Verum (The Nocte Trilogy, #2)(7)

I catch glimpses of it through the branches as we drive, and each glimpse gives me pause.

A steep, gabled roof.

Columns and spires and moss.

Rain drips from the trees, onto the car, onto the driveway, and everything gleams with a muted light.

It’s wet here, and gray, and the word I keep thinking in my head is gothic.

Gothic.

Despite all the beauty and the extravagance here, it still looks a bit terrifying.

I count the beats as we make our way to the house, and I’ve counted to fifteen before the limousine finally comes to a stop on top of a giant circular driveway made of cobblestone.

The house in front of us is made from stone, and it sprawls out as far as I can see. The windows are dark, in all sizes, in all shapes.

Rolling, manicured lawns, an enormous mansion, lush gardens. Stormy clouds roll behind the massive setting of the house, and one thing is clear. Ominous or not, this estate is lavish, to say the least.

“Is my family rich?” I ask dumbly.

Dare glances at me. “Not in the ways that matter.”

He pauses, and there is a rope between us, pulling us together, but at the same time, coiling around us, holding us apart.

“Calla, don’t let your guard down,” he tells me quickly. “This place… it isn’t what it seems. You have to…”

Jones opens the door, and Dare stops speaking abruptly.

I have to what?

“Welcome to Whitley,” Jones tells me with a slight bow. Dare and I climb out and suddenly, I’m nervous.

I’m in a foreign country, getting ready to meet a family consisting of strangers, and I know nothing about them.

It’s daunting.

Dare squeezes my hand briefly, and I let him. Because here, I’m alone.

Here, Dare is the only familiar thing.

Here, he’s the only one who knows me.

Jones leads the way with our bags, and before we even reach the front doors, they open, and a small wrinkled woman stands in the doorway. She’s slightly bent, barely a wisp of a woman, with an olive complexion and her hair completely wrapped in a brightly covered scarf twisted at the top. She looks like she might be a hundred years old.

“Sabine!” Dare greets the elderly woman in a warm hug. The little woman’s arm close around him, and her head barely reaches his chest.

“Welcome home, boy,” she says in a deep gravely voice. “I’ve missed you.”

Dare pulls away and glances at me, and I can see on his face that Sabine is important. At least to him. “This is Sabine. She was my nanny growing up. And your mother’s nanny, too. Sabine, this is Calla Price.”

Sabine stares at me, curiously, sadly.

“You’re the spitting image of your mother,” she tells me.

“I know,” I tell her, and my heart twinges because my mother is gone. “It’s nice to meet you.”

I offer her my hand, but she grasps it instead of shaking it. Stooping over, she examines it, her face mere inches from my palm. She grips me tight, unwilling to let me go, and I feel my pulse bounding wildly against her fingers.

Startled, I wait.

I don’t know what else to do.

The little woman is surprisingly strong, her grip holding me steady as she searches for something in my hand. She traces the veins and the ridges, her breath hot on my skin. Her face is so close to my palm that I can feel each time she exhales.

If Finn were here, he’d be laughing so hard right now.

But he’s not, and so there’s no one to share this hilarity with, because even though he wishes it weren’t true, Dare fits in here. He’s one of them and I’m not.

Abruptly, Sabine drops my hand and straightens.

Her eyes meet mine and I see a thousand lifetimes in hers. They’re dark as obsidian, and unlike most elderly people, hers aren’t cloudy with age. She stares into me, and I feel like she’s literally sifting through my thoughts and looking into my soul.

It’s unsettling, and a chill runs up my spine, putting me on edge.

She glances at Dare, and nods ever so slightly.

If I didn’t know better, I would almost think he cringed.

What the hell?

But I don’t have time to ponder, because Sabine starts walking, leading us into the house.

“Come. Eleanor is waiting for you,” Sabine tells us solemnly over her shoulder as she uses much of her strength to open the heavy front doors.

Dare sighs. “I think we’d better freshen up first. It’s been a long flight, Sabby.”

The nanny looks sympathetic, but is unrelenting. “I’m sorry, Dare. She insists on seeing you both.”

Dare sighs again, but we obediently follow Sabine through lavish hallways. Over marble floors and lush rugs, through mahogany paneled halls and extravagant window dressings, beneath sparkling crystal chandeliers. My eyes are wide as we take it all in. I’ve never seen such a house in all my life, not even on TV.

But even as it is opulent, it’s silent.

It’s still.

It’s like living in a mausoleum.

We come to a stop in front of massive wooden doors, ornately carved. Sabine knocks on them twice, and a woman’s voice calls out from within.

“Enter.”

How eerily formal.

Sabine opens the doors, and we are immediately enveloped by an overwhelmingly large study, painted in rich colors and patinas, encircled with wooden shelves filled by hundreds and hundreds of leather-bound books.