The Chateau

  The Chateau

  Chateau #1

  Penelope Sky

  Hartwick Publishing

  Hartwick Publishing

  The Chateau

  Copyright © 2020 by Penelope Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Prologue

  Pouring rain made the roads slick with darkness, reflecting the sliver of moon that emerged for just a glimpse between the passing clouds. The asphalt of the street and the wet concrete of the sidewalk were indiscernible from each other because everything looked black and white in a storm like this. An iron lamppost stood at the corner, the only beacon to the Parisian neighborhood.

  Face hidden under the raised hood of his jacket, a young man took the steps to the front door of his home. His jacket was sprayed with rainwater, the drops bouncing off the material like smooth pebbles, and he unlocked the door before stepping into the dark apartment.

  There were no lights.

  No signs of life.

  The clock on the wall showed the time.

  Two a.m.

  He stripped off his soaked jacket and hung it on the coatrack, family portraits on the wall, a mother, a father, and four children, all dressed in sweater vests and dresses, highlighting the numerous family vacations that had been taken throughout the years, no thought to expense.

  A muffled gunshot erupted in the house.

  He stilled at the sound, the water from his shoes soaking into the rug on which he stood. Eyes darted back and forth as he looked into the darkness, trying to distinguish the threat he couldn’t see. Every member of his family was fast asleep at this hour.

  Turning around and darting back out of the house was the smartest decision for a young man, but he remained rooted to the spot, as if he weren’t sure if he heard the murderous sound at all.

  He grabbed a knife and took the stairs.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  At the top of the stairs, he heard it again.

  A silenced gunshot.

  With a heartbeat thudding loud in his ears, a terror nearly paralyzing his heart, he crept down the hallway, knowing he had no chance against a gunman when he was only armed with a knife.

  But his family was on the line.

  The master bedroom door was ajar, the bed visible from his place in the hallway. The lump of a body was noticeable in the sheets.

  He crept into the room and grabbed his mother by the shoulder. “Mother.” He gave her a gentle shake, looking back at the door to watch for the assailant that was creeping in his home. “Mother.” He shook her again, his restrained voice under a cloak of a whisper.

  When he shook her again, he noticed the dots of blood on her pillow.

  Two—the size of bullets.

  That was when he noticed her open eyes, the ghost of life in her gaze, the sudden feeling of death.

  He jumped back, stepping away from the bed as if he might be sick. Tears welled in his eyes, but the current threat in his home restricted the sobs to the backs of his eyes and not his throat.

  When he crept back into the hallway, he gripped his knife a little tighter, with more resolution than before. The next bedroom belonged to his younger sister, and when he spotted her motionless in the bed, he knew she’d met the same fate.

  He didn’t even bother to walk inside.

  Footsteps sounded farther down the hallway, a man’s footsteps audible to his sensitive ears.

  He held his breath as he listened.

  The door creaked slightly as the man entered the bedroom of his older brother.

  He couldn’t keep his breath even, couldn’t keep his heart steady. He gripped the handle of the knife so hard his hand ached.

  Then another gunshot sounded.

  And he knew his brother’s fate.

  The bedroom door to his younger brother’s room was ajar. There was no time to waste, no time to linger. Based on the man’s movements down the hallway, this was the last bedroom on his list. His younger brother could still be alive.

  He moved into the bedroom and found his younger brother lying on his back.

  But he was breathing.

  He set the knife on the nightstand and gripped him by both arms before he gave the boy a harsh shake. “Wake up.” He placed his hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t scream in protest.

  But he didn’t wake.

  His eyes moved to the cup of water on the nightstand, the murky color of the liquid, as if something had been dissolved for every member of the family to drink. His own bedroom was last, so perhaps that murderer assumed he was in bed like everyone else.

  His arms scooped under his brother’s limp body and curled him to his chest. He groaned as he used all his strength to lift his brother’s weight as he rose to his feet. There was nothing he could do for anyone else, so he carried his brother into the hallway, casting a glance in the direction of his assailant. The coast was clear, and he made for the stairs.

  “What…?” His brother stirred from sleep, moving slightly, his voice muffled from the haze of the sleeping pills.

  “Come on, wake up.” He shook him as he took the stairs one at a time, quietly reaching the foyer.

  A footstep creaked against the floorboard at the top of the stairs.

  He should run, but he stopped to turn to see if the sound was his imagination—or something worse.

  At the top of the stairs stood his father, tall and lean, glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. And in his slender fingers was a gun, a silencer attached over the barrel. With narrowed eyes and a promise of retribution, he looked down at his two boys as they tried to flee.

  Paralyzed, the boy stood there, holding his brother in his straining arms.

  A standoff of silence emerged, a battle of silent hostility. The family home was the scene of a murder, every family holiday and birthday erased by the blood staining every pillow.

  He raised his gun—and pointed it at his son. “Don’t you run.”

  But he did anyway. He sprinted to the door, almost losing his grip on his brother, and made it out the front door to the steps. But he tripped, dropping his brother in the process. “Wake up!” He tried to scoop him into his arms, but the pouring rain and darkness made it impossible to get a grip.

  The impact shattered the spell, and his younger brother sat up. “What’s going on—”

  “Run! Come on! Run!” He grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down the sidewalk.

  Gunshots rang into the night, aimed right at their backs.

  Both boys sprinted down the sidewalk, heaving with the exertion, running away from something that neither understood. With only the clothes on their backs, they escaped without a single coin in their pockets, without the experience to survive the cold and harsh world that had just welcomed them with open arms.

  1

  The Eiffel Tower

  Raven

  I sat at the desk facing the window on the second story, my notebook opened to the page that held the notes I’d quickly jotted down. My stack of books was beside me, all the classics, Les Misérables, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was a beautiful evening at sunset, the skyline a subtle pink color, a clear sky in the depth of winter. Far in the distance, I could see the most recognizable example of French architecture—the Eiffel Tower.

  My eyes dropped down to the street below, the sidewalk filled with Parisians in their winter coats, walking home from work or on the town for an early dinner in a city with the best assortments of breads and cheeses in the world, not to mention wine. I grabbed my mug and lifted it to my
lips, taking a drink of coffee full of cinnamon and nutmeg, along with a hint of pumpkin.

  That was when I noticed a man down below, on the sidewalk and against the iron lamppost, standing behind a blue Fiat. A cigarette was between his fingers, and he brought it to his lips for a deep drag, his eyes focused on the front door of my apartment.

  At least, it seemed like that was what he was looking at.

  A thick beard covered his jaw and his neck, and the dark color matched the curls on the top of his head. He had brown eyes of the same color, nearly black. In a brown trench coat, he looked like a man who worked at a local newspaper, someone who had stepped out of the office to enjoy a cigarette break.

  But his gaze unnerved me.

  Melanie’s footsteps were audible behind me. “Alright, I’m heading out.” She passed by my door without stopping, her feet loud on the wooden stairs because she was taking them two at a time, running late like usual.

  “Bye,” I called after her, my eyes still on the man who had his eyes trained in my direction.

  The front door shut behind her, announcing her departure.

  He brought the cigarette to his lips and took another drag, his eyes shifting as his gaze followed my sister’s progress up the sidewalk—as if he’d been waiting for her.

  I rose from my chair, fear erupting in my heart like an explosion. My younger sister was the beautiful one, the one who got free drinks everywhere she went, who could have any guy she wanted—because every guy wanted her.

  And I’d kill any guy who would do her harm.

  But his interest faded, and he dropped his cigarette on the ground, stepped on it with his shoe, and headed up the sidewalk in the opposite direction from my sister.

  Was I just paranoid?

  Or did something just happen?

  “Your sister is fun.” Samantha sat across from me with her glass of rosé. The wine bar was lit up while the streets of Paris were dimmed outside the large windows, showing everyone enjoying the city during the busiest time of the year. It was known as the city of love, and there were definitely a lot of couples taking in the sights during winter break. “How long is she staying with you?”

  “Until mid-January. But I’m afraid she might not leave because she’s having so much fun.” I looked past her to my sister on the other side of the bar, sitting at a table with a glass of wine in her hand. Two guys sat across from her because she’d joined them thirty minutes ago, taking advantage of the cheese platter and fresh baguette sitting in front of them. Magnetic, she attracted everyone’s attention around her, not even intentionally. She was like a black hole, her pull so strong even light couldn’t escape. She always managed to be the center of attention, and most of the time, it didn’t bother me, but there were times when it became too much. I loved my sister more than life, but I was happy to see her go back home to New York.

  Samantha chuckled. “Paris is a special place. Couldn’t blame her.”

  Neither could I.

  “Have you told her yet?”

  My eyes stared at her across the room, watching her laugh uproariously at something one of the guys said, looking even more beautiful when she laughed like that. The rest of the tables were full of young people like us, students enjoying their Christmas break, first dates, and tenth dates. It wasn’t a tourist spot, so it was special, a wine bar full of all the other delicacies I couldn’t get enough of like assorted cheese, chocolate croissants, pâté, a variety of freshly baked breads, and escargot. I came for the wine, but I always stayed for hours because of the food. “No.”

  “How do you think she’ll take it?”

  “She’ll be furious. And she’ll probably move here to join me.” I’d relocated to Paris because I’d joined a study abroad program that allowed me to stay for a semester, but I loved it so much that I’d decided to be a student full time, to study classic French literature, to work as a barista in a café to pay my bills, to learn some French, completely adopt the lifestyle because it felt like home almost instantly.

  Melanie was under the impression that I would return home once my education was finished.

  But I had other plans.

  I felt obligated to return because I was all she had—and she was all I had. But I’d been taking care of my sister our entire lives, and it was time for me to do something for myself, to have my own independence apart from her.

  But she would be livid with my decision.

  “Would you hate that?” Samantha asked.

  “No, as long as she doesn’t expect to live with me.” My sister was a few years younger than me, but she’d never grabbed on to independence the way I did. Why would she, when she always had someone to take care of her? If it wasn’t me, it was a guy who had fallen under her spell. Why would she buy a drink at a bar when someone would pay her tab? I accepted who she was, exactly in the package she came in. I just didn’t want to be her caretaker anymore, and I feared if she moved here, that was exactly what would happen.

  “So…” She swirled her glass of rosé, her short dark hair in frizzy curls. “Anything going to happen with you and Gabriel?”

  I preferred French men to American men because they were more passionate than the men I was used to. They were great lovers, but they were also more independent, knew exactly how to care for themselves, and were proud, eager to stand on their own feet. They could be a little standoffish at times, but underneath that dark exterior was deep complexity. “I was thinking about…” My thoughts became distracted when I saw one of the guys Melanie was talking to rise from the table and approach the counter to speak to the waitress behind the counter.

  His beard was gone, and his hair had been cut—but it was him.

  I recognized those eyes, those distinctive facial features.

  He took the tab from the woman, put the bills on it, and then turned back to the table. Words were exchanged with Melanie and the other guy in the group, and they rose from the table to leave.

  Fuck that.

  I left Samantha with no explanation and went after them, catching up just as they made it outside. “Melanie.”

  She turned to me, her cheeks flushed from the wine that made her belly warm, from the good conversation that she thought was genuine and not a trap. “Raven, we’re going to a party. You want to come along?”

  There was a car parked at the curb, and one of the guys already had the back door open. The man I recognized spoke to him quietly, exchanging words in French.

  “You aren’t going. Let’s go back inside.” I grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her inside.

  She twisted out of the grasp. “What the hell are you doing?”

  I lowered my voice. “I saw one of these guys outside our apartment yesterday. He stood right across the street and watched you leave.”

  Melanie laughed like it was funny. “Girl, you need to chill. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

  “It’s not,” I snapped. “I know what I saw, and it’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “Raven, it’s fine.” She patted me on the arm. “We’re just going to a party. I’ll see you later, alright?”

  The guy I recognized whispered to her, “Come on, beautiful. We’ll show you a Paris you’ve never seen.”

  She blew me a kiss before she walked away.

  I was so sick of this shit, so sick of being the logical and reasonable one, of being the one to look after her because she was so unintelligent and clueless about her surroundings. I grabbed her by the wrist again. “I don’t like these guys, Melanie. Let’s just go back inside—”

  “Stop telling me what to do.” She pulled away again. “I’m a big girl who doesn’t need you to take care of me anymore.”

  That hit too close to home, and I lost my temper. “Obviously, I still do need to take care of you because these guys have got psycho written all over them, and you’re too stupid to see that. I’m sick of this shit, Melanie. I’m sick of you making stupid decision after stupid decision. I’m telling you, I saw that motherfucker
outside our apartment, and he’s gonna put you in an oil barrel or something. There’re a million guys out there. You’ll find someone new tomorrow.”

  Her eyes were heavy from the alcohol in her blood, but they were still aware enough to react, to show how much those words stung. “Then maybe they will put me in an oil barrel and I won’t be your problem anymore.” She walked to the guys waiting at the car.

  “Alright.” The other guy clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. “Let’s get this party started.”

  I clenched my jaw and sucked the back of my lips, furious enough to move mountains but helpless to do anything but watch. While my sister had a lot of good qualities, she also had a lot of bad ones, like constantly getting herself into trouble. And you know who cleaned up those messes?

  Me. Always me.

  I resented her for constantly putting me in positions I didn’t want to be in, constantly setting me back in life with mistake after mistake. My life was easy in Paris, and I realized I never wanted to go home; I was ready to finally start a new life for myself. But she was my sister…and that love, that bond, that sense of protectiveness, would never leave me.

  So, I did the only thing I could…and went after her.

  She was already in the back seat when I walked up.

  “You want to join us too, beautiful?” He opened the back door again. He gave me a wink that wasn’t the least bit charming.

  “You’re going to come?” Melanie asked in surprise. “My sister is finally gonna pull that stick out of her ass.” She scooted over and patted the seat beside her. “Girl, let’s go.”

  I took the seat beside her, watching the two guys, hoping that my paranoia was just a hypersensitive intellect. The doors shut, and the guys got into the two front seats.

  I watched them both like a hawk.

  “What should we listen to?” the driver asked as he turned on the radio. “How about some American shit?” He changed the channels until he found an upbeat pop song from a female artist. “Now, that’s good shit.” He started to dance in his seat. The other guy did too.