Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

I have heard some of the rumors of Blackthorne Manor. A modern-day castle that sits on the edge of a seaside bluff, otherwise known to the locals as Bonesalt, for the white clay and sand that covers its steep walls. The place is now owned by the only heir, Lucian Blackthorne, affectionately called the Devil of Bonesalt.

The only thing I really know about the Blackthornes is that they are the richest family in Tempest Cove, true royalty, and they own the only castle I’m aware of, which can be seen from any point downtown. Oh, and they’re cursed, too. Supposedly by a siren, although some accounts reference a sea witch. Depends on who’s telling the story.

It so happens, though, my mother has been, and still is, the reigning whore on this island who’s kept their husbands from becoming lonely, too. A somewhat colorful deviation from the town’s norm, I suppose. While my real father died when I was born, my mother insists it could’ve been any of the men who got her pregnant. She’s always made a point to tell me how lucky I am to have a whole damn town as a father. My own personal kingdom, she once called it.

“You’re free to roam all other rooms, aside from the Master’s bedroom and the catacombs, of course.” At a ding, the silver doors slide open, and with a wave of his hand, Rand ushers me inside. “Catacombs?” I ask.

“Nice dress. I’m sure my mother loved picking it out for you. I’ve no doubt it gets boring dressing up dolls all day.” “I am not her … dress-up thing.” What? Again, his lips twitch as if he’s holding back a laugh, which only stirs my frustration. “I suspect you’ll have a closetful of dresses by the time she’s done playing with you.” My jaw comes unhinged, while my mind scrambles for a proper insult to throw back at him. Gaze dipping to his outfit, which, if I’m being honest, really does look good on him, a fact that only pisses me off further, I tip my head with a smirk. “I see she chooses your wardrobe, as well.”

“You’re my curse. Staying away from you, is like trying to hold my breath when the tide is rising.”

“Have you ever loved a woman?” He seems to hesitate for a moment, but shakes his head. “It’s the only brand of pain I refuse to inflict on myself.” “Why is that?” He sets the picture down and lifts my arm, tracing my scar with his finger. “When you cut yourself with a blade, there’s an open wound, and blood and pain, but the pain comes to an end and the wound seals to a scar. So you cut yourself again and again, because you forget how much it hurt the first time. The heart is a different animal. A caged, lonely scavenger that feeds on its own wounds. Its scars never heal, because you can’t mend the very thing it needs to survive. So the wound continues to fester, until what’s left of the organ is eventually consumed by its own self-mutilation.”

This town may cast us off as a sick perversion, a tragedy in the making, but I don’t care. Together, we are madness. And there is music in madness, and madness in love. It doesn’t matter what the world thinks of us. Because we’re the composers, the conductors of our own fate, and we write the notes to a beautiful, dark melody that no one else can hear.