The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

1. Nora

Nora

at sixty-something, she has a better sex life than I do

H ot, hot, hot —cringing as my feet cut across the gleaming oak deck surrounding our pool, the heat of the late summer afternoon burns the soles of my feet. Lowering myself onto the first step of the pool, a relieved sigh slips from my lips when the ice-cold water laps against my shins.

My eyes dance across the horizon in front of me and my breath catches in my throat—spread out like this, the city is breathtaking. Night falls like a blanket over everything before me; distant lights flickering to life as Port Manaus slowly comes alive. I’ve watched this scene countless times, and countless times it’s made me feel small, trivial even. Millions of people live down there, a myriad of cultures swirling together in a city that stretches as far as my eyes can see. And at night, as residents slowly turn their lights on, each flicker reminds me of how insignificant I truly am.

Despite the wealth and privilege that suffocates me daily, I’m nothing. Tucked away in the safety of my garden, high on the mountain, I’m just another one of four million people who call this city home. But in the staggering, violent maw of Port Manaus, it’s a blessing to be nothing.

After turning away from the city, shrugging off the loose t-shirt I’ve worn for most of the day, and setting the two ten-pound dumbbells clutched in my hands next to the pool, I wade into the water.

In a feeble attempt to adjust to the frigid temperature, I shift from one foot to the other. The best way to acclimatize is to dunk my body all the way in, but the water’s cold, and I prefer a bit-by-bit instead of an all-at-once approach to my torture.

Bobbing around the shallows of the pool, my eyes move with a mind of their own, drift back to the ornate iron railing marking the end of our garden; back to the city stretching out below me.

I’m not nothing.

I’m not insignificant.

Not to the people down there. And the role I play in their misery is a shameful one. Despite my attempts to paint it as something else, as anything else, that shame clings to my soul. Carrying the weight of it grows more and more impossible with each passing day.

I need to get out of here.

Shaking my head, desperate to evict my guilt, but even with my eyes squeezed shut, it lingers. Taking a deep breath, I fill my lungs with as much oxygen as possible before submerging myself in the frigid water.

This is my routine—stare at the city until I’m drowning in guilt. Despite how the world sees me, I am a piece of shit. I let the water wash it away.

After adjusting to the temperature of the water, my arms cut through the water, guiding me back t o the ledge, back to the dumbbells. My heart races wildly as anticipation snakes through my limbs. It’s an effort to steady my breathing, to slow my galloping heartbeats.

The dumbbells make my arms ache in the most delicious way as my body wades toward the deep end. Finally, at the point where I can no longer stand, my lungs fill with another deep breath, and then I dive, doing my best to sink to the bottom of the deepest part.

There, nestled in the deep, anchored to the floor of the swimming pool, I still, relishing the anchor of the dumbbells holding me down.

I wait.

I know it’ll come.

So I wait.

It starts with panic. Not an emotional sort of panic. No, this is the panic that lives deep in my subconscious. An involuntary fight to live, despite these harrowing odds. The rallying cry my brain shoots through my body, trying to force my muscles to move. My mind’s attempt to bargain with my limbs. Go back to the surface, it whispers. Breathe, it begs.

It's difficult to ignore. But not impossible.

Biting down on my lip, my eyes track the bubbles as they escape my mouth, rising to the surface. But I’m not there yet. So, I wait.

Finally, it comes.

The gasp.

The inevitable.

My mouth opens, sucking in what should’ve been a breath of air. If I’d surfaced as my mind insisted, my muscles would’ve relaxed, they would’ve thanked me for the much-needed oxygen. But I’m at the bottom of the pool and instead of air, I’m feeding my lungs mouthfuls of chlorinated water. My entire body tenses as I fight to ignore the urge pushing me to swim to the surface.

I have thirty to sixty seconds before I’ll lose consciousness. It can feel like a lifetime if you give yourself over to it, if you stop struggling.

And then it starts, the burn tears through my body. It’s strange how drowning can feel like you’re being burned alive when it’s so incredibly the opposite of that.

Clawing through the terror I’ve lost control of, I count down, waiting for the calm. Moderate hypoxia always starts with the calm.

The fight that comes first is your body’s attempt to save itself. The calm is submission. It’s falling—serenely and softly—into death’s waiting arms.

Ten seconds.

This is the part I cherish, the part I crave. Bliss; it’s a hazy kind of pleasure, one I’ve become addicted to.

The corners of my vision turn black. This is my only warning sign; it’s time to go back. Letting go of the dumbbells, I use every scrap of energy left in my limbs to push myself to the surface.

Despite how this looks, I don’t want to die. I only want to burn. I only want to feel closer to them .

My head breaches the surface of the pool. Immediately, I stand, water rushing down my face and neck. My ears roar from the lack of oxygen, but even through that roar, I can hear the censure dripping in her voice.

“One day you won’t come up.” Dima’s perched on the edge of a deck chair. My eyes lock on the wh ite towel clutched in her hands.

She once told me her name means ‘downpour’ in Arabic; standing in the middle of the pool, gasping for breath, I realize how fitting that is. Her disapproval often feels as relentless as a rainstorm.

“You forgot your towel, Nonny,” she admonishes. I would’ve smiled at the old nickname if I wasn’t occupied with retching the remains of pool water out of my lungs.

My parents hired her a few weeks before I was born. When they died, Ricky kept her on. I was only five; he knew nothing about being a legal guardian for a little girl. Now, at twenty-five, I’ve no idea how she spends the bulk of her days. Well, aside from all the time she’s allocated to hovering over the pool to chastise me.

“I was fine, I promise.” I choke the words out. My throat’s on fire.

“Today, maybe. Tomorrow, who knows?” She drops the towel on the chair and pushes herself up. “Don’t forget I have a date this evening and Ricky has a dinner meeting with the mayor. The house will be empty.”

How could I forget? Dima goes on a different date with a different man every Thursday. Where she finds them is a mystery to me. Jealousy and a whisper of awe wash through me; at sixty-something, she has a better sex life than I do.

Ricky, on the other hand… His Thursday night activities are far less saucy and far more murderous. A weekly Pai Gow game with the mayor he sells off as a ‘business meeting’ is laughable. I know enough about my godfather to know that if his business is drugs, guns, and murder, any busine ss meeting he has will follow one of those themes.

Dima watches me expectantly, waiting for my confirmation. I nod, smiling; I’ll be okay on my own.

“I didn’t forget,” I say. Forgetting is impossible when it’s the highlight of my week; the highlight of my month if tonight’s adventure goes smoothly. She turns to leave. “Dima.” She doesn’t respond, but simply stops walking, looking over her shoulder at me. “If I ran, would you come with me?”

My question’s met with a full body turn and a stern glare. “Ran? Where would you run to Nonny? With what money?”

It’s not reluctance in her tone, but curiosity. Enough curiosity for me to add, “I’ve been working on the money. A little extra work no one knows about. As for where? I don’t know… Yet.”

Her eyes jump between the house and me. A soft sigh leaves her, seeming to fill the entire expanse of the large garden.

“I have a place…” she whispers, trailing off. Silence stretches between us for a beat, and I grin.

She offers me a stiff nod and the slightest smirk before turning and walking into the house.

Dima’s not a cold person, she’s not exactly warm and maternal either. But she’s the only mother I’ve ever had, the only mother I currently need.

It stings that she caught me in the pool again. We both know what this is. Grief’s a sickness raging inside me, suffocating the parts of my heart that should be filled with love. I hate that Dima sees it so clearly. But her bearing witness to my pain has paved the way for something I desperately need, something vital—help. Together, we can escape this place and maybe my guilt along with it.

I ta ke several deep breaths as excitement blooms inside me.

I want it desperately. A new life. I’ve never dared to think it could happen, but now, with Dima’s help? Maybe I’ll get there after all.

My therapist once told me it’s good to sit with your pain. To give it room, to allow it to bloom. It’s not wallowing, simply existing alongside it. It’s giving yourself permission to acknowledge how much you hurt.

For a long time, I stopped sitting with it.

For a long time, I drowned in it.

Today, there’s a kernel of hope in my heart, a kernel of hope that whispers maybe it’s time to believe; maybe it’s time to set my pain free.

Maybe one day.

Maybe soon.

R eaching for the hair oil on my bathroom shelf, I drip a splash into the palm of my hand. I pictured casual, beachy waves for my little excursion tonight, but the pool, the quick snack I grabbed after talking to Dima, and then the shower—which lasted almost an hour—pushed me close to my deadline.

I only have a small window, a tiny moment, a sliver of a crack in the otherwise ironclad security system that surrounds our house, and doing my hair will not cost me this chance. If I want to sneak out without getting caught, I need to leave soon. Without the beach waves.

After scrunching the oil into my wet hair, I wrap a soft towel around my body and pull open my bath room door. I’ve only taken one step out of the bathroom when my feet stutter to a stop. Awareness like maggots crawling across my skin paralyzes me.

Bassey’s eyes move over me from his spot at the edge of my bed. The hulking mass of his grotesquely muscled body is repulsive. It’s a terrifying, constant reminder of just how easily he could overpower me if he wanted to.

“You’re not allowed up here.” The words tremble out of me, hating the slight crack of fear piercing through my words. No one in Ricky’s security team is allowed in my bedroom. Bassey’s worked for Ricky for three years. He knows the rules. And yet, this is the third time he’s weaseled his way up here.

Still leering at me, his eyes settle on my breasts as he drawls, “Ricky sent me to tell you that he’s leaving.”

“He wouldn't send you up here,” I clip out, tugging the corners of the towel tighter around my body.

“Well, he told me to tell Dima, but that lazy cunt left for the day.” He smirks. The flash of cruelty lighting up his eyes makes my skin crawl.

“Get the fuck out of my room,” I pitch, ignoring the comment about Dima. I know he’d said it just to rile me up; they all know how close we are. But no one stokes the fires of my rage more than Bassey. It’s almost like he’s made a second job out of tormenting and terrifying me. Never enough for Ricky to notice, but always enough to make me feel unsafe in my home.

A faraway part of my brain insists his attention is harmless. Another more prominent part whispers that all he needs is an opportunity to act on the violence that’s always banked in his gaze.

We’re locked in a stare-off, his eyes burning with hatred, mine with desperation. I want him to leav e. I’ve already decided to race back into the bathroom and lock the door if he tries to get any closer. When he pushes himself up off my bed and takes a step toward me, I instantly back up. He doesn’t miss the movement and stops almost directly in front of me.

“One day,” he murmurs. Ice races down my spine as those two words confirm my fears.

“I’ll tell Ricky if you come up here again,” I promise, knowing that’s the only threat he’ll take seriously.

Immediately, he glares at me as a smile—terrifying and murderous—lights up his eyes. “You know, some of the guys think you’re a virgin. They talk about how tight that little cunt of yours might be. But I know the truth. I know how you sneak off into the city to fuck random men… I’ve watched you with them.” He winks, his sickening words permeating the usual peace of my bedroom.

I track each step as he walks out of my room, disgust rising like a wave inside of me.

I need to speak to Ricky about him. He needs to go, or at least be moved off the security detail for the house. But he knows I sneak out; he just admitted to watching me… I feel sick. Squeezing my eyes shut, I will my heart to stop racing.

My phone buzzes to life somewhere in the tussled covers of my bed. Racing forward, I reach for it and hit answer before checking the caller I.D.

“Princess.” The husky cadence of Alley’s voice fills my ear as I sink onto my bed.

“Hey, do you have another job for me?” I ask.

“Jeez girl, straight to business. As usual, I guess. I was hoping for some girl talk first. Like, who’s your crush or some shit?”

“G irl talk?” I laugh. “You’ve never had girl talk a day in your life, and I don’t have a crush.”

“Yet. There’s always time, Nora girl.” I hear her smile through the phone. “But yeah. No new jobs just yet, but you know those two I.D.s I was supposed to collect?”

“Yeah… I still have them.”

“Okay, great. Well, I need you to do the hand over with the two contacts tonight.”

“Err, have you lost your mind?” Bassey knowing I sometimes sneak out of the house, is one thing. But Alley’s a senior member of the security team— sure , she bends the rules and helps me find extra ways to make money because I told her my allowance wasn’t touching sides. I don’t want her to know just how easily I can get out in case it comes back to bite me in the ass.

“I lost my mind a long time ago, but more importantly, I have guard duty tonight and I’ll be missed. If you’re worried about sneaking out, I know Dima’s out and Ricky too, so it shouldn’t be too hard. Plus, I can keep the others occupied while you come and go.”

Falling back onto my unmade bed, I press the phone against my ear. I have to say yes. I know I do. Alley never tells me about the people the fake I.D.s are for, but I know enough to know that those new identities are a lifeline. Each second they wait is a second that could end in death. I take a deep breath and stare up at my ceiling, at the fan spinning slowly and rhythmically above me.

“Okay, sure. Just text me the meeting spot. I’ll leave soon.”

“Atta girl. I knew you could do it.” She laughs before hanging up.

I’ll drop the I.D.s off and then have the night I’ve spent all week longing for. I’m owed a reprieve from the insanity of this house, I’m owed some flirting, I ’m owed a night to just be a normal twenty-five-year-old woman.

Sitting up abruptly, I rip the towel off my body and rush to my wardrobe. The emerald green dress hangs on the door, partially concealing the mirror. I slip it off the hanger and quickly ready myself to sneak out of my house.