Page 390 of The First Taste

It’s a bit rougher than when I last saw it. Less tamed, less cared for. But to my way of thinking, not a single detail seems to have changed. My stomach flip-flops and my gaze hardens.

I swallow thickly.

“Hades?”

I jerk my head toward Persephone. She is just stirring, dazzling me with those hazel eyes as she sweeps her dark hair away from her face. She sits up with a grimace.

“We’re here,” I announce. I clear my throat. “In the Hebrides.”

“Oh,” she groans quietly, her hand fluttering to her ribs. Her gaze sweeps out, taking in the manor, narrowing a little. “Scotland?”

“Aye.” I climb out of the SUV, walking purposefully around to help her get out. “Dinnae ye remember the plane rides?”

She shakes her head, still clearly groggy.

“What happened to my project? The forgeries, I mean.”

“I preserved them and had them packed up.” I look forward, clenching the wheel tightly. “I did not think it wise to bring them here.” Swiping my tongue over my lip, I check the rearview mirror compulsively. But of course, there is no one behind me.

There will be no one that follows us here, to the gates of my personal Hell.

Persephone puts her hand to her head, her eyes trained on the manor. There is no expression on her face aside from pain as I slide my arm around her and help her toward the house.

“How long was I asleep for?” she asks, her voice quavering.

“Ye’ve slept most of the day, lass.”

I sweep open the front door and we step into the small, round foyer. It’s my least favorite room in a manor full of memories. Memories of brutal beatings and cruel punishments. But Persephone doesn’t know that.

She just winces and leans against me, frowning up at the low ceiling. “I feel like I could sleep for days.”

“Ye probably will,” I predict, hurrying her through to the main hall.

The main hall opens up rather spectacularly.

Persephone pulls to a stop, her eyes wide as she casts a glance around the massive room we’re in. Huge antique chandeliers hang every few feet the length of the room, which is as long as two Olympic swimming pools. Just now there are dust cloths wrapping them, so they look like huge gray ghosts, dominating the whole room.

Windows are a relatively new invention, and this place definitely doesn’t have many of them. Especially not here, in the oldest part of the building. There are very old Persian rugs laid over the stone floors; in some places, beneath the rugs the stone has grooves from the feet of generations of my ancestors, stretching far into the past.

“Where did you find this place?” Persephone asks. She motions to a high backed plum colored chair, ratty from age and with a thick coating of accumulated dust.

My face contorts and I make her keep moving toward the back of the room. “It was my home as a child.”

Persephone looks startled, her mouth opening with a silent gasp. “Really?”

I nod, already weary of her questions. “Aye.”

“Why didn’t we just hide out here?” she asks, her eyes roving around the hall.

My jaw tenses. I look away, blanking my facial features.

“The years I spent here were not a happy time. This is not a joyous place for me. All it reminds me of is pain and loss. But I know it is safe, which is what we need right now.”

Her eyes widen. I see her lips part to ask questions.

“Not yet,” I say, cutting her questions off. “I promise, I’ll try to answer your questions later. Let’s just get ye settled.”

To our left are the kitchens and the dilapidated servant’s quarters. I pull Persephone along, not ready to let her explore on her own quite yet. And for her part, she seems pretty complacent.