Page 11 of Made in Malice

I expect to hear crunching metal and feel the SUV rock to the side, but the black car turns, its tires squealing at the last possible moment as it fishtails down the lone road.

“What a psycho,” I blurt out and look at Alden, who I now realize has his hand on my back and is leaning over me as if he was going to shield me with his body if the car did hit us.

“Morningstar,” the driver curses. I almost ask why he didn’t move or get out of the way, but it dawns on me that it was a game of chicken, and we didn’t lose.

I release my death grip on Alden’s leg and lean back in my seat, my heart thundering wildly while they both look like this is an everyday occurrence. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

We stop in the center of the circle drive, right in front of the home that was clearly designed by the same architect who built the college, because it shares some of the same gothic features.

I wasn’t far off with the castle comment. The façade is obscured with ivy, concealing some of the stone. It’s hard to imagine knowing someone who lives here, let alone being related to them.

The door is opened by a man in slacks and a suit jacket, with light brown wavy hair tucked in neatly over his ears, but the top is a little longer. It’s not until Alden urges me closer that I notice his green eyes and the silver dappled through his locks. The image of my mom flashes in my mind, and I know this man is indeed her father.

The air gets knocked out of my lungs, and my feet stop working. His eyes roam over me in much the same way I was examining him, but he doesn’t show any outward signs of recognition. He’s definitely not the white-haired old man I was anticipating. His age is hard to guess, but I wouldn’t put him over sixty-five, and that’s only because my mom was forty-one when she died.

If it weren’t for Alden’s palm high on my back, I’m not sure how long I would have remained unmoving and just stared at him.

“Nova,” he greets after we climb the steps up to the massive, arched entrance.

“Y-Yes.” I’m not proud of the croak, but there it is.

“I’m Rory Umbra, you’re grandfather.”

“Umbra?” I question, looking over at Alden and feeling betrayed. I have no idea why I thought they would share my last name, considering he’s my mom’s father, but I wish someone would have mentioned this before.

“Pardon me, please come in.” He steps to the side, allowing me into the vast foyer. Maybe they have a different word for it in a house this big, but I don’t know it, we just called it the front or backdoor when I was growing up.

The floors are marble, or some other stone, that gleams under the sunlight shining through the high windows. I try not to gape as I look around, but it’s a hard battle. I cannot imagine my mom growing up here.

And she gave it all up. Why?

“Thank you, Alden,” Rory tells my escort warmly, making me feel like the interloper I am.

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to show Miss Devlin to her quarters?” He’s doing that stiff stance again, where his hands are clasped together in front of him like a soldier.

“If you wouldn’t mind, or I can call for Bridgit.” Rory ignores me to speak to Alden. Why the heck was it so important for me to drop everything and get here if I’m just being shuffled off to my quarters?

“It’s not a problem.”

Rory finally looks at me again, and there’s a tightening around his eyes for the briefest moment before his face becomes impassive again. “I’m sure you want to get settled after your travels. I’ll call for you this evening when Astrid can join us so we can discuss everything. I hope your trip was comfortable.”

I wouldn’t have had time to respond if I wanted to, because Rory pivots on his loafered heel and strolls away as if his rump were on fire.

“So warm and fuzzy,” I mumble under my breath. From the way Virgil described them, I was expecting a warm welcome, or at least an I’m so glad you’re here.

“Shall we?” Alden lifts his hand in a forward gesture and begins walking, expecting me to follow, which I reluctantly do because I don’t know what else to do.

He leads us down a long corridor, in the opposite direction Rory went, and takes a right when we reach the end of the hall. “What’s behind all these doors?” I question as I pick up my pace to keep in step with him and stop gawking.

“Rooms?”

“Duh, what kind of rooms?”

He gives me that single arched eyebrow again, probably because I just said duh. I don’t think that’s part of the normal dialogue here, or maybe he just thinks it’s strange that a twenty-year-old still says it.

“All different kinds, but none that you need to worry about. These are your rooms.” He stops at a set of arched double doors and pulls a single key from his pocket to unlock it, then he tucks it away instead of handing it over to me.

“Uh, shouldn’t that be mine?” I point to his pocket, then flush when I realize I’m also pointing at his groin.

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