Page 9 of Autopsy of a Fairytale

“Goodbye.” She shoved the thought away as she followed her partner. “This past Saturday?” She paused, turning back to Violet. “Did Lumen meet privately with a client, by any chance?”

“Yes, he did.” Violet nodded. “He didn’t need me present, though, so he gave me the day off.”

“Would you know who he was meeting?”

“It was that new guy in town he was building the chandelier for. Eamon Stone.”

The detectiveswordlessly slid into the car. An exchanged look was all the conversation the partners needed as Garrett eased out of the parking spot and into traffic. Silence accompanied them as they drove through the town, the houses and shops giving way to a winding, tree-lined road. Bel had never ventured in this direction, the drive serene as they plunged deeper into the woods. No sign of humanity lingered along the lonely two-lane highway, leaving them abandoned in the quiet, and Bel hoped they didn’t lose cell reception this far into the forest. A foreboding deep in her gut gnawed at her with razor-sharp teeth, and the minute the Reale Mansion came into view, its darkness captured her breath.

The decaying monstrosity before them was a haunted castle, its disrepair hinting at the ghosts within. Life was not welcome here, and as the tires crunched against the gravel driveway, evil seeped in through the car’s cracks to suffocate Bel’s soul.

“Someone lives here?” She glanced at Garrett’s equally horrified face, the thick dread in the air stinging the scar on her throat. She hadn’t experienced this threatening oppression in a long time. Not since that night.

“It’s worse than I remember,” Garrett said, not making any move to exit the car as if the carved gargoyles perched on the towers might swoop down and attack, their faces etched in eternal agony. “We used to sneak beer out here as teens, but that was almost twenty years ago. This…” He trailed off as if he couldn’t find the words to convey the doom this mansion’s shadows inspired.

“Should we return with backup?” he asked.

Bel adjusted the gun on her hip as she opened the car door. “It’s just a house.”

Garrett stared at her, neither of them convinced by her statement, but he followed her lead, pulling his taller body ahead of hers as they strode across the driveway.

“Bajka Police Department.” His knuckles rapped forcefully on the ornately carved front door, and the latch popped free, swinging open slightly on silent hinges. “Police Department, is anyone home?” he called for a second time when no one answered. The partners glanced at each other in a wordless conversation before Bel tentatively nudged the door with her toe. Neither of them stepped inside as it swung wide, the once grand foyer coming into view.

Tarps and construction supplies littered the floor, and a ladder stood below the looming ceiling where electrical wires hung out. Bel lightly elbowed Garrett and jerked her head upwards towards the electric work intended to connect to Lumen’s commissioned chandelier.

“Police. Is anyone—”

“Hello, detectives,” a whiskey smooth menace drifted from the shadows, interrupting Garrett. Bel’s eyes snapped to the darkness, but all that emerged was the rich voice. It was death and sex. A threat and a caress. A sound enticing enough to pull you down into the depths and drown you, and gooseflesh pricked her skin.

“I apologize for the delay. I didn’t hear you arrive,” the voice came again, as deep and rough as the tires crushing the gravel on their approach. A graceful movement captured Bel’s eyes, and she squinted at the dark hallway. For a moment, nothing happened, and then a looming shape emerged from the shadows.

Bel’s breath caught in her throat, her heart ceasing to beat as the figure stepped into the light. He was a man, a sculpted statue, a god. A perfect body carved from stone and transformed into flesh. He was tall, too tall, towering over Garrett’s six-foot, one-inch frame. The rippling muscles etched into his pale skin matched his intimidating height, and Bel barely came to his chest. He was pure strength and dominance. He was grace and silence as he slipped through the shadows, and when the sunlight kissed his face, Bel’s stomach dropped. She had never witnessed such perfection. She had never stared at such evil. He was beauty. He was a beast, and every inch of him oozed darkness and power.

His hair was a dirty blond. Not dark. Not light. It hovered in the grey, like his aura, equally good and evil. Both saint and sinner. It gave him the air of royalty, a king who was both your savior and your executioner, and the perfectly groomed undercut hairstyle contrasted the short, neat facial hair gracing his razor-sharp jaw. He was all angles and lines, sharp enough to slice through skin, too perfect to be real, and his eyes? Black as death. This stranger was perfection. He was the devil, and Bel had no doubt that he possessed the strength to hoist Lumen up and drill him into furniture. Judging by the array of tools plaguing the foyer, this man also had the know-how to accompany his power.

“I am detective Garrett Cassidy, and this is my partner, Isobel Emerson,” Garrett said, not moving from the doorway. “We are looking for an Eamon Stone.”

“I am he,” the dark stranger soothed with a faint growl echoing his words, and his sight drifted to Bel as he stepped further into the light.

His eyes froze her in place, rooting her feet to the floor as he drank her in. He was shirtless and covered in dirt, his hands gripping a work rag as his gaze ate her alive. Bel struggled to swallow under the weight of his observation. It was predatory and hungry, so intense she almost felt it brush against her skin, and the scar on her neck burned. She wanted to revolt against his hold over her. She wanted to flee and never return. She wanted him to capture her and never let go.

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?” Garrett shifted uncomfortably, and Bel wasn’t sure if it was because of the fear Eamon Stone inspired or because a single look from this god-like stranger had them questioning their beliefs.

“Of course not,” Eamon answered Garrett, but his eyes remained on Bel, searing her skin as if it longed to slice her open and see what lived within. He smiled as he beckoned them inside, the expression unbearably beautiful and terrifying. Both detectives hesitated at his invitation, worried if they obeyed, they might never leave the confines of this mansion.

“Do be careful, though,” Eamon rumbled, his words rattling Bel’s chest. “I have only just begun the renovations. I would not venture further into the estate at the moment. Don’t want anyone getting hurt.” The look in his predatory stare said otherwise.

“We are here to ask you a few questions about Brett Lumen,” Garrett started as the detectives crossed the threshold.

“Yes, what a shame. Such a talented man. Pity he won’t be able to help me complete the renovations. His work was exquisite.” Eamon stepped forward; his height exaggerated in the close quarters.

“You heard what happened?” Bel asked in surprise. She knew how gossip traveled, but she had never seen him in town. His intoxicating presence would be impossible to ignore, and even her introverted tendencies would have heard tales of his bone structure.

“Yes.” He pinned her with his stare, holding her in place as if with chains. “Horrible what happened.”

“You had business with Lumen’s Customs?” Garrett resumed control of the conversation, shifting slightly in an almost protectively territorial stance before Bel. “According to his records, you were the last client he worked with.”

“I was.” Eamon finally tore his stare from Bel, leveling his sights on Garrett, who, to his credit, did not back down. “We had multiple projects planned for the next few months as I restore this estate, and the chandelier was first.” He nodded to the ceiling, where the wires hung loose, and crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles curled like stone beneath his skin, and Bel studied his profile. He looked to be in his early forties, a man in his prime and distinguished with maturity, but his skin was perfectly smooth, giving him the appearance of someone in their twenties. He was neither old nor young, every angle, every curve, every line tailored so that one’s eyes might trace his danger.

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