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

4. Nora

Nora

anyone’s to use, anyone’s to hurt

M y fingers dance along the path of the lead panels bisecting the glass balcony doors. The orange glow of my sunrise lamp pulses gently behind me, casting prisms of light on the door. Pushing the doors open, an exhausted smile stretches across my face when my eyes land on the deck attached to my bedroom and the view just beyond it. Sleep was an elusive bitch last night. The wine and drinks at the gallery, my general anxiety about sneaking out, Bassey’s words, Dima’s offer, the kiss— the fucking kiss —all of it swirled together; the collective forces creating a perfect neurotic storm that kept me in a fit of broken sleep for hours. But standing here now, watching the white-capped waves crash on distant rocks, dragging deep gulps of briny sea air into my lungs, I smile.

My life’s far from perfect, but there are parts, moments, like this one, that help me forget all the other shit. It’s five-thirty in the morning, the witching hour’s over and it’s now my favorite time of day. There’s something in the low light of dawn, the gradual rise of the sun, the silence... Some thing that makes me feel safe, like all the bad things that live in the world are asleep, it’s just me and the slowly rising sun.

Setting my phone down on the small wooden table, I drop into the wicker armchair and settle into my guided meditation. Meditating’s new to me, a suggestion from my therapist. According to her, it’s supposed to help calm my mind. Only, it never does. Regardless, it’s become part of the ritual that starts my day.

The sound of the gentle harp playing in my ears fights for dominance over my thoughts. Like each day before, my thoughts win.

Mentally taking stock of my to-do list for the day, the harp playing in my ear fades to a dull whisper. Today will be quiet, easy… there’s cleaning to do for Ricky, but first, a quick trip to the beach this morning. Other than that, I’ll just be here, in this house. Wasting time. Wasting away.

When the chime sounds, signaling the end of the meditation, I pull my headphones off and push myself off the chair. The sunrise lamp pulses from a dim red glow, brightening to a warm yellow light. Ricky got it for me last year after my daily five AM alarm finally snapped the last of his patience.

His words from that day echo in my mind, “Every day is a new chance to do something incredible, Nonny. But if your day starts with a high pitched beeping, you might as well give up and start again tomorrow.”

I like the sunrise lamp. I like the soft, warm light. Ricky’s right, it feels like a better start to the day.

Strolling back into my bedroom, my headphones are back on my head. This time Florence and the Machine plays at a deafening pitch in my ears as I make my way downstairs in search of coffee.

The house is ancient and beautiful; Ricky bought it after my tenth birthday. When my parents died, he initially moved me into his insanely upmarket penthouse in the city center. But it wasn't fit for a child. At least that’s what I remember Dima telling him.

The house had been vacant for thirty years when he bought it. Long ago, before the advent of modern medicine, it’d been an asylum for the ‘criminally insane’.

Walking down the staircase from the loft now, I clearly remember the day he brought me here to show it to me. It looked completely different then.

Ricky spent an entire year and God knows how much money remodeling the rundown asylum. Now the first floor was a mostly open plan living area, with a massive, homely kitchen in the center. The second floor has three bedrooms. One Ricky’s, one empty, and one he’s converted into a state-of-the-art security room, filled with screens that track every camera he’s set up in the house.

The interior designer he hired called the renovation a gothic conversion, and it had been thoroughly converted. All except for one brass plaque that remains mounted next to the front door. A remnant from the days of the asylum, the bible verse gives me the creeps. It’s from the book of Proverbs, ‘ The house of the wicked shall be overthrown but the tabernacle of the upright shall flourish’. I used to hate it, but it turned into a running joke sometime during my teen years. I’d tease Ricky and call it ‘The House of the Wicked’. Only now it feels less like a joke and more like an omen that I can’t continue ignoring.

The day we moved in, Ricky walked me upstairs to the massive dormer loft, proudly declari ng it as mine. The loft stretches along the width of the house and is split into three rooms: my bedroom, the bathroom, and an open plan space where I do my cleaning.

Flicking the kitchen lights on, I move with fluid efficiency, grabbing a cup, the hazelnut creamer, and a toaster waffle from the freezer, pausing only to sway my hips to “Seven Devils”. The bean grinder screeches through the quiet house, but the song restarts, drowning out the whirling blades. It’s impossible not to sing along as my body moves to the music. Completely lost to the lyrics, my mind drifts to a world where I’m just a nymph, dancing in a damp forest without a care in the world.

Until a 9-mm handgun lands on the kitchen counter in front of me. A terrified scream is strangled in my throat as my startled eyes jump around the room. Gracious offers me an amused look as I rip the headphones off my head and gape at him.

“Nora, Jesus, how many times have I told you to stop wearing headphones in the house?” Ricky comes up behind me and places a soft kiss on my cheek.

My heart’s still racing as I take them in. Gracious stands at the counter, watching me, while two men from Ricky’s security detail hover just outside the kitchen. That my godfather and my father’s best friend have just arrived home, with guns, at six in the morning isn’t as unusual as it should be.

“Gracie, go up to the office. I need to chat to Nonny. I’ll be right up.” Gracious nods at Ricky’s instruction and then leans forward to place a soft kiss of his own on my forehead. I watch him stalk out of the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” I ask Ricky, as I pour frothy milk into my coffee, finally feeling calmer than I did moments ago.

“Y ou need to be dressed when you come downstairs. You know there’s always a chance I’ll bring someone home with me.” He looks at my sleep shirt like it’s a garbage bag.

Self-consciously, I tug the hem down. It practically hits my knee, hardly scandalous.

“What are you doing today?” he asks, before looking away from my offensive pajamas and back at his phone. Watching him, I struggle to remember the last time he actually maintained eye contact with me during a conversation.

“Beach this morning. Then I’ve got those cleaning jobs. I’ll do them this afternoon.” I take a sip of the too-hot coffee and flinch. Shit, that burns.

“Those jobs are urgent,” he confirms what I already know. “But this afternoon is fine. Take Alley and Bassey with you. And don’t come home until one. I have a few meetings here today, one of them is about the housing development. I’d prefer if you weren’t here for them.”

He’s been preoccupied with the Hell’s Basin housing development for weeks now. I should’ve asked him about it, taken an interest in his work, but I know nothing good will come of my attention.

“I don’t need Alley or Bassey,” I say instead. “It’s literally a four-minute walk from the house. I can go without them.”

“I’m not asking, Nora.” He finally sets the phone down and looks at me. “One minute or five hours. You don’t go anywhere without them. You know that.”

It’s a pointless argument. We’ve had it often enough for me to know that. But knowing it does nothing to stop the frustration that builds inside me every time Ricky insists on having his security trail me.

“F ine.” I sigh. “I wanted to talk to you about the Ph.D. program tonight if you have time?” I ask softly.

This is another pointless argument. I only got away with the master's because he saw a direct benefit to his business. The Ph.D. is an impossible sell.

“Enough of that nonsense now, Nora. You’re twenty-five. The time for education has passed. You need to think about your future. Marriage maybe.” He smirks at me.

“Marriage?” I choke out. “Who would I be marrying? You barely let me leave the house.” I sound like a brat; he does a lot for me. But the idea of marriage is as ridiculous to me as the doctorate is to him. Not only because I’m never allowed to leave the house, but I can’t imagine a universe where I’d love someone like Ricky. Someone violent, someone murderous, someone from this world.

“What about Gracie’s son?” Ricky asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Your dad always thought you’d end up with him?” He considers me, evaluating my worth, my value as a bride to some would-be mobster.

“ Adam? ” My mouth hangs open with shock. “You can’t be serious.” I scoff-laugh.

“Why? What's wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s my friend. And he’s practically engaged to Thalia. Who is also a friend?”

“Gracie doesn’t think much of the girl.” Ricky waves his hand in dismissal.

“How could he not? They’ve been together for six years,” I state.

“Well, for one, he was the one who suggested the marriage last night.” This is another shock I’m not ready to process.

Adam’s mom—Gracious’ wife—was murdered before my parents died. He never remarried. Ra ising Adam has taken most of his focus, well, in between whatever evil shit with Ricky.

“Absolutely not. I would rather swim into the sea and be eaten by sharks than face a marriage arranged for me by you and Gracious Jackson.” I glare at him, hoping the gravity of my words hits home.

Death. I’m saying I’d prefer death over an arranged marriage.

I mean every word.

“The hysterics are a little unnecessary, Nonny. I need to go. Ask Dima to bring some coffee to my office when you see her.” With that, he walks out of the kitchen. The soft click of his office door is incredibly loud in the now silent house.

I grab my phone off the counter and rapidly text Adam.

Nora

Ricky just told me that your dad suggested we get married.

Adam

Why would you marry my dad?

Nora

Not your dad, you.

Adam

Fuuuuck, Norman. What did you say?

Nora

Stop calling me Norman. I said no. Obviously. Do you guys wanna meet me at the beach in two hours?

Adam

Yeah, cool.

T hey look fucking ridiculous.

Adjusting my sunglasses, I take them in. Alley in her beige pants and white golf shirt, Bassey in his all-black outfit that looks a size too small for him. His pants stretch painfully across his massively muscled legs. Not attractive muscle; swollen, like his body’s slowly expanding and one day he’ll pop. Guts showering the world.

I shudder at that mental image.

Alley’s a reluctant partner in my pending escape plan. I have no idea what moved me to ask her for help months ago, but she’s been enthusiastic enough. Our little side quest selling fake I.D.s has become lucrative for both of us; she gets twenty percent of everything I make.

Bassey’s something else entirely. Staring at him now, I know he’ll kill me one day. I’m almost sure of it. He’s always watching me. Not in the way he should be, the way he’s paid to be. No, his gaze is far from professional. When I’m out in the pool, in the kitchen, his eyes are always there. Evil and cunning. When they catch mine, there’s a hunger for violence in them I’ve never seen before.

Pulling at the string holding my bikini top in place, I settle face down on my towel before it falls. Bassey’s leer catches the corner of my eye, revulsion racing through me as he licks his lips from a few feet away. But sleep that should’ve claimed me last night steals my attention away from Bassey, tugging at the corners of my consciousness, slowly dragging me down.

A soft drizzle of sand on my back wakes me.

“You shouldn’t sleep in the sun, Norman. You’ll get cancer.” I hear Adam whisper.

Groggily glancing over my shoulder at him, and the tattoos covering his body that remind me of the night before, the gallery, the kiss... Martin. Adam’s tattoos are different somehow, while some speak to his affiliation with The Court Cartel, most look decorative. His light brown skin stretches over thick muscles that, unlike Bassey’s, are actually attractive. But somehow still not quite matching up to the memory I have of Martin and his... everything .

Adam’s the first guy I fucked. We snuck out to the cottage at my house when we were sixteen. It was painfully functional. Both of us desperate to experience the intimacy that comes with sex. Neither of us allowed to venture into the world to find someone to sleep with.

Thinking about it now, the scratch of the unmade mattress on my back, the sharp sting as he entered me, the slow drag of his cock moving in and out. It felt like nothing. The kisses he pressed to my lips, the gentle brush of his fingers over my body. All of it felt… pedestrian. We both promised to never do it again. And for the most part, it was a promise neither of us struggled to keep.

“When did you get here?” I force my mind away from the memories.

“Just a little while ago.” He smiles at something in front of him and I turn to see Thalia stripping off the short skirt she wore over bright yellow bikini bottoms.

Thalia and I have been friends since childhood. Both of us were homeschooled—me because Ricky’s paranoia about my safety started the second he became my legal guardian and Thalia because her parents convinced themse lves that her autism diagnosis meant she’d never “cut it” in a “real school”, the fuckers. Dima somehow convinced Ricky to allow me to attend a social group. Thalia was there from day one and we connected instantly. I can’t pinpoint exactly when her relationship with Adam changed from friends to something more, but they’ve been desperately in love for the last six years. Aside from a few bouts of envy, I’m thrilled my two closest friends found something so special in each other.

“Help me tie this?” I ask Adam as I cup my bikini top against my too-full chest.

God, why can’t I have tiny little tits?

He crawls behind me and gathers the two strings in his hands. “You shouldn’t go topless with Bassey around.” We’ve never specifically spoken about Bassey’s behavior, but Adam’s observant, and Bassey doesn’t seem to give a fuck who witnesses his depravity. “Where were you last night?” he asks before settling back into his spot next to my towel.

We watch Thalia dive into the tidal pool, her almost white blonde head a stark contrast to the russet glow of her skin. She emerges from the water, waving at us. Adam and I wave back in unison.

“Home.” I turn to face Adam, smirking as I answer him.

“Liar. I came over, but when I went upstairs, your bed was empty.”

I love Adam. But loving him and trusting him are two different things. He reports everything I do and say back to Ricky. I’ve learned to lie well.

“Must’ve been in the bathroom,” I reply vaguely.

“You need to stop sneaking out, Nonny. It’s not safe.”

“I ’m twenty-five.” I glare at him. “I know it’s hard to remember that when everyone insists on treating me like I’m still a child.”

“And if something happened?”

“Something like what? You go out all the time and no one peppers you with five kinds of whataboutery every time you do.”

“It's different, Nora. You know that.”

“Why? Because you’re a man?”

“Yes, and everyone knows who I am. If someone hurt me, they’d be doing it knowing exactly who they’re hurting. Most won’t even take the chance. You? You’re just another pretty girl. Anyone’s to use. Anyone’s to hurt.” He picks up a strand of my hair and rubs it between his fingers. “If anything happened to you, Ricky would burn us all.”

The dramatic statement earns him an eye roll. Ricky would definitely kill the security detail. He’d kill Dima, maybe. But Adam? Adam’s safe.

“Let’s go swim,” I say, standing, leaving Adam behind as I jog off to join Thalia in the tidal pool.

I ’m back at the house three hours later. Earlier than Ricky requested, but I don’t give a fuck. I couldn’t stay at the beach for another second. Adam and Thalia left after two hours, and Bassey spent the last hour scrutinizing every inch of my uncovered skin. The need to get away from him eclipsed Ricky’s demand to make myself scarce.

Stepping into the entrance hall, raised voices rush toward me, coming from the direction of Ricky’s office. Creeping quietly across the old floorboards, making m y way to the back of the house before bee-lining into the garden—the outdoor shower is calling my name.

After rinsing off sand and salt, I drop into one of the loungers along the side of the pool and stew. The six cleaning jobs Ricky dumped on my desk yesterday are eating away at me. Chewing on my bottom lip, I mentally catalog what needs to be done.

The first is straightforward. One of his senior guys is about to be paroled. He needs a clean I.D. I have two potential identities to choose from. This part of my work is fairly standard and to save myself some time, I usually create batches of new I.D.s in advance. All that’s left to do is plug in his biometric data and a photograph. A new social security number, a gun license, and motorcycle license. That’s it. He’ll be skipping out on parole and starting fresh somewhere new. His crimes are none of my business. Where he’s going doesn’t concern me. I’m here to scrub away his old life and give him a new one—while silently wishing I was the one getting a clean slate.

The remaining five jobs are ones I hate. Two 9-mm semi-automatic handguns have recently been linked to a range of murders in the city. My afternoon will be spent hacking into the police database to change the ballistics report. Then the more challenging work starts—assigning a new serial number to the guns on our side, so if they’re ever picked up, the serial numbers won’t match any existing crimes. It’s a slow process that usually takes me a week or more to finish. Thankfully, these jobs are few and far between.

Groaning internally, my mind jumps to the three Glock 19s. A knot of dreads twists through my stomach thinking about them. Aside from the digital clean up, Ricky asked me to add the ‘switch’. They’re about to be sold, but first we’ll turn them into illegal high-capacity machine guns w ith a device known as an auto sear.

The small square device is about the size of a thumbnail, turning a gun from a semi-automatic to an automatic weapon with a small switch. With a regular semi-automatic handgun, a shooter needs to squeeze the trigger with each shot they fire. But with the switch, the Glocks turn into automatic handguns. Bullets will continue to fire for as long as the shooter holds his finger on the trigger. Add an extended magazine to that and you get a weapon that can unload twenty rounds in a second.

When I finished my master's in software engineering, I never thought I’d use that degree to scrub the digital footprint of illegal firearms. It was accidental. That’s what I tell myself, at least. This work landed in my life on a random Thursday a few years back. After rushing home from college, proud of test scores and hungry for praise, I practically skipped into his office to present my amazing grades, and then my world shifted.

Gracie was there that day. An omen I’d failed to heed. He’s always been smarter than Ricky—more cunning—brandished with his own blend of quiet ruthlessness and unnerving calm. He listened to me acutely, mentally noting each of my accomplishments; the next day, it all came crashing down. They cornered me in the kitchen, eager to share their ideas about how I could use my degree to help with the business.

I hate it. I do everything I can to avoid it, but there’s no real escape. A part of me wants to believe Ricky might spare me, that he’ll see how desperate I am to stay away from this side of his world. But each time I resist, he pulls me closer.

The Glocks are evidence of that.

He’s never asked me to add the switches before. It means putting my hands on the guns; it mea ns I’m taking another step closer to The Court Cartel. I cried and begged him last month. Let me do something else. Let me make fake I.D.s, I asked.

My punishment arrived yesterday.

A shopping bag containing the three guns and the three switches.

“Time to work, Nonny,” he said, setting them down on the desk in the loft.

He’s always gushing about how he loves me like a daughter. But even though I barely remember my actual father, I can’t shake the feeling that he would never have forced me into this work.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I take several deep breaths to stem the usual flood of claustrophobia that threatens to overtake my senses. It happens every time I realize how trapped I am in this life.

But then I hear it. The sound of his fancy shoes clicking on the stone staircase leading from the house to the garden. Gracious. His steps are always rhythmic and always familiar—Adam and I spent years memorizing those footsteps.

My eyes are still closed, but as the shadow of his body falls over me, I open them. The claustrophobia intensifies. You’re getting out, Nora , I remind myself before squinting up to look at him. The heart-shaped sunglasses Thalia gave me are cheap as shit and barely do anything to block the painful rays of the sun that surround Gracie’s body.

“What happened to making yourself scarce?” he asks as an amused smirk lights up his eyes.

“Bassey gives me the creeps. I had to get away from him,” I answer honestly. “How was your meeting?” I don’t really care, and I know he won’t answer truthfully.

“G ood, I’m headed out. Ricky wants to introduce you to someone. Get dressed and go to his office when you’re ready.”

“Who?” Sitting up suddenly, my interest surges. This never happens. I’m the ghost. The one who ‘makes herself scarce’. Not the one who gets introduced to people.

“You’ll find out faster if you do what I say and go get dressed, Nosy Nori.” He boops my nose before strolling out of the garden and around the house. Gracious started calling me Nosy Nori when I was a child and conveniently, he uses the annoying nickname to remind me of my place whenever I ask too many questions.

If Ricky’s a tsunami of rage and violence, then Gracious is the earthquake that sets him off. Ricky’s malice is always foreshadowed; like the drawdown before a tsunami hits, there are always signs. But Gracie is silent devastation. He’s the crack in the earth's core that sends ripples of destruction to the surface. Still and deadly, there’ll be no warning signs, no hint that your end is near. There’s only the calm before and the wreckage after.

With a sigh, I push myself off the lounger and walk back into the house.

After quietly sneaking up the stairs to the loft and pushing my bedroom door closed, my body sags against the wall. Shit, what am I supposed to wear to this meeting… With quick moves, my bikini peels off and I grab a pair of plain black leggings, pulling them on as fast as possible before picking up the loose-fitting white linen shirt discarded on the floor. My fingers fly over the buttons before I move in front of the mirror.

He’s never introduced me to one of his associates before. But if he’s requesting my presence in his office, he’ll expect me to dress modestly, to avoid drawing attention to myself.

Blan d.

Boring.

Forgettable.

That’s the unspoken brief.

Slipping my glasses on my nose, my eyes drift over my reflection. My clothes are casual and unassuming. I square my shoulders and head down to the office.

T he door’s shut. Leaning against it, my ears strain, trying to make out the muffled voices coming from inside. They’re too soft. Until laughter erupts from inside the room. A man's laugh, but not Ricky’s. Like a rumble of darkness, it’s deep and powerful. Anxiety rushes across my skin, like little ants crawling over me. Brushing my knuckles against the smooth wood panels of the door once before knocking softly.

“Come in,” Ricky booms from the other side of the door.

My hand lingers on the shiny brass handle, hesitating for a second before pushing the door open.

Ricky’s seated at his desk, looking directly at me. A wide and genuine smile spreads across his face, instantly putting me at ease. He nods toward the two high-back leather chairs in front of his desk.

One unoccupied.

Occupied by the laughing man.

The man who hasn’t bothered to turn around and greet me.

The high back of the chair makes it difficult to see much of him. Black jeans hug thick, long thighs and a simple black sweater wraps cozily around the bulges of his arm muscles. With the way he leans back into the chair, his el bows resting on his arms, it’s impossible not to notice his wide frame, but that’s about it.

Clearing my throat, I step into the office, and my skin prickles as the blissfully cool air of the air conditioner hits my skin. Something about this meeting triggers my anxiety.

The man slowly turns in his chair, and instantly that anxiety turns into a symphony of warning bells, ringing, raging, thundering in mind as horror twists through me.

My eyes are glued to his tattoo-covered hand as it moves into my line of sight, slowly sliding down his thigh before coming to a stop at his knee.

A chill, so harsh and so terrifying, runs down my spine, paralyzing me, as I notice the familiar tattooed head of a snake peeking out from under the collar of his sweater.

“Come sit, Nonny.” Ricky gestures to the vacant chair. “I want you to meet August. Our new head of security.”