Page 14 of House of Pawns
It’s freezing outside, so I make a beeline for the car. Once I’m inside, I start the engine and blast the heat. Finally, I hold the newspaper up.
On October 13, 1875, one of our town’s greatest tragedies took place.
Few facts are known and much speculation has arisen as to what exactly happened that night. The Conrath family name is well known in our community and on that night, Elijah Conrath was killed.
Suspicion and distrust often come hand in hand with the name, and on that night, more than a hundred and fifty years ago, it boiled over.
Elijah Conrath and three of his comrades were dragged from their home and hanged in the well-known Hanging Tree. Henry Conrath was also attacked, but it is unknown if he survived that night or not. What we do know, is that more than thirty deaths took place mysteriously that same night.
While little is known about that night, it is certainly not forgotten. The name Conrath still instills feelings of fear in certain members of Silent Bend. Best of luck to the late Henry Conrath Junior’s daughter, Alivia Ryan, who just months ago moved into her father’s Estate.
Best of luck.
Best of luck?
I toss the newspaper in the passenger seat and peel out of the parking lot. Once again, I’m flying on the roads. I’m angry and impatient when I have to wait for the gates to the Estate to open. I barely get the car into park in the garage before I’m tearing out of it and into the house.
“Best of luck,” I growl as I stalk through the house. I’m so angry that I don’t even notice how the house is still deadly quiet and still, or that it’s still only six AM. “Best of luck.”
I pound on Rath’s door, the one to the room I insisted he stay in, even when he wanted to move back out into the workers house. I don’t wait for him to reply. I let myself in and find myself engulfed in darkness.
“Jasmine has just made her first move,” I growl as I flip the light on.
I jump half a foot back when a knife embeds itself in the wall just a millimeter from my left shoulder and wobbles back and forth.
Maybe it’s just my fear, maybe it’s the early morning, maybe it’s just because Jasmine is on my mind, but I swear when I look back at Rath, I see the briefest flash of red in his eyes.
It’s not there now, but he looks angry, then confused, and then his expression settles back into its calm demeanor.
Seeing Rath lying in a bed, sleeping, is more unsettling than it should be. I’ve never seen him sleep. I’ve never heard him talk of sleeping. Up until now, I wasn’t sure he even did. But there he is, laying half out of his blankets.
The most shocking thing about the entire scene is the messof scars that cover his bare torso, stretching around his side, and extending onto his back.
“Sorry,” I say, everything momentarily throwing me off of my angry rampage.
He slides off the bed and reaches for a t-shirt. When he does so, I get a full view of his back. Angry scars lace in every direction. His skin is a mess of scar tissue.
I try not to stare, but the look Rath allows for just a brief second after he pulls the shirt down over his head and looks at me says I was.
“Now, what are you bursting into my room for?” he says quietly as he also pulls a robe on over his boxers.
I stutter and struggle for words. Everything I’m seeing has my mind reeling. Rath sleeping, wearing boxers and t-shirts, is so human, normal, and mundane for him. But those scars and his instinct upon being woken so suddenly—that doesn’t come without a dark, dark story.
“Um, here, you should look at this,” I hand him the newspaper as we both walk out of his room. When we get out into the hallway, I hear noises from the kitchen, signs that Katina has arrived for her duties this morning.
Rath takes the paper and begins reading.
“What’s going on?”
I look up to see Ian standing just outside the dining room.
“I heard you from upstairs,” he offers. “Could hear you cursing clear down the driveway.”
“For good reason,” I growl.
We all head into the dining room. It’s still dark out. Christmas is just days away and we’re in the dead of winter. The chill throughout the house is palpable.
“Jasmine is making some kind of move,” I say, too keyed upto sit. I stand with my hands on the back of one of the chairs. The table is huge. It is currently set up to seat eighteen people and the split across the middle makes me think it can be expanded to fit more.
