Page 198 of The Black Trilogy

WHEN BLACK SAID the next six months would be hard, he hadn’t been kidding. If it wasn’t for the obscene amount of cash he’d promised to pay me at the end of it, I’d have jacked it all in during the first week.

Even then there were some days when Black nearly got his two hundred grand stuffed up his sanctimonious American backside while I caught the next flight home.

But I’ll start at the beginning. Day one was all right. My first ride on a plane, in first class no less.

“I could get used to this,” I said, settling into the plush leather seat.

“The novelty soon wears off.” Black had his laptop open before the seatbelt light blinked out.

I hoped that was true, because after the initial thrill of take-off, I fell asleep, revelling in a bed far more comfortable than my mattress at JJ’s. Black woke me when the food got dished out, and I forked down a tuna salad and a slice of chocolate cake, then I nodded off again. Perhaps my subconscious knew what was waiting for me.

After seven hours, we touched down on American soil just as the sun was rising. The fairy tale continued as Black ushered me into a chauffeur-driven car for the journey back to his house, Riverley Hall. If I’d known the nightmare that was to come, I’d never have left the airport.

But for now, I was blissfully ignorant, and when we turned through the enormous iron gates that guarded my new home, my jaw dropped.

“You weren’t joking. It’s huge!”

Riverley made the London place look like a council house.

“I never joke.”

If the entire population of a small village, maybe even a town, ever found themselves evicted, the lot of them could have moved into Black’s house with room to spare.

“It looks as if it came off a film set,” I told him.

I’d only ever seen buildings like that in library books. Or films. Horror films. It had a gothic air about it, and hideous gargoyles stared down at me from the roofline. The huge stone columns flanking the front door dwarfed me, guarding walls with the same grey hue as a storm cloud.

“Are Morticia and Gomez home?”

“Sorry?”

“From the Addams family?”

He gave me a blank look.

“You know, on TV?”

“I don’t watch TV.”

Oh. “I just meant the house looks a bit creepy.”

He shrugged. “I guess. I grew up here, so I’m used to it. A minor noble built it at the turn of the last century. He wanted something that reminded him of his mother country.”

“Where was that? Transylvania?”

Black’s lips formed a flat line. “England. He was one of my ancestors.”

“Freaking nobility. No wonder you’ve got a stick up your backside.”

He followed me out of the car. “I do not.”

“Do too.”

He pushed open the front door and waved me through.

“What, no butler?”

“Good grief, why did I think this was a good idea?” he muttered, before taking a deep breath and turning to face me. “I’ll give you a tour.”

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