Page 1 of Their Dark Rose

PROLOGUE

Eight years ago

“Briar Rose Nightingale. Where is she?” A voice reaches into our classroom from the hallway.

A man’s voice, sounding as if he’s just outside the door.

Louder than the most violent thunder I’ve ever heard. I can almost imagine what his face might look like. Screaming, eyes angry.

Scary.

And he’s coming for me.

No man has ever picked me up from school. Mommy usually sends our woman driver to do it. Never a man. Never her or Daddy.

This man’s voice doesn’t make sense.

Who sent him? Why me?

I’m only ten. No one other than Mommy and Daddy’s driver is supposed to pick me up.

My brain tries to make sense of this while Miss Jones walks toward him.

“Who are you?” she asks loud enough that I hear her over everyone in class.

“None of your business. Now, where is she?” Another angry voice.

I think I recognize that one. This man has a steady voice. One that doesn’t sound like Daddy’s.

His words don’t crack in the middle of my name. He doesn’t sound like he needs his nap. Mommy and Daddy always do. That’s how I know it’s not them.

Some days—most days—they don’t make sense. Sometimes they even stumble and fall, spilling their dinner all over the kitchen floor. They say it’s the white medicine’s fault. It turns their lips and feet heavy.

One time, I told them they needed better medicine. Mommy and Daddy laughed. I laughed with them because they don’t do it a lot. And I wanted them to keep doing it forever.

But not everyone laughed that day. My parents’ best friends and my godfathers, the three Abbot brothers, frowned. Even Finn didn’t, and he always laughed.

Wait.

At the back of the classroom, I slap my forehead.

These were the voices.

Them.

Mason, Falk, and Finn.

My bottom lip drops. My eyes open so wide it hurts.

They’re here. Not just outside in the hall. In the classroom, pushing past Miss Jones.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, you can’t just barge into my classroom.” My blond fourth-grade math teacher follows behind them.

“We can do whatever we want,” Finn, the younger of the three, snarls at her.

His shortish black hair falls to his hazel-colored eyes. Mason usually tells him he looks messy like that. Most of the times, when he smiles, he does. Not today. His eyes shine, and his face is like a monster’s. Today he’s not messy at all.

I think he’s scary. So scary.

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