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

12. Nora

Nora

spur of the moment houdini

M y mind is haunted by violence. It’s always been haunted by violence. The death of my parents and everything that came after, the work I do for Ricky and everything that comes with it. Violence is a cloud I walk beneath, and there’s no escaping it.

I’ve tried. Last night, I tried. I went to the pool not giving a fuck if August, Ricky, or Dima caught me.

I went to the pool because I needed to get away, to escape the image of Bassey’s impaled palms playing on a loop in my mind, to escape the image of those black blades piercing the soft flesh of his hands, to escape the sound of his screams, escape the death smoldering in August’s eyes.

He’s done this before. He’s done worse before. This role is one August slips into easily—a mask I see so clearly now.

But last night, in the watery tomb of my swimming pool, I struggled to identify the real August. Is he the soft, compassionate man who gently questioned Marna about the death of her son? Or the monster who almost blinded Basse y for looking at me? Perhaps there’s no mask at all. Perhaps he is a compassionate monster in the same way I am a delightful piece of shit arms dealer?

After returning to my room, I slept like a baby, Bassey’s maiming not haunting me any longer. He deserved what he got. He should’ve known better. He should know that this is how we handle conflict. In this world, his world, our world , mistakes are expensive; the cost is almost always your blood, and sometimes, your life.

Aside from the violence and the horror of seeing Bassey prone on the ground, I went to the pool last night because I knew—deep in the dark depths of my heart—I knew I didn’t care if August’s mask was real. I went to the pool last night because only in those dark, silent depths could I fall freely into my darkest fear. Not a fear of August, or his violence or the way death’s almost branded his soul… No, my fear is much more pathetic than that. It’s the shameful knowledge that I like each version of him.

I like his darkness.

I like his violence.

I like that he hurt Bassey for me.

It shouldn’t comfort me that a random man I kissed on a random Thursday would kill for me. This man who picks out dresses for me and takes me for lobster rolls and carries his own cloud of despair... I know it’s his job, he’s paid to keep me safe, but yesterday, as he crouched over Bassey, with that knife nestled against his eye, I felt like it was more than a job. I felt like maybe he likes it too.

Now, in the light of day, with the late morning sun streaming into my bedroom, that truth feels uncomfortable and inescapable. Snuggling deeper into the covers of my warm bed, the strands of my still-damp hair fanning out over my pillow, I wrestle with my discomfort on top of another Thursday alone.

The house is still bustling with activity. The hushed chatter of the guards drifts up from outside in the garden. Dima’s vacuuming somewhere downstairs. Soon, the sounds of life will be replaced by silence. There’ll be no Dima, no Ricky, and now, no Bassey.

After everything that happened yesterday, a night alone feels like torture. I need to get out of here, forever ideally, but a few hours tonight will have to do.

Patting down my nightstand, I search for my phone.

Nora

You up for a night out?

Her reply’s almost instant.

Thals

Sorry, can’t. I’m popping zits and scooping up cat shit.

Before I have a chance to reply, her face lights up my phone screen.

“Spur of the moment Houdini? You normally plan a bit before pulling a disappearing act,” she says.

“I normally don’t watch a member of the security team get maimed in my driveway.” My words drop like a guillotine between us, souring my mood.

“I heard about that.”

“Adam?” Word spreads fast. I wonder who told him, knowing it wasn’t August or Alley. Maybe Ricky or Gracious.

“D on’t mention his name to me right now,” Thalia grumbles, a hint of melancholy in her voice that wasn’t there moments ago.

“What did he do?” My question is quiet, cautious. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked up. She never talks about their arguments. To the outside world, they look happy, incredibly so, but there are moments where I glimpse something… Darker.

“Nor, at this point, it might be easier to list the things he hasn’t done.”

Sighing, I fall back into my nest of pillows. “That bad?”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Thalia mutters. Selfishly, I don’t argue. Adam’s fuck ups shouldn’t be allowed to cloud my time with her. “What time do you think you can get out?”

“After Dima and Ricky leave for sure.” Pulling the phone away from my ear, I check the time. “Maybe at seven?”

“Meet me at my apartment?”

“Fuck yes, I’ll text you when I’m in the taxi. And Thals?” I grin at my ceiling.

“Yeah?”

“You better have something stronger than wine this time.”

A t exactly six-fifty-four PM, dressed in black leggings, a matching black sports bra, and a black baseball cap, I sneak downstairs. The activewear is in case anyone sees me; easy to say I’m going for a walk. The baseball cap is to hide the makeup I’ve shellacked onto my face. Two minutes to go until shift change. The security room will be empty for three perfect minutes; my only window to sneak into the garden, make my way to Dima’s cottage, and slip out onto the resident’s staircase. The cottage sits all the way in the back of the garden, the only way to access the steps without jumping the wall—which wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Seconds tick by as I stare at the timer on my watch—five, four, three, two, one… Bolting down the stone steps, around the pool, and into the shrubbery that runs parallel to the perimeter wall. Two minutes left…

The end of our garden approaches quickly. Wasting no time, my feet skid to a stop. Dima’s spare key sits tucked away behind a small collection of succulent plants next to her front door. She’s left it there for me since I first started sneaking out. That she’s never once lectured me about my clandestine trips into the city means more than I can say. She trusts me to be safe, to return. That feels so fucking valuable when no one else does. My palms grip the stone pot plant, the key ice cold in my hands. Quickly, I unlock her door and silently push it closed behind me.

The cottage is small, a studio with one door that leads to our garden, the one I just walked through, and the one that leads to the steps. Racing for the second door in the far corner, like a baby gazelle just discovering her legs, I awkwardly pull the door open and—without an ounce of grace—burst into the resident’s staircase.

Taking the stairs two at a time, my feet carry me forward, the lights from the main road a beacon, calling me forward, pulling me toward a few blissful hours of freedom.

Halfway down, an elderly woman steps out of a cute white garden gate and waves at me. I don’t know her name, but I’ve seen her often enough in the years since we moved in to feel a pinch of shame at that. I should know her name. Making a mental note to stop and chat to her the next time I see her, I continue my sprint to freedom.

Finally reaching the busy street, I’m completely out of breath. The waves crashing on the beach on the opposite side are loud, but the street is crowded with people, the bars and restaurants teeming with patrons louder so. A row of taxis—thank fuck—line up along the side of the road, waiting for passengers, waiting for me. Quickly pulling open the door of the closest one to me, I scooch my ass into the back seat and rattle off Thalia’s address.

Nora

On my way, see you in 30.

After texting her, I sandwich my phone between my thighs and try to shake off the adrenaline that always accompanies an escape from The House of the Wicked.

I made it out.

Tonight, I’ll have to go back. But every time I make it out, I remember that one day, hopefully soon, I won’t have to go back.

One day, maybe soon, I’ll be free for longer than a few hours.

B y the time the taxi pulls up outside Thalia’s building, it’s close to eight PM. The streets of the inner city are bustling with cars snaking along the double lane boulevard, some honking their horns, others attempting to parallel park.

Thalia lives on one of the busier streets in the city. Nightclubs, restaurants, and bars stacked between high-end designer clothing stores and art galleries. It’s perfect. I waste one extra second soaking up Thursday night in Port Ma naus before handing the driver cash and climbing out of the cab.

Her building has a doorman who nods stiffly as I approach. He’s seen me often enough to simply slide the heavy glass door open, allowing me inside. Stepping into the spacious marble foyer, sparing a quick glance at the vacant reception desk before briskly walking over to the bank of elevators in the far corner of the lobby. Alone in the space, my finger stabs the button of the penthouse elevator incessantly until the doors finally slide open.

Thalia’s parents have money—the kind of money that doesn’t come stained with blood. When they decided to retire in Brandenberg, twelve hours away from Port Manaus, they bought her the penthouse apartment. She was indignant. Determined to have a normal college experience, she’d insisted on renting something she could afford. When she realized she couldn’t afford shit, she happily settled into her amazing apartment.

Smiling as the elevator doors ping as they open, I step out into the small foyer. Being here always relaxes me. It’s the only place untouched by Ricky and the person I’ve allowed myself to become under his charge.

Thals grins as she strolls from inside the apartment to meet me at the door.

“Stronger than wine?” She laughs, holding two shot glasses in her hands. She offers one to me. I smirk before knocking it back.

“Fuck that’s vile.” I grimace.

“Right?” She turns and leads me through the spacious hallway into the open plan living room. Floor to ceiling windows take up the entire wall with a sprawling view of the city twinkling before us.

“God, I forgot how gorgeous this place is.” I sigh before dropping onto the sofa. A stack of g eology textbooks rest on the edge of the coffee table next to a notepad filled with incoherent chicken-scratch masquerading as her handwriting. “Were you studying?”

Leaning over, my eyes dart across her notes as my mind tries to decipher her work before I inevitably give up.

“I have one more year and then I’ll be a volcanologist, Nor. I’m always studying.” She rubbed her hands together like a kid on Christmas morning. It’s been a dream of hers since we were little; Port Manaus doesn’t have any active volcanoes, but six hours outside of the city, in the middle of the jungle, is a dormant volcano. The Nergal Peak has been her lifelong obsession.

Beaming, I say, “I’m so proud of you, Thals.” Meaning every word.

“Yeah, well, maybe you could share some of that pride with Adam,” she snipes, and I cringe internally.

“Don’t tell me he’s mad about school?” Adam’s a fucking brute some days, but he’s only ever gushed about how intelligent and hard-working Thalia is.

“I think he’s cheating on me, Nor. I tried to talk to him about it this morning, and do you know what he said?” She dumps two glasses down on the coffee table before sloshing wine into each one. “He said, ‘I’m not cheating on you, but you care more about fucking volcanoes than fucking me, so if I was, who’d even blame me’. Can you believe that?” Her eyes are like saucers. Rage and indignation and a hint of disbelief burns into me. Sadly, it’s easy to believe, but I don’t tell her that.

“Fuck him. One day soon you’ll be an amazing volcano-person and what will he be? A swollen juicehead working for Ricky.” The words are cruel, especially consider ing Adam has been one of my only friends for as long as I can remember. Even so, they ring true.

“Fucking loser,” Thalia agrees before downing her wine. I follow suit. If this is going to degenerate into a Fuck Adam party, we will not be facing it sober. “What about you? How’s life? Is the new head of security a total cunt?”

It’s my turn to pour the drinks. “After this glass, we’re moving to vodka,” I comment, tipping the last of the white wine into our glasses. Taking a deep sip, I contemplate my options: truth or lie… “August. His name is August.” So truth, then. Or at least as much of it as possible. “Do you remember when I went to that gallery opening weeks ago?”

“Yeah, I’m still bummed I missed it.”

“Well, I met him there.”

“Who?”

“August,” I say, raising my brows at her. “The new head of security. But I didn’t know that at the time. He insists he didn’t know who I was either.”

“So, you guys spoke? That night?”

“We spoke. And kissed.” It felt like an inadequate description for the moment we shared outside the gallery.

“Wait.” She gapes at me. “Back up. Kissed!?” She’s shouting and an almost painful grin spreads across my face.

“It was the most perfect kiss. And now I want to fuck him. Badly. Desperately. Constantly. And I know he wants to fuck me too, because the tension between us is magnetic.” Throwing my arm over my eyes dramatically, I take a deep breath. “Nothing will come of it. He’s very into his job. And Ricky is very into maiming people who touch me.”

“Y es, but according to Adam, so is August.” She grins at me over the rim of her wineglass.

I leave that statement to marinate between us. “Enough about them. Tonight’s for fun. Where should we go?” My drastic change of subject earns me an eye roll.

“Dressed like that, the only place we’d be welcome is the late-night peloton class.”

Looking down at my clothes, a laugh bubbles out of me. “I have spares here, remember?”

“Sure do, let’s get changed and then I’m doing your hair.”