The Blood Debt

Chapter 19

Ayla

If hell was a place on earth, it was the Brookville house in Oyster Bay. Even years later, my memories of my first visit there are fraught with a kind of torment that the passing years haven't been able to dull. When I think about it, which isn't often if I can help it, there's a melancholy to my sadness, not for myself, but for the kind of childhood Roman and Rejab and Lou must have had in that house.

We drive mostly in silence for the hour-long drive that it takes to get there. I'm nervous and in no mood for small talk. Roman too is surprisingly quiet.

He stops in front of the stately gates where a sign that looks like it's witnessed one too many summers forewarns strangers.

Private Property

No Trespassers. No Parking. No Loitering. No Soliciting.

Violators Enter at Own Risk

Don't I know it.

A man carrying a military grade firearm comes out from the security booth when he notices Roman's car pull up to the gate. He triggers an electronic mechanism that makes the gates part slowly as he comes out to greet him. He speaks to Roman in Albanian before he politely nods at me and waves us through.

The house is set on twenty plus acres, and only visible after the minute long drive Roman makes down its grand driveway. It's surrounded by a forest of black birch that blocks everything out of sight until the stretch of road ends to reveal a spectacular home surrounded by a perfectly landscaped garden. It's as apocalyptic as it is biblical, but despite its beauty, there's something about the house that falls short of capturing any kind of serenity. There's nothing homely about it. Instead there's a misery inside its walls, a kind of angst that almost feels tangible the minute Roman pulls up in front of the circular driveway at its main entrance.

As we stand on the threshold of the pillared entrance, Roman's hand moves over mine. He takes it into his own and pulls it away from my neck where I'm pawing at my necklace. He places my hand by my side.

"Relax," he says, as he rings the doorbell.

"Easy for you to say," I mumble.

He lets out an irritated breath, like my whining about having to come with him is getting on his last nerve.

I take that as my cue to be quiet, but as I'm drawing in a deep breath, trying to settle my agitated nerves I hear panting and the frantic beat of paws on gravel. Even before I see them, I know what's behind me. I make a grab for Roman's forearm instinctively before I turn, coming face to face with not one, but three dobermans.

"Easy," he says to me.

They slow their pace when they see Roman beside me, but this stealth act they're putting on, this eerie slow motion surveillance they're doing looks like they're wondering if l'm friendly or their next meal. All the dogs I know run and jump, they play ball, wag their tails and lick faces. These ones are looking at me like they're sizing me up.

"Let them come to you," he tells me.

"Lulu," he calls.

It's the only encouragement the dog needs. It makes her and her pack hurtle toward us.

She nuzzles Roman's hand and lets him rub under her chin. The others follow, enthusiastically. They surround us and pretty soon they're licking my hand and whacking me with their excited tails.

An armed guard patrolling the grounds whistles, diverting Lulu's attention. He waves to Roman and the dogs turn to him, leaving us as quickly as they arrived.