Page 10 of Made in Malice

“I’m so dumb.”

“It would have been foolish to deny them. By coming this way, you will have freedoms, choices.”

“You’re saying they would have brought me here against my will?”

Alden steps back from me, and his grip on my arm loosens, leaving an ache behind. “Are you feeling better, Miss Devlin?” he questions as if the whispered conversation we just had didn’t happen and he was only checking on me because I felt ill. It’s also not lost on me that I’m Miss Devlin again.

“Fine, thank you. Must have been the flight.” I don’t meet his eyes when I answer.

“If you’re ready, the car is waiting.” He waits for me to walk ahead of him, then follows me with the trolley.

Panic flares in my stomach when we step outside and I see rows of cars lined up at the curb. I don’t even have a chance to enjoy the warmer temperature before Alden says, “This way,” then gestures toward a black SUV with the rear gate already open. There’s a man standing next to the open rear passenger door dressed in a suit. He ducks his head down when our eyes meet in some weird greeting.

Alden leaves the trolley at the curb near the rear of the vehicle, then ushers me into the backseat with his body behind mine.

The man at the door closes it the moment I’m inside, and I start to breathe heavily. Why am I more frightened to be in this car than I was on the plane? Alden slides into the seat next to me and instructs, “Buckle up,” without even looking at me.

My fingers shake as I look over my shoulder to find the belt, but I do as I’m told. I should have run for the hills the day Virgil showed up at my door.

I lose track of time on the ride, getting lost in the plush greenery creeping along the sides of the roads and the low, hanging Spanish moss draped over trees as my mind processes the new information. Apparently, my grandparents are loaded. I assumed they had some money, considering the high dollar luggage, and I let myself get intimidated by that back at the airport, which leads to the real discovery.

Not only do they need me for something, but if I understood Alden correctly, then coming here was never a choice for me. I wonder what they’ll think when they find out that I was raised as a poor kid and I have bum kidneys, assuming they don’t already know everything about me.

The dense tree line gives way to small houses before opening to a small coastal town with colorful shops and restaurants lining the shoreline. “Where are we?” I ask, speaking for the first time since getting in the car.

“About twenty miles from Charleston,” Alden answers before the driver can, but I watched his mouth open as if he would have. “Cadieux Island is just ahead.”

“Island?” I shift to see out the windshield a little better just as the driver turns onto a two-lane bridge surrounded by clear blue water. I doubt I hide the awe in my features as we approach a large stone structure stationed on the right side of the bridge.

There’s a traffic light, which is glowing green, attached to the side of the building, but the driver slows anyway as we bump over a thick line in the cement. “It’s a draw bridge,” Alden informs me. “It’s not lifted often, since boat traffic usually goes around it, but it can be opened and closed, cutting off access to the island.” Our eyes meet briefly, then he looks away to focus straight ahead again. The fact that he offered the information without me asking feels important.

I glance behind me to look at the road, and that’s when I notice a small building, right at the entrance of the bridge, that almost looks like a guard shack to a gated community. There’s even a red gate lifted to allow traffic through.

“This is where they live?”

“Yes, Cadieux is about eight miles from end to end. The college is in the center, and the remaining land is divided equally among the four founding families. There are no other residences besides those employed or hosted by the founders. Even the dorms are on the mainland.”

“That’s the college?” I ask, even though it’s a moot question. The building that comes into view before we even reach the island is a gothic dream, comprised of weathered stone, tall spires, and cathedral arches that would make Notre Dame weep. It’s not massive by any means, and it would be more comparable to a large high school than any university I’m used to seeing, but it’s still one of the most impressive buildings I’ve ever seen, certainly in real life.

We slowly pass through the lush green grounds, and I feel like I’m a world away from home where everything was brown or gray, dormant for the winter. However, I don’t see one student milling about or enjoying the sunshine, and it dawns on me that it’s probably winter break for them.

I don’t take my eyes off the school, not even when we pass the mostly empty parking lot and slip into the shade of the forest. If I didn’t see the sandy coastline minutes ago, I would never believe we were on an island.

As we round a curve, tall brick fences come into view on either side of the road. They match in size and color, but the jagged black points spaced evenly along the top distinguish them from each other. To the left, the points resemble a trident, or a pitchfork, while to the right, it’s more of a spade. “Your family occupies the northeast section of Cadieux.” Alden points toward the spade fence.

“Who lives over there?”

I motion toward the other side, and the driver makes a sound, almost like a grunt, but it’s Alden who answers. “The Morningstars.”

The name catches me a little off guard. It’s not every day you hear a last name synonymous with the devil.

The fence seems to go on for a mile or more, but we eventually slow down, and I see two wrought iron gates mirrored across from each other. The driver presses a button near the roof of the SUV, and the gate on the right slowly starts to open.

As we approach the driveway to turn, the gate on the opposite side begins to peel back. A sleek black car revs toward the metal from within the property without any signs of slowing. “Oh crap.” I reach for Alden’s leg, pulling him away from the door, at the same time I point with my other hand so he’ll see the car that looks like it’s about to crash into the gate, or maybe T-bone us.

In what seems like slow motion, he looks down at my hand gripping his thigh just above the knee instead of looking out the window. The car timed the gate perfectly, and now we’re the only obstacle in its path.

I wave my hand frantically at the driver, who seems to be staring right at us, but there’s no way he could see me behind the tinted windows. Heck, all I can make out through the windshield of the car is short dark hair. My entire body tenses, and I curl into the seat, but I can’t take my eyes off the car coming right at us.

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