The Storm and the Darkness: The House of Crimson & Clover, #1

1

ANA

"A ll I’m saying is, Deliverance was based on a true story."

For the past hour, Nicolas had been trying to talk her into coming home to New Orleans. Ana rifled through the fridge, looking for something easy to make.

Sure. Right, she said, as she often did when he rambled.

Anywhere that doesn’t have cell service might as well be Iceland, Nicolas added.

Ana laughed. They have cell phones in Iceland.

He dropped his voice low. I’m talking about the parts without cell service, Ana. Dark places, where you can’t even pronounce the name of the village you’re in because it has sixteen consonants and no vowel, and there are more active volcanoes than people.

The more worked up you get, the less you make sense. Ana sighed. Anyway, how’s everything at home?

Nicolas gave an exaggerated yawn through the phone. Your father is fine, your stepmother is fine, Adrienne is fine, blah blah blah. Would you like to hear about the weather? I could give you the score of the Saints game, if you’re so inclined.

You act like those things aren’t important.

They’re not, he said. Silence on his end for a moment and then he added, and if you did care so much about how the family’s doing, you wouldn’t have abandoned us.

Stop being an ass, Ana retorted lightly, but knew he could hear the slight reprimand in her voice. Nicolas had a way of finding the line and leaping over it. Normally she enjoyed the parry, but the circumstances were different now.

Of course, Nicolas had no way of knowing that because, for the first time in her life, she’d kept something from him. Quarter-life crisis, she told him when she revealed her plans to move to Maine. He’d known better, though, seeing right through her lie, allowing her to maintain the illusion because he loved her. She didn’t know what stopped her from telling him.

That’s a lie. I know why.

It hurt him that she was lying. It hurt her to do it. Nicolas was more than her cousin. He was her closest friend, and only confidante. Telling herself he probably did the same, probably kept things from her, too, didn’t make her feel better.

Have you shown anyone your parlor trick yet? Nicolas asked.

Oh, God, no. Everyone on this island already treats me like a pariah. I don’t need them knowing I’m a freak of nature.

Not a freak of nature, darling. Just a Deschanel.

Ana wasn’t the only Deschanel with a special talent, but she might be the only one who wished the Deschanel gift had passed her over. It was more a curse than a blessing.

How did your family escape it, then? she asked. Not only was Nicolas born without special abilities—benign, other Deschanels liked to say—his father and four sisters had also been passed over in whatever power, genetic or otherwise, was responsible for doling out these gifts.

Heathens, he said casually.

There are plenty of powerful heathens in this family, Ana countered. But you specifically set that bar rather high.

After dinner, runny chili from an only slightly rusted can, she wandered onto her front porch, gazing out into the Atlantic. She shielded her eyes from the vibrant orange hues of the setting sun as she looked out across the sparkling water. From where her house sat, on the eastern shore, she couldn’t see the mainland, but could make out traces of smaller, barren islands to the east. Alex told her the view would disappear completely in the winter, leaving the island shrouded in blinding fog. She wondered again if she’d done the right thing in coming there.

What was my father thinking when he bought this place? It had been a gift to her mother, Ekatherina, who died days after Ana was born. Yet another failure. A healer who killed her own mother.

Ana caught the view of a fishing trawler in her peripheral, off to the west. Her gaze shifted from the sunset to the man captaining the vessel. He’d come back to shore every day at the same time, all week. Alex told her some of the fishermen told time by the sun. She wondered if Finnegan St. Andrews was one of them.

As Finnegan eased alongside the small pier, a young boy hopped off and started tethering heavy ropes to a series of short, thick poles. Moments later, Finnegan joined him, and helped finish securing the boat. Together, they carried large metal-framed traps from the boat to the storage shed at the dock’s upper end.

After placing several of the live lobster into an ice chest for the child, Finnegan watched him scamper up the beach, toward a path leading to the main road.

He stretched his strong shoulders as if shrugging off a tremendous burden. As his arms came down, he perched his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. He caught sight of Ana on her porch, and waved. She waved back.

This had become a welcome daily tradition during the seven days she’d been on Summer Island. Finn was the closest thing she had to a friend, next to Alex, though they’d never actually met. She knew it would be simple enough to introduce herself. Especially since she might not even have to say much, as everyone in town already seemed to know everything about her.

She wouldn’t, though. Waving was safer.

Ana set a bowl of milk on the porch next to an old comforter. Cocoa wouldn’t be back until later in the evening, most likely. She didn’t know where the little one went all day, but she always returned at night, hungry and grateful for Ana’s comfort. Ana wondered if the cat had been someone’s pet once, for she’d immediately warmed to human affection.

Ana never had any pets of her own back home. Growing up, her stepmother, Barbara, had been allergic to almost everything, and then when Ana left home, her focus on education left little room for anything else. After four years of undergraduate studies, she dove back in for another four for her double masters. She would’ve continued as a student forever, if her favorite professor hadn’t offered her a job teaching English at Tulane. It was an unlikely career choice for an introvert, but it made her happy to feel useful.

Then she left. Left the job, her family, her hometown, Nicolas. All of it.

She hadn’t known anything about Summer Island, Maine before her arrival a week earlier. She’d never even seen a picture of the old home inherited from her mother. All she knew—and all that mattered—was its distance from New Orleans, both in geography and similarity.

The recorded population of Summer Island was two hundred and fifty, but Alex told her it was actually two hundred and four if you didn’t count the families who only had weekend or summer homes. Although it was a diminutive two-point-two square miles in size, the town was relatively self-sufficient, having many of the basics. The key service they seemed to be missing was a medical facility but, surprisingly, there was a veterinary clinic. The vet was one of her neighbors—the young lobster fisherman’s brother, in fact—but his standoffish behavior made Ana think twice about striking up a conversation.

Geographically, Summer Island was the furthest human-inhabited island east of the mainland, a sixty-minute ride on the Casco Bay Ferry to Portland. Alex said there were a handful of folks who commuted daily into Portland, but the restaurants, bars, post office, grocery store, and other businesses were all run by islanders.

It makes it easier in th’ winter, he told her. Otherwise, we’d have people not showing up for work half th’ winter.

What do you mean?

The ferries close down for a spell each season, sometimes more’n once.

So how do you get off the island if there’s an emergency?

He shrugged. Ya don’t.

Alex didn’t seem the least bit concerned about that potential, but the thought definitely unsettled her. Ana took living in a big city for granted, being near everything she could possibly need. Every bit of information he eagerly shared left her with a dozen more questions, some she’d ask, and others she never would. She disliked feeling silly, or being perceived as an outsider, and her lack of knowledge elicited both.

As caretaker, Alex Whitman knew the house better than anyone. The conditions of his charge had brought him out once a week for the past twenty years, and he’d done his job unfailingly. By the time Ana arrived, he’d already winterized the house, for the most part. He was excited to show her how he’d covered the exterior faucets, turned off unused valves, and other details Ana had never worried about in a city of banana trees and the Gulf humidity. His eyes widened, hands taking to the air in lively animation as he proudly described the level of care and caution he channeled into his work. He was certainly thorough, and undoubtedly passionate, and it was clear the old four-bedroom Victorian had been in good hands all these years, despite having no permanent mistress.

His enthusiasm was catching, if not strange. He was so excited about his job, Ana wondered what he did for fun.

Alex was middle-aged, in his fifties, Ana guessed. There was nothing remarkable about him, from his growing baldness to a nondescript nose, mouth, and chin. She wouldn’t have been able to pull him out of a crowd. The only thing that stood out to Ana were his eyes, a radiant blue that flashed with flowing intensity when he talked.

I have overseer duties for yer father’s house and about ten o’er homes on the island. Summer folk. Ya know, they say coastal Maine is the new Cape Cod, he told her, beaming. There was no end to his anecdotes about the island and the homes he looked after, but about his personal life he’d only reveal that he lived alone.

Actually it’s my house, she corrected him. Of course they thought it was her father’s. His office paid the bills, and it wasn’t as if Ana had ever bothered to visit.

Well, I reckon I stand corrected, Alex apologized with a blush.

Ana appreciated him, but she didn’t realize how much until after she’d been on the island for a week. She’d established a daily routine involving a venture into town to explore, before heading home with groceries. She noticed everyone taking the time to wave at each other, or stopping to chitchat. With dark clouds looming on the horizon, everyone’s thoughts turned to the timing of the first big storm. Ana felt as if she was watching one large, ongoing family reunion. Her heart ached for New Orleans, and her own people.

Initially, she tried to embrace her new home with enthusiasm, waving at the same people she saw waving at others. But they didn’t wave back, and most of them dropped their eyes, pretending not to see her overtures. No matter where she went, her reception was the same. The lack of returned smiles, the downturned eyes in place of warmth, left her with a sinking feeling that stayed with her, long into each evening. She was unwelcome here.

When she told Alex about her experiences, a blush rose in his cheeks and his normal animation transformed to a nervous fidget. Miss Deschanel—

Alex, you can call me Ana. With a laugh, she added, You might be my only friend here.

"O’right, Ana then. Forgive me for just coming out and sayin’ it, but everyone knows who ya are."

What does that mean? Her eyes narrowed. It wasn’t possible for anyone here to know the real reason she left New Orleans. She’d told no one.

Your father, Miss, Alex said with a guilty look. "It’s just, being locals and all and not having the money that yer family has… it sometimes rubs people the wrong way when outsiders see their town as a vacation home. It isn’t to say... I mean... that, you know, yer family has done nothing wrong, exactly... oh geez, listen to me..."

His rambling continued as he stumbled over his own words to correct himself, but Ana understood his meaning well enough. Ana’s father was Augustus Deschanel, and there were few who didn’t know that name. He was a local legend in New Orleans for having started his media business with money he’d saved from his own work, a remarkable accomplishment coming from a family of billionaires who could’ve funded it without a second thought. Augustus wanted to do it alone, though, and the business turned into an international empire within a decade. While the people of New Orleans were proud of Augustus for his humble work ethic, the rest of the world saw him as yet another money-hungry businessman. It never occurred to her the islanders might have a derogatory opinion of the distant family who owned the stately house on the bend of Heron Hollow Road.

As Alex showed her how to use the generator—trust me, you’ll use it, he’d promised—he assured her he would talk to people and that things would get better. They’re good folk, he kept saying. Truly, they mean no harm.

Ana thought then of Nicolas. Her father. Her students at Tulane. Of late nights in the Quarter, the trilling hum of cicadas, and the sun’s fiery orange rise over the banks of the Mississippi. The homesickness caused a sinking flutter in her chest as at all she’d left behind.

How long am I going to do this? How will I even know when it’s time to go back?

As long as it takes, she whispered, and waved at Alex as he drove away.

2

NICOLAS

It was difficult to unnerve Nicolas Deschanel. He’d experienced more craziness in thirty years than many saw in an entire lifetime, and for the most part, remained calm no matter what storm brewed around him.

He lived alone at Ophélie, the old family plantation an hour’s drive along the Mississippi, west of New Orleans. There wasn’t much left of it anymore, aside from the land. He lived in the Big House, a giant Greek Revival monster with Ionic columns running roof to base, and broad galleries spanning all the way around. Beyond the primary residence, most buildings had fallen into disrepair, overlooking the miles of sugarcane and swampland which backed the property. He’d never lived anywhere else, only occasionally disappearing for a sabbatical somewhere far from home. Even his modest apartment on Frenchmen was only used as a convenient place to flop after a night of carousing in the Quarter.

The plantation was old and lonely. Nicolas Deschanel was exactly the opposite of either of those things, a fact he went to great lengths to sustain.

He enjoyed his reputation as the premier playboy of New Orleans, and surrounded himself with those who either contributed to the illusion or didn’t disavow him of it, anyway. He loved the Quarter; the debauchery it promised, beckoning, where he could drink as much as someone twice his size, and stay out twice as late as the frat boys. Though handsome, the first thing a stranger noticed about Nicolas Deschanel was not his looks, but his wild and enigmatic charm. The combination of these things brought a variety of women to his door—sexy, smart, adventurous, boring. There always came a point where Nicolas realized the specific charms of the specific girl were no longer specific or charming. He saw no gain in limiting himself.

Even now, at thirty years of age, he was still, always the life of every party.

When Nicolas wasn’t out cultivating his reputation, he appreciated the quiet and seclusion of Ophélie. Nic’s now-deceased father had favored his daughters born with Nicolas’ nanny over Nicolas, his first child and natural successor, and, breaking with tradition, had willed the estate to them instead. Years later, his sister Adrienne righted that wrong, content to live with her husband, Oz, in the Garden District and let Nicolas take his rightful seat. She said she didn’t want the same upbringing for her own children, but Nicolas didn’t see what was so bad about it, really.

Then again, he hadn’t experienced the wrath of Cordelia Deschanel day in and day out. Cordelia, who was his mother but not the mother of Adrienne and her three older sisters. His mother could be mercilessly cruel to anyone she thought minimized her son’s importance in the household. To Nicolas, she’d been loving, but to the girls, a nightmare. The father they all shared more than compensated for the lack of maternal nurturing by having ostracized Nicolas in every meaningful way, while placing his daughters on pedestals.

All but Adrienne were gone now, a part of his past that seemed almost unreal, like a dream of long ago. His mother, father, and three half-sisters perished in a car accident, en route to a family vacation Nicolas hadn’t been invited to. Adrienne escaped, but disappeared for several excruciating years.

If Nicolas had to pinpoint it, this was probably where things began to change in his friendship with his best friend since boyhood, Oz. Oz, who’d loved Nicolas first, but loved Adrienne more. Although there was still love between Oz and Nicolas, brothers in all but name, there was also a darkness, the kind that comes with sharing unspeakable tragedy. The kind that never entirely goes away.

There might now be invisible walls in his friendship with Oz, but there was one person with whom Nicolas shared everything. Someone who, no matter what happened, loved him without judgment, without darkness.

Anasofiya.

No one but Ana knew, or understood, what it was to have everything and still be empty inside. Nicolas had never really been a part of his family. He was only a baby when his father forsook his wife, turning instead to the nanny to father his remaining children. Nicolas and his sisters were always divided by the ugliness that festered between Charles and Cordelia, and while he loved them, he didn’t know how to be a part of them.

Ana and Nicolas were born only a few months apart. When Ana’s mother died shortly after her birth, Nicolas and Ana shared a nursery, and nearly everything else—from their toys to their solitude—from that point forward. They’d even shared their friendship with Oz. As they went from children to teenagers, Ana and Oz grew apart when an attempt at dating soured, and Nicolas grew to love Ana even more when she was solely his. In many ways, Ana was the reason Nicolas never wanted to marry. She was the one person who knew him—truly knew him, not the person he projected to the world—and he didn’t want there to be anyone else in the world with that depth of insight.

Now she was gone, and he didn’t know for how long, or even exactly why. He’d supported her stated reasons for going, only because he understood her perpetual, quiet anguish. He’d felt the build-up coming, and was unsurprised at the subsequent boil-over. They could speak without speaking, so no words were necessary. Nevertheless, he made it known he supported her, as her father had, though they both knew Augustus Deschanel didn’t know who Ana was, what burned inside of her, haunting her private thoughts. Nicolas’ only regret was his insecurity prevented him from offering to go with her. Ana was the one person he couldn’t handle rejection from.

Yet. Something wasn’t sitting right with Nicolas. At first, he chalked it up to his sadness at her leaving, but it soon developed into doubt. Maybe he was the real reason. He’d never really given thought to what their friendship would mean as they grew older and started settling down into their permanent lives. Was it possible she felt trapped? That his friendship was somehow stifling her, keeping her from growing into the person she wanted to be?

He was a Deschanel, heir to one of the largest, wealthiest, and most powerful families in New Orleans. A family of telepaths, telekinetics, healers, and seers. But Nicolas’s power started and ended with his occupation of the family seat, Ophélie. He’d never see the future, never read someone’s mind. He was benign, and that never bothered him until now, when he wanted nothing more than to see into Ana’s thoughts, so he could find his way to her again.

Nicolas shrugged off these worries, as he did whenever something unpleasant dared to cross his mind, but they didn’t entirely disappear. To make matters worse, Oz was acting strange—strange for Oz, anyway—and had blown off every invitation Nicolas extended to grab a beer. He claimed he had family stuff going on, but Nicolas was beginning to wonder if he’d done something to piss him off. It wouldn’t be the first time. But Nicolas couldn’t recall a single obnoxious thing he’d done to Oz, not recently. He thought about simply asking what was wrong, but in Nicolas Deschanel’s experience, what’s wrong? never led anywhere good.

Although he’d never admit it, with the only two people he’d ever cared for acting distant and strange, for the first time in his life, Nicolas was lonely.

3

ANA

Ana decided to brave the lack of hospitality from the locals and try takeout, having grown tired of boxed and canned food.

Alex recommended Jack’s, which he said was the best burger joint in the state of Maine. And better custard than anything on the mainland, either. He said that about most things on Summer Island, but it had to be an improvement from what she was eating at home.

Androscoggin Avenue, the island’s main street, started at the north end of the island and broke off into two roads about a half-mile from the South Shore: Chickadee Lane to the west, and Heron Hollow Road—where Ana lived—to the east. If the weather was warmer and the skies not so dark, Ana would’ve enjoyed the walk into town, but instead she fired up her father’s old car.

The weathered ‘76 station was the first indication she’d left the residential area and entered town. Past that was Flanders Grocery, and then further down on the right side was the official city building, with all the municipal departments. The rest of the town consisted of two unnecessary stoplights and a series of bars, shops, and empty buildings along the mile-long Androscoggin Avenue. In the center of a roundabout stood a large Civil War-era fort. No one could say what the name had been or what glories it had seen, but the wood was rotted and putting the deterioration on such crude display only called attention to the strange marriage of the town’s pride, and its unwillingness to spend on basic maintenance

Mayor Cairne’s been askin’ for money from Portland but e’er since we broke free they ain’t fixin’ to give us a dime, Alex had complained to her. Anyhow, drive the strip nearly all the way to Edgewaters’ at the North Shore, and just ‘fore the road turns into a private drive you’ll see Jack’s. It’s small, but the red, white, and blue stripes are hard to miss.

Ana was surprised to see so many people there. Jack’s was no bigger than a shack, with two windows—one for ordering, one for pick-up—and as Alex had said, the building was painted in large patriotic stripes. The parking lot was tiny, and half the spots had erupted cement running through them, rendering them useless for all but trucks. With the crowd gathered, she had to park down the road.

Walking up to the window, Ana counted ten people