the double bedroom. Rosie fell asleep on the floor between the beds sometime after nightfall. Her thumb was in her mouth, her blue teddy bear fisted at her chest. She slept peacefully, worn out from days spent driving. I didn't drift long after that.

Around midnight, we heard them, footsteps heavy outside our door. I shot out of bed, but I felt dad's hand come over my mouth, silencing me. His strong arms pulled me to the floor where Rosie was still sleeping. Mom hovered over her with wide-eyes. Dad held his finger to his mouth and reached for a pistol from the pants of his pajamas. He'd taught me how to fire that pistol. Taught me how to unload it, load it, fire it, repeat. To prepare me for the day he knew I'd have to use it.

The men outside our room were searching. For what, I didn't know. Their shadows drifted across the ground like puppets being moved along by a string. What felt like an hour of waiting was only a matter of minutes. The men's voices retreated, along with their footsteps. My father motioned for us to stay put as he crawled toward the window to look. I went after him, but Mom grabbed my hand, urging me to stay put with that pleading look in her eyes. She motioned to Rosie- the one who needed protecting, the reason we stayed hidden- and I backed down. Dad peeked through the curtains, pistol still ready to fire at a moment's notice.

At some point, he motioned for my mother to crawl back into bed with Rosie, but he sat watch at the door all night. I was determined to keep watch with him. To protect us, to keep us safe.

I'd fallen asleep watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

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"So you're the new girl."

When I hear the voice, I jump, my head slamming against the frame of my bed: Ceth is lounging at one of the sofas across from the stone fireplace, and I immediately reach for the blade stashed beneath my pillow. Only, it isn't Ceth. It's a boy. He has the same blond hair, the same watching green eyes, but his face is young. Younger than me, at least, but stubble still covers his chin.

"Who the hell are you?"

He smiles at me lazily, rubbing his face. "I'm Dominic- or Nic. Whatever your little heart desires."

The door bursts open suddenly, and Moira comes storming in, glaring hard at the side of Nic's head. "Get out. You know-"

"Wait." I stand, straightening last night's clothes as I look between them. "He- He's your son?"

Moira's wearing the same black smock and dress as yesterday, her sleek black hair still knotted back. Between her hair and deep brown eyes, I have trouble picturing that they're related at all. Nic grins at the same time Moira shoves him toward the door. "Yes. And I'm sorry. He won't bother you again."

Nic frowns, but the look is all play. A look eerily similar to the castle's lord. "There you go again, making promises I have no intention of keeping." Her scowl is fierce, but he merely shrugs, strolling toward the door. Something about his mischievous grin reminds me of Rosie... and my stomach churns when he throws a wink my way before disappearing into a wave of mist.

Moira's eyes flutter shut as she inhales deeply. She swiftly exhales before addressing me again. "I'm sorry... I'll take you to the infirmary after breakfast and maybe we'll tour the house." I don't like the idea of getting comfortable, but I know I have little choice. Besides, the more I know about the estate, the easier I can find a way out. She leaves, and I immediately start getting ready. From the collection inside the armoire, I settle on a knitted tunic and a thick pair of leather boots and pants. The guards escort me to the main hall once I've dressed.

Cool light filters in through the massive windows lining the walls. For once, no snow falls from the sky, but a storm lurks on the gray horizon. Servants lug back and forth across halls and down corridors. A maid now mops blood from the floor, and memories from last night flood me. I have no doubt that the man is now dead.

Ceth is noticeably absent from the table. No plates have been set, but all varieties of jams and breads are spread out in a delectable arrangement. I help myself, wolfing down food at the table before Moira appears. The hallway circling behind the grand staircase has several smaller corridors attached to it. The first glass door to the left is the one we take. Lanterns line the hallway, and I follow Moira into one of the offices where a squirrelly older man stands over an arrangement of medical supplies. All mostly dated- very few items I recognize.

"Jackaby," Moira starts. The box of gloves in his hands drops suddenly, and his hunched back twists toward us.

He turns, and a friendly smile breaks out on his face as he bends, not so gracefully, to pick up the box. "It's been a long time since I've seen a new face around here." His gray hair is swept back, and he assesses me through a thick pair of bottle-rimmed glasses. Age spots dot the hand he extends toward the long examination table. I sit, eying Moira as he hobbles over and gently grabs my hand, patting it between his. "You must be Brenna." He points to my shoulder, raising a thick-set brow as if he knows how much it hurts. "I just need to check the bruising." To trust or not to trust. Such a delicate balance.

I carefully peel one side of my shirt up to my neck, revealing my torso. Purple bruises decorate my chest, my shoulder, my throat, all the way down my stomach. He gently prods at a particularly sore spot beneath my shoulder blade. The muscles tighten. The exit wound. He presses the scar again, and I hiss as pain spirals down my back.

He frowns. "Silver bullet?"

"Yes," I breathe, silently cursing the pain.

He presses again. "Nasty buggers. But it went through cleanly. All but the scar will heal." I lower my shirt again with a wince. I'll have a scar for the rest of my life, is what goes unsaid. I've always known that silver slows the healing process, but every scar I've ever had heals.

"Now, I'm supposed to take your blood-"

My hands shove at their own accord. "No."

He lifts his hands, a white flag as if he seemingly already knew I'd refuse. "I'll chalk it up to a fear of needles or something." Moira smiles from the corner of my eye, and I know that what he's doing is a kindness. I just don't know why he's doing it. Jackaby pats Moira's shoulder, placing a vial of medicine in her palm. "Be easy on that shoulder. Don't want to see me again too soon." He limps away, his gait staggered.

My chest tightens at the sight. Part of me knows that I can probably find a friend in the two of them. But their kindness won't matter. I won't be here long enough to make friends.