The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Page 6

  He was married to a woman obsessed with her breasts, her waistline, her skin and nails, but saddled with a daughter who didn't like having her hair brushed. My pale skin contrasted harshly against every freckle, every mole, every imperfection. Short arms and legs made me as graceful as an oak tree. My hair was the same shade as my father's, but thick and ratty, so unlike his perfectly coiffed locks. And my eyes were a dark shade of midnight blue, much to the disappointment of my mother and her coveted arctic irises.

  When I looked up at my parents, all I saw in their pursed lips and narrowed eyes was doubt; as if they were always wondering how two immaculate human beings could spawn such a flawed offspring. In their minds, perfection was always attainable, you just had to be willing to sacrifice, and they worked hard trying to change me, each in their own special way.

  “It was a joke, Mercury. Laugh.” I laughed. “No. Not like that.”

  “Your braid is crooked. Do better.”

  “No one will ever want you if they think you're so damn sad all the time.”

  “Don't listen to your father. You don't need to be loved. You need to be respected.”

  “Eyes forward, Mercury. A downcast stare makes you look weak.”

  The day my father left, I finally smiled, and for the first time in my life, it was sincere. Because as my mother and I watched the ambulance pull away from the bar, she stood behind me and gripped my shoulders, her thick talons digging into skin. It was the closest thing to a hug I'd ever felt. And then she said something that changed me.

  “He wanted rainbows for you, Mercury, but only because he feared your storm clouds.”

  My storm clouds...

  That's all I can think about as I follow my mother through the building.

  She's the sun—all bright flares and inextinguishable power, while I'm the looming wall of ominous darkness dimming her perfection. But there's not a damn thing I can do about that. I can't change. A storm cloud can try to summon red and orange all day long, but in the end, black will always reign supreme.

  The door to my mother's office guides silently on perfectly-oiled hinges and she immediately points to the leather couch in the corner, as far away from her desk as you can get without physically leaving the room. “Sit. Now.”

  I'd really like to point out that she shouldn't have beef with me—I wasn't at fault, I'm not the one who hid in someone's room and attempted to jump them—but I'm wise enough to keep my mouth shut. So instead, I plant my butt on the couch and cross my arms, glaring at her and Ice as they move about the office.

  After what happened last night, she's stuck babysitting me until my ceremony to ensure I don't do anything else that could be construed as stupid or reckless, but she's not fooling anyone, least of all me. She doesn't care that I killed a man. Death is no stranger here. No one even flinched when Josh's body was carried from my room. No one cried when they doused his body in accelerant minutes before dawn and lit a match. What really concerns her is the fact that I killed a potential Keeper mere hours before an initiation.

  My initiation.

  “Could you please pretend you don't exist until I'm finished with my meeting?” She asks the question without ever looking up from where she's scribbling something in her calendar, purposefully avoiding my mute nod. “Mercury?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Good.” She cuts her eyes to me. “You know, you should be happy. Eric just saved your ass.”

  I'm not entirely sure what she means by that, nor do I have time to inquire, because loud rapping against the door brings the subject to a close. Mother smooths a hand over her perfect pin-straight hair and pulls her shoulders back proudly, radiating feminine power. “Come in.”

  From my spot on the couch, hidden from view, I watch Eric walk in with a man I've never seen before. He's tall—a full head taller than Eric—with thick black waves of hair falling to broad shoulders. He stands on thick legs, letting well-defined arms hang at his sides. He's a mammoth of a man, somehow exuding both confidence and indifference in his stance.

  “This is the man we spoke about,” Eric says. “Kessler Lawson, this is Blair Havenworth.”

  Kessler Lawson...

  That's a name I've never heard before.

  He moves to shake my mother's hand, but she doesn't move. Eric clears his throat, and when the newcomer casts him a look, Eric shakes his head. The hand is retracted.

  “Thank you, Eric. You may go.”

  Once the door shuts behind him, my mother and Kessler both take a seat while Ice continues to stand at attention. This guy is bigger than most of the Keepers here, and even though he moves slowly and purposefully, all that tells me is he'd be easy to wear out in a fight.

  “So, Mr. Lawson,” Blair chirps. “Eric wasn't very forthcoming. What do I need to know about you?”

  Broad shoulders shrug. “Not much to know, Ma'am. Lookin' for work. Went to prison eight years ago. Just got out earlier this week.”

  “Prison?” One perfectly arched eyebrow lifts. She's intrigued. “Under what charge?”

  “Manslaughter.” He says it like the word has little meaning; like it's a trivial detail. And to my mother, it is.

  “I bet your family is pleased to have you back.” She shifts in her chair, and even though he can't see the tension tightening her eyes, I can.

  “Not exactly.”

  Unbeknownst to him, this answer pleases her. “I'm sorry to hear that.” No she's not.

  Kessler leans forward in the chair, resting both forearms on spread knees. He looks so out of place in Mother's sleekly designed office. He should be outside in the sun, maybe hacking down a tree with an ax. I don't know why he strikes me as a lumberjack, especially since I've never actually known anyone to fit that description, but he does.

  Blair raps long, polished nails against the desk as she sizes him up, her eyes taking everything in. Beneath all the makeup and satin and perfect posture, my mother is a predator. Like me. Calculating and dangerous. Question is, what does she mean to do with this man? Her impenetrable stare wanes to and fro, unclear, as if she's on the precipice of a decision, and even I can't tell where she's going to land.

  Recruit or devour?

  Enlist or destroy?

  “Mr. Lawson, are you familiar with Blacklighters?”

  “I am.”

  “And?” She leans back, fingers interlaced, smile placating, waiting for him to elaborate.

  “Nice place, from what I could tell,” he says. “And I hear you've got a lot of regulars who like watching girls beat the shit out of one another.”

  Mother stares him down, her face a blank, unimpressed mask. A beat passes silently, then two, then three. When she seems to have made a decision, the chair beneath her creaks and she stands, prowling around the desk, closer to Kessler. She's wearing all blue today. Blue dress, blue heels, blue jacket. Simple but beautiful.

  “Eric says you're trustworthy.” She tilts her head to the side, tempering a smile. “Steady and loyal, like a rottweiler, I believe were his exact words.”

  He chuckles. “Yes, Ma'am. I guess you could say that.”

  “He also mentioned you're living out of your car. Is that right?”

  I watch his Adam's apple bob, my eyes drawn to the movement. Even from here, I can see the vein lacing up his neck, pulsing with every beat of his heart. “It is.”

  A homeless man? Surely Blair's not that hard up.

  “Usually, I'd be a little reluctant to hire a man I know nothing about, but if Eric thinks you'll do well here, I'm inclined to agree.”

  She trusts Eric's judgment implicitly. If she didn't, this meeting wouldn't be taking place. There's only one person on earth she trusts more, and he's currently standing behind her, glaring down his nose at how close his Madam is to this stranger.

  “I appreciate that.” Kessler nods, leaning back in his chair. “What do you need?”

  Yes, Mother, what do you need?

  “Well, in the interest of being frank, I need a warm body.�
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  Suddenly, everything clicks into place.

  The invitations for my initiation ceremony have already been sent, and Blair specified that the up-and-coming Blacklighter—her only daughter—would be fighting not one, not two, but five unclaimed Keepers. It's a show of power and prestige on her part, but still unorthodox, as is everything else about my life. Normally, something like that would go off without a hitch with her at the helm, but she didn't count on her pesky daughter cutting that number down to four with the flick of a knife blade. By hiring this newcomer, she's essentially fixing what I broke. Without the time to scout and recruit someone new, her back's against the wall, and this man falling into her lap is pure luck, so she's taking advantage. Too bad he'll be chewed up and spat out in a matter of seconds. Probably by me.

  “What's the job?”

  Blair seems excited by his question, and I recognize the glint in her eyes. It's the same glint I saw as a child when she would stare off into the distance and tell me how Blacklighters came to be. It was the only story she knew, so I've heard it often.

  “They're not just cage fighters,” she says, staring him down. “Blacklighters are a family. They may look like brawlers, but their history is rooted deep in American soil; deeper than most believe.” She points across the room to a map of the United States, or more precisely, to the thirty black circles dotting the southernmost states. “We have multiple chains in a handful of states, Mr. Lawson, and we've been thriving under the Blacklighter name for decades. Working with us is an honor most don't deserve.”

  Kessler's eyes bounce between her and the map and back. “Okay...”

  She moves with all the grace of a panther, trailing a hand down the length of her desk as she prowls across the room. “Not many people know this, but after slavery was outlawed, rich white men needed something to replace their favorite form of currency because you couldn't buy, sell, or trade African Americans anymore. But there was another demographic they could control.”

  Kessler sighs. “Let me guess. Women.”

  Blair taps her nose, grinning happily. “Bingo. So, that's what they did. In 1866, the first woman was taken, and the sale of her body kick-started an underground sex trade that carried on for generations. Men kidnapped girls, selling them to the highest bidder. They called these girls Violets. When the girls grew into old, worn-out women, they were sold for nickles and thrown to the streets, broken and destitute. It was an ugly business...until wives and daughters began running the households. When the patriarch of a family would die, the women would often come across a money trail leading to that man's Violet, and since women in those days tended to be petty and jealous, they often refused the girl her freedom.”

  Her voice grows with every passing sentence, chest heaving with excitement, and I know that by the end of this her eyes will be wild and she'll have goosebumps erupting over her arms. This story is the foundation of everything she is, inside and out. It's her religion. Her history. Her everything. And she loves herself a captive audience.

  “But, like all intelligent women, these new leaders saw room for change. They knew it was time for the Violet's to evolve into something more than just captive bed mates, so over the years, many of them moved away from sex trade and wagered their wealth in other ways. Ways that, today, are completely legal. In 1963, the last Violet was stripped of her chains and granted freedom from the sex trade, and that Violet's name was Sylvia Havenworth.”

  “Any relation?” Kessler asks.

  Blair stands even taller, beaming with pride. “Indeed. My late husband's mother. She got out, made a life for herself, had a family, and when her husband—a state senator—died, he left her his estate, which is where you're standing right now.”

  “Interesting.” Kessler doesn't sound interested. He sounds bored out of his mind.

  “Sylvia created this place as a haven for battered and homeless women. Penniless widows. Single orphans. Immigrants with nowhere to go. She took in anyone, so long as they pledged to leave this place better than they showed up. Many women left once they got back on their feet and followed Sylvia's example, opening up similar homes wherever they planted roots. Toward the end, in a way to make ends meet, Sylvia built the bar—Blacklighters—and the rest is history.”

  It's true. From what I gather, Sylvia Havenworth was a saint, but a twisted one. Years in captivity, being passed from one man to the next, warped her mind. On her death bed, she told the local priest to go tongue a sheep, and that was the last time a man of faith ever stepped foot on Blacklighter soil. He deemed her an unclean harlot, and that's when the rumors started. Sex, drugs, guns—locals fed into the lies, making us out to be far better businessmen than we were capable of being.

  “When my husband took over, he decided that even though the women who came to live with us were able to defend themselves, they shouldn't be alone in that endeavor. Which is why he often opened our doors to men living half-lives. One by one, he found them friends within our gates, and when they stayed, when they latched themselves to a Blacklighter, he'd hug the woman and say, in jest, 'He's a keeper'. The name stuck, and now, the men who work and live here are addressed as Keepers.”

  Kessler raises his hand in the air, stopping her. “And what do they do, exactly?”

  “Well, a number of things,” she muses, adding an air of mystery to the title. “They serve as companions, confidants, partners...the relationship between a Keeper and a Blacklighter is deeply personal and varies from couple to couple. You see, this life can be rather taxing, as I'm sure you can imagine, and those that go it alone don't last long.”

  Ice steps around the desk and comes to stand behind Blair, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder. They both stare down at Kessler, waiting for him to process all the information they just crammed into his ear, but I think they overshot a bit. They're trying to pose as a united front—a couple—strong and in control. But right now, with their manic smiles and air of invincibility, all there is to see is an insincere threat. But I guess that works too. Such is the Blacklighter way.

  Kessler looks lost as Blair's heels click their way back behind the desk and she takes a seat, crossing her legs and smiling blandly. All business. “Well, Mr. Lawson, I hate to cut this short, but I have other pressing matters that require my attention. If you have more questions, you can direct them to Eric.”

  There's a beat of silence as we all wait to see what this man will say, and I hold my breath, hoping he turns her down flat and walks away. This place will tear him apart if he stays, and for some insane reason, I find I don't want that to happen.

  “You still haven't said what you need me to do.”

  “No,” she clips out. “I haven't.”

  Kessler clears his throat, rearranging himself in the seat. “Mrs. Havenworth, in all honesty, I'm not sure I'd have much to offer these...cage fighters, or whatever they are.”

  When she responds this time, she's agitated. “They're a little more than cage fighters, Mr. Lawson, and once you meet them, I think you'll realize that. Believe it or not, I do understand your hesitancy and your need to label everything you come into contact with, but for now, why don't you consider what these women do here as a...rehabilitation of sorts.”

  I roll my eyes. That's a bit of a stretch.

  “Rehabilitation,” Kessler deadpans. “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I'm not kidding.” The fire in my mother's eyes doubles in intensity, but stupidly, Kessler doesn't cower. “I take women—helpless, hopeless, lost women—and I recreate them. I help them. I train them.”

  “To fight like dogs.”

  Blair's laugh is sudden and loud. My least favorite fake laugh of hers. “Mr. Lawson, do you know what it takes for a woman in this world to turn their life around? To go from rock bottom to scaling clouds?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Money,” she seethes. “It takes a lot of money. And I don't just give them a wad of twenties and send them back to the streets. Despite what the world believes,
these women deserve the world on a silver fucking platter after the hand they've been dealt. Once I finish with them, they sneer at the patriarchy. No more running, no more dumpster diving, no more hiding behind locked doors. When I send them out into the world, they prosper. The fear they lived with before is gone. Erased. And one day, far into the future, I'll be able to die knowing I've left behind a generation of women made strong by the blood of their enemies.”

  Kessler doesn't miss a beat. “You mean blood of other women.”

  “Occasionally, yes,” she snarls. “Weak women.”

  As the two of them settle into a loaded silence, I keep my eyes trained on Mr. Lawson. He may have walked through the door with confidence, but all that's left now is reluctance. Something about the set of his shoulders, the tensing of his jaw, tells me he's not buying into this.

  Which is exactly why he doesn't belong here.

  Blair blows out a breath after being so worked up, then plasters on a fake ass smile. And it's in this instant that I get it. I know what she's just done. She didn't divulge Blacklighter secrets in hopes of recruiting a new Keeper. She said it in the beginning—all she needs is a warm body. For the fight. For my initiation. After that, she can find someone else better suited for this life. Whatever she's planning, she's not worried about Kessler Lawson. Whoever he is, he doesn't pose a threat.

  “Stay the night, Kessler,” she offers sweetly. “Enjoy the party. Let Eric show you around, have a drink at the bar, meet some of the girls, see if this is a good fit.”

  It won't be, but he agrees anyway. He's a lamb being led to slaughter, no idea what's waiting for him once the sun sets, but far be it for me to break the news. He was the one stupid enough to cross our threshold, now he'll pay the price.

  Mother smiles, tight and wide, and then her eyes whip around to find me. “Mercury?”

  Shit...

  I have the distinct feeling I'm about to go from being babysat to being the babysitter. Reluctantly, I stand and make my way to her desk, chin up, eyes forward. Kessler's hands grip the armrests as he turns and stares up at me. It's clear he had no idea I was even in the room. I may be a storm cloud, but I'm also a shadow when I need to be.