Page 42 of The Redd Key (Bone Coven #1)
N o matter how loud I shouted or how rabid I acted, Cole didn’t come back. Not until after I accidentally fell asleep. When I awoke, a ceramic bowl of some sort of stew and brown bread had been placed on a wooden tray beside the settee. A cup carved from the same wood as the tray was filled with water. My neck and shoulders stiffened from leaning against the wall to stay alert, which was a farce because I was pretty sure I had been snoring—-my throat felt almost as bad as it had from the licking flames of the locket when Cole kidnapped me. Resentment welled up inside of me again, and I downed the water in one swallow. After inspecting the stew and bread, I devoured them.
For what may have been hours after Cole left, I forced myself not to think about everything that had happened since I stormed into The Wicker Basket. I couldn’t bear to recount the tragedy of Lydia—I was at high risk of burying myself alive.
More than once, I reached for the phantom locket, searching for its warmth only to be met with nothing. I had become accustomed to fidgeting with it, opening and shutting the hinge, and reading the fine handwritten script. Thinking about Sam Bellamy’s distorted portrait, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the severe line of Cole’s jaw. The place where the locket usually laid upon my chest now felt like a void, open and yearning. After finishing the last morsel of food, I forced myself to survey the room, refusing to lay back on the gorgeous settee to wallow in my despair.
Rich fabrics in deep reds, purples, and greens were draped over tables, hand-carved chairs, and statues. Busts, carvings, and paintings adorned the cell, and I took time studying each piece of artwork. His collection was breathtaking and perfectly preserved. Yet, I struggled to accept what I was seeing because it felt utterly impossible. The historian in me couldn’t help but feel respect for the artifacts, while the treasure hunter in me seethed with envy. The witch in me reached as far as possible with her magic, desperately seeking a way out, only to be met by the power of the trove which blocked any attempts.
Defeated for the moment, I sat on the gravel- covered ground. With a few thoughtful breaths, I looked around the room for any weak points. I noticed that—and far later than it should have taken—the candles burned steadily without lowering, and no wax dripped from their wicks. I grabbed an ivory pillar from an ornate candelabra and approached the large chest nestled under the table. It wasn’t easy to lift the heavy iron and wood lid of the antique trunk with one hand while holding the candle with the other. I expected the hinges to groan against the motion but it was smooth and silent.
My breath caught. Inside the chest were coins of all sizes, each embossed with hundreds of different seals and crests. My hands shook and I glanced over my shoulder. I picked up a silver medallion that had a cross on one side and two L’s with a crown branded into the other. It was a French Billon coin. Turning the coin over and over between my fingers, I skimmed across the piles of endless riches.
A gleam caught my eye, and I sifted through the metal pieces. I pulled out a long but slender bronze plate with a perfectly legible inscription. Whydah Gally 1715. Tiny bumps settled on my skin as a prickling feeling crept up my neck.
“Oh my goodness,” I breathed. I carefully placed the plate back into the trunk and shuffled backward. My brain refused to believe what I saw, and I searched the cave for an explanation.
The rolls of parchment and canvas grabbed my attention, and I cleared room on the table to delicately unfurl one of them. It was a hand drawn map of the Atlantic coast from Nova Scotia to Jamaica. The compass rose was so beautifully detailed and painted that I restrained myself from tracing the intricacies. I really should be wearing gloves .
A slight breeze rushed past my ear, and I snapped my sight toward a stack of books that hadn’t been victims of my throwing rage. A particular binding caught my eye. Whereas all other tomes had thick leather covers, this was a thin, hide-bound journal. The pages were yellowed, but it was untouched by time in all other ways. I carefully unwrapped the cord that bound the book shut. The suede was smooth under my fingers, soft and pliable. I turned to the first page.
21 December 1717
Cotton Mather has stated the most obscene words in all of history. “Behold, Reader, The End of Piracy” The man is wrong. I am still here, barely, but here. I am living with the consequences from that night. The storm was severe, lethal, tearing apart everything I have ever cared for. Devastatingly powerful. Cursed. No night, eve, nor dusk ever beheld such beauty. Alas, there is something truly divine in mortality. I can not be certain, but the torment, anguish, the sharp sting of the icy pain inflicted upon me feels unnatural. At first, I thought it was residual from the near drowning, however, now I have come to believe Goody is what everyone said she was. That my partiality, my love for her was preternatural, beyond what is good and right in this world. She had her hands in the devil’s book. She has committed atrocities and I am barelya victim when so many have perished.I told her I would drown for her and, pray, I believe that is precisely what is transpiring.
S.B.
“S.B.” I spoke, saying the initials like a prayer while cloning to consciousness as enlightenment soaked through me, beginning slowly like a sunshower and rapidly growing like a great flood. I swallowed hard , and scrambled backward, still clutching the journal. Taken aback, my knees gave out as I collapsed onto the settee. This wasn’t just a historian’s private collection. This was a pirate’s buried treasure.
A sizable crevice was carved in the wall behind the couch’s frame where I kept the journal tucked away when I wasn’t reading it. My gut warned me to keep the chronicle private. I didn’t want Cole to know what I found or what the information I'd discovered meant. This quiet, grizzly, angry man somehow had a substantial portion of colonial history hidden away in a cave—in Maine. It was telling that he stole it all. I heard that there had been some sort of discovery a few decades ago where only a small percentage of the wreck’s treasure was recovered. There were museums in Massachusetts where I planned to visit to see the artifacts from the Whydah in real life. I intended to go with my mother, but I went away to school, and now it won’t ever happen. My teeth clamped together, and a muscle in my jaw twitched as I shook my head to clear the thoughts away.
The scent of thyme, rosemary, and sage flitted to me, riding the cool salt air of the stone and iron cell. My stomach growled, and I rolled off the settee. The dish wasn’t stew like every other meal. Instead, it was the leg of a roasted chicken with a couple pieces of broccoli over rice. I first chugged the water. Placing the bones back onto the plate, I held my greasy hands up, in searching for some sort of napkin. Was I not the most high-maintenance prisoner, or what?
“I really don’t want to make these clothes any dirtier,” I muttered to myself, looking down at my sweater and joggers from however long ago. Based on meals alone, this would be my fourth day in this cell. I really didn’t want to deep dive into any sort of self-reflection, but I wasn’t panicking appropriately about my situation, and I honestly didn’t know what that said about me. I sat back on the couch and put my hands in my lap.
What if I tried to panic? Was I simply in shock, not reacting the way someone should in this situation? Or was it because I hadn’t seen Cole since I first woke up in this place a few days ago? Perhaps it was the relief from the locket’s burden. If I was locked inside here, maybe no one else would get hurt—or worse…A shaky breath rattled inside me as I pushed the image of Lydia cradled by obsidian away from my head.
Shifting my thoughts to something less traumatic, I realized that my grim tranquility stemmed from the comforting sensation of being surrounded by all these timeless objects—they dulled my survival instincts. Each item had its own story, and I continued to get lost in them as I scoured the trove. Seeking hidden gems at estate sales, flea markets, and deserted spaces was my calling, and frankly, if the circumstances were different, I would have killed to be where I was now sitting.
Isn’t that exactly how you got here? Growling aloud, I gritted my teeth as the ghost of Lydia threatened to haunt me. I resumed my tour of admiration through the cavern to divert my attention.
Before my mother’s passing I was just about to start my final year of graduate school, pursuing my Master’s degree after holding a double major in Anthropology and Archaeology as an undergrad. This place was filled with my dreams, though the real fantasy would have been to visit the sites where all of this was acquired. To have the time to travel the world, crossing oceans to uncover the true stories and history behind each chalice, tapestry, and cut gemstone. However, this situation wasn’t a fantasy; it was a nightmare, and I had no idea how or when I would get out of here, or if I ever would. A prickling sensation crept up my neck and faced the iron door.
“How is my pulchritude, Storm?” Cole asked mockingly, and bitterness bloomed in my chest. I shot him a look that drew from every ounce of wrath that festered inside me. “Still brewing, I see.” His voice was slick with amusement. I really needed to work on controlling my expressions. “You are a truly violent creature, aren’t you?” he taunted, tilting his head to the side. I was seething like a trapped animal.
“Come here, and I’ll show you how violent I can be.” I snared my teeth. I stood defiant, breath tight but measured. He raised his brow, and his mouth twisted into a half smile.
“You sure about that?” He grabbed the heavy door, yanked his arm, and there was a sound of the metal tearing as the door swung open. His grey eyes swirled like clouds before a storm unleashed its fury. His voice was deep when he said, “I die little deaths everyday at the hands of Violence. I have become so well accustomed to her inflicted touch and seductive, piercing screams that they have become the very life flowing through my veins.” He tipped his chin and looked at me through his lashes, making me feel completely exposed.
His words were rough—edged; I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Was he crazy? But the Aecor around me felt calm, unlike the chaos that presented itself whenever the shadow person attacked. In this instance, Aecor was slow and heavy, as if it were weighed down with rage and something else. Anguish? I resisted the urge to step back, to show any fear. Cole was unpredictable.
“You see, Violence is my shadow—constantly there but just out of reach, and it would be an absolute pleasure to see how violent you can become, my Storm. You are as fierce as the tides and I am done waiting.” Cole paused and shut the cell door behind him, closing the space between us. I was stunned and blinking up at him as he looked down at me. “Well, do your worst.” He was much too close now. Strands of his black hair caught in his lashes as his gaze swept from my open mouth and back up to my eyes. His irises were liquid, deep steel, like the tide just before a hurricane—deceivingly calm but swirling with the undercurrent. And it was that hidden havoc that chilled me. I could be pulled under at any moment and never again break the surface.