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

43. Nora

Nora

hello nora

T here’s a burner phone tucked behind one of the tiles in my bathroom. I need to get it to call Gracie. The stairs creak loudly through the house as I take them two at a time, stopping briefly on the landing to glance at my workspace. It’s a mess. Papers strewn everywhere, the drawers ripped out of the desk and tossed haphazardly onto the floor. There’s nothing to find here. I walk into my bedroom and gasp at the upheaval that greets me. Before August and I left for the lake house, it was chaos, but this… Had the police come by again? Or someone else?

The floorboards are ripped up, my mattress has been cut open, foam and fluff and springs littering the floor. Every item of clothing in my wardrobe has been pulled out. It’s just stuff, I know that; none of this is important. None of it matters. But for so long, it’s been all I’ve had, all that was mine. I pick a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt up off the floor and turn to the bathroom.

It hasn’t fared any better. The tile that hides the burner phone is ripped away, the phone gone. I want to scream in frustration. But I don’t. I’m desperate enoug h to find another way. I know I will. Trying to ignore the mess around me, I move through the motions of showering, meticulously cleaning the horrors of Dima’s house from my body before pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt.

Back in my bedroom, I tug on the first pair of sneakers I find. Picking up the safe deposit box keys from where I set them down, I push them into my back pocket. The weight of them immediately relaxes some of the storm still raging inside me. They’re my only lifeline now.

It’s almost eight AM. I have an hour until the bank opens; I can head downtown now and wait. As much as I hate the idea of maundering this city, I don’t want to wait here.

I’m about to turn, to leave the room when the balcony doors catch my eye. They’re slightly ajar, like someone pushed both doors open but couldn’t be bothered to close them properly again. Stepping forward, I smile sadly; this used to be my favorite place in the house. The mornings I spent meditating, watching the sunrise, watching the pool. This balcony is the one part of this house that isn’t wicked.

Reaching for the shiny brass handle, my shoulder nudges the doors open fully. The chilly early morning air rushes into the room as I tentatively step out, doing my best to avoid the shards of broken glass dotting the floor—I don’t waste time wondering who or what broke the glass, like the chaos in my room, it must have happened after we left for the lake. Sucking in a deep breath, cold ocean air fills my lungs. The early morning view is breathtaking. Hovering near the railing, I soak it up one last time before turning toward my favorite wicker armchair. And then I stagger back.

Fear drains the color from my face as my eyes land on the person sitting in the chair. My mind racing. Words that should come easily are trapped in my throat.

I can’t move, I can only stare, gape, as I pray this isn’t the end I know it will be.

“Hello, Nora.”

The black barrel of the department-issued pistol soaks up the darkness surrounding her.

Rachel.

Detective Andrews.

She cocks her head to the side like a wild animal sizing up its prey. My stomach twists with dread as the pinched features of her rat-like face contort into something like a smile, only horrific and self-satisfied.

“I’ve been waiting here for hours,” she says, calculating eyes homing in on me. Her hand taps the arms of my wicker armchair—the one I meditate in—three times. Each time, like the hands of a clock ticking down, counting the seconds until my inescapable reckoning begins.

Why is she here? Why is she waiting for me?

I’m tempted to ask, but something tells me she won’t answer.

Her radio crackles to life a second before a deep voice says, “Car’s ready in the front, detective.”

She lifts it from the clip on her belt and smiles at me as she murmurs, “Copy that.” Rachel pushes herself out of the armchair, not once taking her eyes off me. I take a step back and she raises her brows in question. “Do I need to cuff you?”

Shaking my head, I blink back the fresh wave of tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. A distant part of my mind rages at the injustice of this. A closer part whispers that after all the evil I’ve done for Ricky, this is quite literally the definition of justice.

Stil l, I want to scream; I want to launch myself at her, claw at her eyes and demand she get the fuck out of my house. But I do none of that. Fear has clamped down on my limbs, freezing me in place as she closes the small amount of space between us.

“Let’s go, Nora,” she orders with exaggerated patience, sending a flood of humiliation through me.

“Go where?” I stammer. My question is met with an exasperated sigh.

She gestures to the glass balcony doors still open behind me. “To the station.”

I turn, hating the vulnerability of giving her my back. She stays a few paces behind me as we walk silently through my room, down the stairs, and out of the house.

The previously deserted driveway has now descended into mayhem. Six police cruisers block the gates, the bright flashes of red and blue lights blinking against the stone facade of the mansion. Rachel guides me to a squad car parked directly by the front door, nudging me forward until I’m pressed face down on the hood of the trunk.

“Just gonna pat you down real quick,” she says. And I cringe as her hands land on me. Not that she can see with my head turned away from her. Like an invasion, those fingers make a slow and efficient crawl down my spine, then over my torso, between my breasts, my thighs, my ass and the keys still tucked away in my pocket and down my legs. “No weapons, good. You can get in.”

I stand up straight and turn to face her, still not uttering a word. She reaches in front of me, opening the back door of the squad car. “Go on.” When I still don’t move, she grabs my arm in a steely grip and hauls me forward, slamming my head against the side of the door as she shoves me into the back seat.

C unting bitch, it hurts.

I’m still trying to right myself on the back seat when the door slams shut. Rachel talks to one of the other officers, who nods and then turns to the house. She watches them enter my old home and then turns back, smiling as she walks to the driver’s door. She pulls out her phone and presses it to her ear. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but she punctuates whatever it is with a slimy wink in my direction.

The car shifts slightly as she climbs into the driver’s seat. “You never gave me your last name, Nora.” The loud click of her seatbelt echoes through the car as she swivels in her seat to face me. Another terrifying grin stretches across her face before she turns back around and starts the car. “You don’t need to now, I know it.” Sweat beads along my brow as her words settle over me. “Telum, right?” she asks, my eyes spearing hate as she meets my glare in the rearview mirror. “Doesn’t it mean a spear or something? I did some Latin when I was in high school.”

Now it’s my turn to smile at her. Only my smile isn’t unhinged at all. It’s cruel and filled with malice.

“It means weapon,” I whisper the words as awareness sparks and blooms in the corners of my mind.

Gracie said that nineteen years ago, the Knights had lost their weapon. Nineteen years ago, my parents died in a fire. I’ve processed nothing August admitted a few days ago. I don’t need to. I don’t need proof. Something inside my heart is so sure that what he told me is true.

And as I tell this bitch the meaning of my last name, that truth burns through me.

Forged in the fire of violence that defines life in Hell’s Basin, my father became a weapon destined t o bring Ricky to his knees. And now it's my turn. Only violence won't fire my forge, not when a white hot call for revenge thrums in my blood, already sharpening the steel of my rage.