First published in Great Britain in 2012 by The Book Guild Ltd
Copyright © Gabriella Lepore 2012
This edition published in 2015 by
OF TOMES PUBLISHING
UNITED KINGDOM
The right of Gabriella Lepore to be identified as the author ofthis work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Photography by Sasha Alsberg
Book design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Prologue
PART 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
PART 2
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
PART 3
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART 4
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART 5
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
PART 6
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART 7
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PART 8
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
August
MY NAME IS ROSE WINCHESTER.
That’s one of the three things I know for sure.
The other two are these:
One—it’s raining.
Two—I belong to him.
I raced across the gravel yard, stumbling as I tried to move faster. It was useless. The faster I strove to run, the slower I seemed to move.
A bolt of lightning flashed above me, momentarily lighting my path. It made no difference. I didn’t need light. I already knew where I was going.
The rain lashed down on me and the ice-cold wind stung my face. Normally I didn’t mind the rain; in fact, I quite liked it. But this wasn’t ordinary rain. It was angry and threatening. A sign that something sinister was on its way. Something far worse than a thunderstorm. In retrospect, I should have known that was the case—it certainly explained all the summer storms that had hit Millwood this year.
I quickly glanced back at the manor. My drenched hair whipped across my face. The rain-soaked strands were jet black—a far cry from the usual golden brown I was used to.
Squinting in the darkness, I could just about make out the shape of the unlit house. It was bleak and motionless, as though it had been abandoned long ago. But the fact that it looked deserted didn’t exactly fill me with optimism. I knew they were in there. And if they weren’t in there, then they were out here—which, I could categorically state, would have been much, much worse.
I was nearing the forest now. The way I saw it, I had two options.
Option one: blindly stagger my way through the maze of evergreens.
Option two: stick to the path, the only clear route leading out of the private estate.
I picked the latter.
Okay, so taking the path seemed like an obvious choice, although perhaps not the best way to stay hidden, but I didn’t dare venture into the forest. Put it this way—if they were looking for me, they’d find me whether I was under cover or not.
The road dipped and I fell forward. My hands smacked down onto the waterlogged dirt track. Jagged clumps of mud and rocks dug into my palms; I winced as they pierced the skin.
Let me tell you this: I would never have considered myself to be a quitter, but I wouldn’t have branded myself as a fighter, either. As it happened, I was so close to giving up that I didn’t even care. Call me a quitter if you want, because after what I’d been through, I honestly didn’t see any shame in it. In a way, it would have been a relief to have given up. I could have huddled beneath the evergreens to await my fate. I imagine it would have been quite pleasant. After all, fate’s fate, right? Besides, I’d already lost a part of myself and as for the leftover part, I didn’t want it.
But, as it turned out, I am a fighter, because—what do you know?—I got back onto my feet and carried on running. I guess that little leftover piece was worth fighting for after all. Or maybe I’m just stubborn.
As I dashed on, I noticed a flash of yellow on the ground. I dived on it, snatching it up and stuffing it into my shoe for safe keeping. This wasn’t over yet.
Above the moan of the wind came a new sound. A sound that made my heart stop.
A car engine.
My stomach flipped. I should have taken the forest, I realised in hindsight.
Too late. A black Lamborghini shot past me at the speed of a bullet—almost knocking me down, I might add. I hated that car.
It skidded to an abrupt halt, the back wheels sliding across the mud until the nose of the car was facing me, like a panther waiting to pounce. The headlights were off and the windows were tinted, so I couldn’t be sure who was behind the wheel. I figured it was one of three.
The car was blocking my path, so there was no going forward. And backwards, well, that was probably a bad idea. It took several seconds before I realised that I hadn’t taken a breath since hearing that engine. That’s what mind-numbing fear does to you.
The driver’s door opened and I nearly passed out from anticipation. I didn’t know who I wanted to see step out of that car. In many ways, they were all equally as bad. But, at a push, I could tell you who I didn’t want it to be.
“Oscar,” I choked out at the sight of him. His raven black hair was damp and tousled. He wore black jeans and a charcoal T-shirt with a black, waxed jacket over top.
I despised how handsome he was. It was one of his best weapons. His ultimate weapon, however, was, quite simply, himself. Yep, I despised him.
“Come with me,” Oscar said, his voice taut. The storm had swept strands of wet hair across his brow, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at me.
I was about to speak—to yell at him, in fact—but I felt my eyes sting and my chest tighten. There was no way I was going to let Oscar see me cry. Not because of him, anyway. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Get in the car,” Oscar said through gritted teeth. His sullen, husky tone grew tenser with each word. “You are so… stubborn.”
Okay, so that’s what I’d said, too. But he didn’t have the right to pass judgement over me.
I was about to say something. Hopefully something good.
“How could you do this to me?” I managed.
Oscar took an agitated step forward, closing the gap between us. “I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did!” My eyes began to sting again.
I could tell Oscar was frustrated because he rubbed his hands over his face. I knew him well enough to know what was coming next. He’d kick something, or stamp his foot.
“Get in the car, Rose,” he shouted, kicking the ground.
Part of me wanted to go, but I knew I wouldn’t.
“Get in the car,” Oscar said again, “or you will be killed.” His statement reverberated hauntingly in the night air.
That was about as much as I could take.
I glanced over my shoulder. The manor was no longer in sight. Instead, I only saw the curving path, bounded by the evergreens on either side. I returned
my gaze to Oscar. Even in the darkness I was able to make out his eyes; hard, yet pleading at the same time, the russet colour of autumn leaves.
“Trust me,” he urged.
I had no voice now, but I didn’t need words to show him that I did not trust him.
He grimaced. “Trust me,” he repeated, his hand extended towards me.
“No!” The fury in my voice startled me. And by the look on his face, it startled him too.
Oscar’s eyelids lowered. He gave me a look of regret. “Then you will die.”
Without another word, he paced back to the car. He flung open the driver’s door and slid into the seat, slamming the door shut behind him.
All of a sudden, the car headlights exploded to life. I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the glare. Before I had time to regain my composure, I heard the hum of the engine, droning like the low growl of a wolf.
Hidden behind the blackened car windows, Oscar plunged his foot down onto the accelerator, causing the car to jolt forward. In the blink of an eye, the black Lamborghini was tearing down the path like a rocket, leaving only deep-set tyre marks in its wake.
I stood alone on the path, tears and rain spilling over my cheeks.
It had begun.
Night Visitors
July 27th
WATCHING THE BUS LUMBER AWAY down the deserted road gave me a strange sense of foreboding. It wasn’t as though I was overly fond of the bus—far from it!—but I was sorry to see it leave.
I dropped my suitcase onto the hot pavement and sat on the kerb beside it, leaning against the rusted Welcome to Millwood signpost.
The sleepy town of Millwood. My summer home. My aunt and uncle’s home, to be more precise.
For as long as I could remember, I’d spent every summer in Millwood. My aunt Mary was my father’s sister, and she and her husband, Roger Clements, and their one-year-old son, Zack, lived in a peaceful old manor house set in acres of private forest.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my trips to Millwood, but I could think of other places I’d rather have been. Namely, in my own home with my own parents, especially considering that the rest of my year was spent at boarding school—which was a drag, to say the least. But my parents were both photographers and they went wherever the work took them, which often meant away from me. This time it was Africa. I wasn’t complaining, though; like I said, I loved Millwood. And I loved my aunt and uncle.
I closed my eyes and tilted my face towards the sky, letting the late-afternoon sun warm my skin. With a deep breath, I inhaled the fresh air and pleasant scent of pine. I’d been raised and schooled in metropolitan cities, so the countryside always felt like luxury to me. I savoured the brief opportunity to unwind after my tedious bus ride.
Just the thought of it made me yawn.
Although, I must admit, the bus journey wasn’t the sole culprit for my lethargy. I hadn’t been sleeping well lately. And it was becoming more apparent than ever that the sleepless nights were taking their toll on me. It wasn’t that I couldn’t sleep; it was more that I didn’t want to. It seemed a little childish to be afraid of nightmares, especially at sixteen, but anyone who could laugh off a nightmare clearly wasn’t having the one that I was having.
Uck. It made my stomach knot.
The strident honk of a car horn blasted through the tranquillity.
I jumped at the noise and banged my head on the signpost.
A few metres down the road a powder-blue minivan pulled up onto the kerb. I knew the driver—a cheery woman in her early forties with a round face, broad smile and fluffy, strawberry-blonde hair.
My aunt, Mary.
She waved frantically whilst clambering out of the car.
“Rose!” she exclaimed, hurrying along the pavement towards me.
“Hi, Mary!” I bounced up and greeted her with a hug. “It’s so good to see you!” Sometimes when people say that, they’re just being polite, but I meant it.
“You, too! You look so beautiful!” Mary took off her oversized sunglasses and gave me a thorough inspection.
I blushed. Beautiful was such a strong word. What made a person beautiful, anyway?
I saw Mary as beautiful. Agreed, she wasn’t the stereotypical supermodel or the glamorous Hollywood-type. But I loved her, so she was beautiful to me.
As for myself, I was just me. I’d hardly have described myself as extrovert, and my dress was always downplayed; that day I was wearing jeans and a casual purple top. My eyes were dark green and my hair was mousey brown. I supposed that, to most people, I probably looked like any other teenage girl, but not to my aunt. She insisted that I was ‘unique’.
I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but it didn’t particularly bother me either way. What bothered me was her saying it in public! The woman was unstoppable! That was Mary, though. She was affectionate, too—especially towards me. She once told me that she thought of me as a daughter, and I quite liked that. Actually, the feeling was reciprocated, though I’d never said it out loud; it seemed too cruel towards my real mother. But I was pretty sure Mary knew.
She gave me another squeeze. “How was your trip?”
“Okay. I had the same driver as last year.”
Mary snapped her fingers in recognition. “Mr Show-Tunes! What did he play on the stereo this time?”
“The soundtrack to Cats.” I raised a cynical eyebrow.
“Six hours, on repeat.” The lyrics were still playing on a loop in my mind. It was quite traumatic, actually.
“Ooh, I wonder what you’ll get next year.” Mary’s eyes lit up. “Fingers crossed for Mamma Mia.”
She chuckled warmly at my dubious expression.
“Come, come,” Mary bustled me over to the minivan. “Come and see Zack. He’s a lot bigger than when you last saw him.”
I peeked into the back of the car. Baby Zack, with his wispy blonde hair and tiny dungarees, sat contentedly in his top-of-the-range car seat.
Mary fussed over him for a while, showing me each and every one of his rattles and accessories. After several Zack-related anecdotes, she threw her hands in the air. “Listen to me, yap, yap, yap!” she chortled. “I’ll bet you’re desperate to get back to the house and put your feet up.”
Yes. “No, I’m fine,” I said aloud, brushing off the remark, “whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh honey, you don’t have to be polite for my benefit!”
That was one of my favourite things about Mary—she knew me scarily well.
I smiled.
“Let’s get you home,” Mary said, grinning.
Of course, ‘home’ wasn’t technically my home, but it was as good as.
With one last effort, I hauled my suitcase into the back of the minivan and climbed into the front passenger seat. Mary did a final Zack-check before getting behind the wheel.
As soon as we were belted in, she started the engine and steered the car out onto the main road. We drove along for quite a while, talking comfortably and gazing out at the scenic chain of trees. It wasn’t until ten minutes into the journey that Mary slowed down and pulled out onto a smaller access road—the Clements’ private road. The journey suddenly became noticeably bumpier and narrower—so narrow, in fact, that the branches of the evergreens brushed up against the windows on either side of the car.
I tried to peer through the trees into the depths of the forest. Somehow it seemed darker than usual, even with the blush of daylight creeping through the branches. I looked up at the evergreens as we passed each one by. They held themselves staunchly, like soldiers standing in a ceremony to welcome me home.
After a minute or two, the narrow road opened onto a gravel driveway and Mary rolled to a stop.
There was the manor.
I couldn’t count the number of times I’d seen that house, but it always took my breath away. It was like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel—grand and gothic, and still bearing most of its original features.
My uncle Roger stood a
t the door, waving just as Mary had done earlier. In my opinion, he looked like the classic archetype for Lord of the Manor: smartly dressed with rectangular glasses and greyish hair parted to the side.
I hopped out of the car and crossed the driveway to greet him, while Mary busied herself untangling Zack from his car seat.
“Hello, dear!” Roger gave me a slightly awkward hug. “You look well. New haircut? It’s lovely.”
I smiled to myself. Nope, it’s exactly the same haircut as last year. Long and a little wavy… I wasn’t one for change. But I had to hand it to Roger—the poor man had learned the hard way about the repercussions of not noticing Mary’s haircuts.
I decided to throw him a bone. “Thanks!” I said, shaking out my hair.
Roger’s chest puffed out with pride for his successful observation skills. “Yes, it’s very you,” he elaborated.
“Oh, that’s kind of you to say.”
“I’ll fetch your suitcase,” Roger offered.
“No, don’t worry, I can get it.” I trotted back to the minivan and heaved the suitcase from the boot. It dropped heavily to the gravel, missing my foot by a fraction of a centimetre.
The suitcase had wheels, but sometimes they were more like a burden than an aid. I opted to drag it across the gravel.
Roger took this to mean that I was struggling. He rushed across the yard to my rescue.
I relinquished my grip on the handle and made my way into the house.
Once inside, the memories of previous years came flooding back to me. The smell of trees and vanilla filled the air; it triggered a wonderful sense of home. I couldn’t imagine a more stunning place to live. Even the hallway was elegant, with a tall wooden coat rack and varnished oak flooring.
I eyed the wide staircase in front of me. “Can I still have my usual room?” My gaze travelled up the stairs.
Mary appeared behind me, carrying Zack in one arm. “Yes, the attic room is all made up for you. Now, are you sure you don’t want to try one of the guest bedrooms on the main floor this year?”
I shook my head adamantly. “No, I love my room.”
“I have no idea why,” Mary chuckled. “It’s so small. It’s a shoebox compared to the rest of the house.”