“Isn’t he gonna show us around?” Brando whispered, shooting a wary look at the house. “There might be, like, ghosts or something in there.”
“There are no ghosts,” I said, though I could believe that if they existed, they’d run rampant in Tiernan’s sketchy gothic home. “Come on, we don’t need to be shown around. If this is our new home, we better make ourselves comfortable.”
Ezra had his head in the trunk of the limo grabbing the four suitcases and a box of Aida’s records that made up our meager belongs, so I squared my shoulders and approached the house with a reluctant Brando clinging to my hand.
The door was massive, built for a Titan, painted a rich, vibrant blue that shone in the light from the iron fixtures to either side of it. A gleaming gold lion’s head was fixed to the center of the door, a heavy gold ring in its mouth.
The lions at the gate to the property and the door knocker, all fitting the name of the expensive, scary mansion set on the bluffs of Bishop’s Landing.
Lion Court.
I took a deep breath as I went to open the door only for it to swing open silently, revealing a murkily lit interior. No one appeared in the opening to greet us and I wondered with a little shiver who had opened it for us.
“Anca, I don’t want to live here,” Brando whispered, clutching Iron Man to his chest. “This place is super creepy.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But don’t worry, you’ve got Iron Man and Wonder Woman to protect you.” I gave his hand a squeeze and moved us forward into the dim house.
The entry hall was enormous, almost cavernous. Dark wood floors laid in magnificent hexagonal designs, two staircases curving around a central focal point of a tall, beautiful grandfather clock that filled the space with an ominous, hollow toll. There were open entryways on either side of the hall leading to shadowy rooms, but the entryway itself was startlingly empty.
“Hello?” I called, wondering if the person who opened the door lingered somewhere close.
My voice echoed in the space.
“Hello?” Brando called, then giggled at the echo and repeated himself. “Hell-oo!”
“Hello.”
I scanned the room, searching for the voice, then gasped rudely when I finally caught eyes with the person who’d responded.
Oh, he was horribly scarred.
Burn marks mottled the skin across most of his face and skull, leaving only smooth, warped skin tinted various shades from red to pink to shocking white. The scarring disappeared under the collar of his shirt and reappeared on his hands.
I knew this because he stepped forward from behind the shadows of a centaur sculpture near the left staircase to offer his right palm to me in greeting.
There was a soft, shy smile on his mouth and worry in his eyelash-less gaze.
Beside me, Brando made a noise of concern in his throat. “Are you okay?” he asked, with all the artlessness of a child.
The man bent slightly so he could address Brando on his level. “I’m more than okay, Mr. Belcante. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“You are?” Brando asked, shocked. “But how do you know about me?”
“Ah.” He smiled, touching the side of his misshapen nose. “You’ll learn that I know everything that goes on in this house. I am its keeper.”
“Like Jarvis in Iron Man?”
He laughed. “Maybe. Though, you’ll find I don’t have quite as much control over the residences here.” He straightened and offered me his hand again. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Belcante. I am Walcott.”
“A pleasure,” I murmured back, accepting his palm, noting the silky texture of the burns. “I’m sorry for Brandon’s rudeness, he didn’t mean anything by his question.”
“Of course.” He waved the issue away with one hand. “The sincerity of children is a good reminder to adults to be more honest.” He addressed Brando next, as if he were a grown man and not a boy. “I was in an accident ten years ago. My car crashed and caught fire while I was still inside. It left marks, as you can see.”
Brando stepped closer, peering up at Walcott curiously. “That’s really bad luck.”
A startled laugh. “I was drinking and driving, so it wasn’t a matter of luck but stupidity. My own fault. I was twenty and rather famous at the time.”
I frowned at him, trying to see if I recognized his face, but he caught me looking and laughed easily at my embarrassment.
“I hardly look the same, but I was once a male model,” he admitted, and if he could have blushed, I think he would have. “Vain and pretty.”
“Anca always says it’s better to be nice than pretty,” Brando parroted, reaching out to pat Walcott’s hand. “You seem pretty nice.”
Walcott’s smile was wide, pinching his waxy skin and bleaching it white. It could have been an ugly expression, but I found myself smiling back at the warmth in his dark eyes.