Firethorne

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Maya

I t was dark by the time the train pulled into the station. Wearily, we stepped off the train, both of us carrying our own well-worn suitcases. The wind whistled down the station, cutting right through my coat, jeans, and black T-shirt, making me shiver as my teeth chattered. But at least the rain had subsided. Thank heavens for small mercies.

My father buttoned up his old suit jacket, but I could tell it did nothing to ward off the chill of the night air as he breathed warm breath into his cupped hand. So, we walked a little faster to counteract the cold.

Waiting ahead on the empty platform, we noticed a dark-haired man in a black suit, overcoat, and black leather gloves holding up a card with my father’s name on it. With confident strides, we walked over to him, and he glared back at us, his gaze sweeping up and down as his lip curled ever so slightly to show he was less than impressed with who he was faced with. And then he announced plainly, “Arthur Cole, I presume,” and without waiting for a response, he barked, “Follow me.”

His clipped and condescending tone only amplified the warnings blaring in my ears. But we followed him all the same.

He led us into a dark car park to a black Bentley parked in a quiet corner. The boot of the car opened, and we placed our suitcases in as he looked on with a bite of irritation. Then he got into the driver’s side as we let ourselves into the back seat. There were no airs and graces here. He wasn’t going to open the doors for us.

“It’s so kind of Mr Firethorne to send a car for us,” my father said, by way of a thank you and to break the tense atmosphere.

“Mr Firethorne’s generosity knows no bounds,” the driver replied drolly and with a hint of sarcasm. And when I peered up at the driver’s rearview mirror, I could see his pointed stare glaring right back at me. Dark eyes that were narrowed, harsh and judgemental. Dipped, furrowed eyebrows as he frowned, like he was trying to figure out why I was here in this car. That he didn’t think I belonged.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” my father replied, and I shifted in my seat, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering wildly in my stomach.

Trust no one.

We left the car park and drove in an awkward silence for about twenty minutes through narrow country lanes. In the darkness, we could see the trees lining the roads, hanging low, closing in on us, like the spindly fingers of death looming down, ready to clutch us in their grasp and drag us to hell.

The reflection of the moon and the car headlights were the only things lighting our way, and with each twist and turn of the road, I felt my insides buckle and contort as we headed further into the abyss. It felt like the journey to hell, and we all know what they say about the road to hell. Yes, my father had good intentions, but where exactly were they leading us?

Eventually, the car slowed as we turned into a driveway, stopping in front of tall, black, wrought-iron gates that looked precocious, austere, and wholly uninviting. And at the top, welded ornately into the swirls of the gate, was the name ‘Firethorne’.

The driver, who still hadn’t given us his name, pressed a button on the dashboard, and the gates began to move. Once fully open, he drove on, heading down the driveway that was lined with old Victorian streetlamps. I peered out of the window, surprised to find the land was relatively sparse and barren. Granted, it was nighttime, so my ability to fully assess the situation was limited, but they weren’t the well-tended gardens I’d expected from what my father had told me. There were trees and wild bushes, but nothing that stood out. Nothing grand like I’d expected.

As the house came into view, I craned my neck, peering through the window to see it.

Firethorne was an imposing, gothic mansion that stood two stories high and was easily the length of a football field, probably longer. The windows and doors had pointed archways above them, and spires along the roof that gave it an old church feel. Even though it was dark, only a few windows were lit up from inside. It barely looked lived in, there seemed to be no life in the place. It was sinister, eerie, and altogether disturbing.

The driver swung the car around the circular driveway, past a fountain that appeared to have fallen angels or some kind of winged demons inside, and headed for the main steps to the house. Steps that were flanked at the bottom by two gargoyles that looked like horned little goblins, sneering at visitors like us as we pulled up in front of the building.

Most houses of this scale had something grand at the entrance, like lions, to signify power, but not this family. Seems they were more interested in warding off evil spirits, seeing as that was the purpose of a gargoyle. Although, why they had them on the ground puzzled me. Usually, gargoyles were carved into a building, acting as a clear warning for anyone approaching from a distance. Perhaps this family expected their threats to be walking straight through the front door.

Maybe we weren’t going to get the warm welcome my father had hoped for.

The welcome that I knew was probably wishful thinking on his part.

Trust no one.

The driver cut the engine, removed his gloves, draped them over the steering wheel, and then opened his door. We opened ours too, and I stepped out, following the driver to the rear of the car, watching as he went to lift out our cases from the boot. I made a grab for mine at the same time as him, and his cold, callused hand pushed mine away as he scowled at me.

“I can carry my own stuff in,” I griped, expecting him to let it go, but he didn’t.

Instead, he snapped, “It’s my job,” before lifting the two pitiful suitcases we had with us out of the boot. All the time, he stared down at me with a stony expression that showed he wasn’t all that impressed with the newly hired help he’d brought to Firethorne tonight.

I spun on my heels as he pushed past me and walked up the steps. One deep breath in and another out, and then I followed him, my eyes boring into his back, hoping he’d trip over as my father kept in step beside me, huffing and puffing his way up the steps.

The driver pushed open the doors of the mansion and a waft of warm air hit us.

I was surprised.

I’d expected the interior to be as cold and foreboding as it was on the outside.

But as we stepped into the grand entrance, with its sweeping staircase, wood-panelled walls, and huge stained-glass windows, I gave an involuntary shiver. Despite the initial comforting warmth, I felt a chill when I saw the tall, menacing figure that waited for us at the foot of the stairs.