Excerpt of Byronic by Sandi Beth Jones

Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.
--Lord Byron

Chapter One

Rusty trucks and derelict boats languished in front of houses along the dark Carolina
coastal road. Ever since we’d left home that afternoon, I’d imagined winding up in
the country, far from my family and best friend, enduring months cramped in a shack
with my mother’s new client, a reclusive author who’d hired her to co-write his
memoir. He probably hoarded junk and never bathed.

Inspired by the metalcore songs on my IPod, I finished my sketch, shading the
overalls of a cotton farmer fighting to pull a boy’s arm from the churning spindles
of old-timey farm machinery. My empty stomach clenched at the sight of plasmatic
splatters across my page. Too dark to draw anymore, I scrawled “Chelsea” across the
bottom and snapped the sketchpad shut.

Beside me, Mom’s face pinched with disgust. She’d never understood my art. Neither
did I, really. It was my father’s gift.

The image of the farmer’s agony would likely stay in my head while I tried to sleep
that night.

Somehow I’d lost track of time. The car slowed as we neared a massive stone entrance
under dim lighting. I removed an earbud.

“I have the code for the gate on my phone.” Her blonde ponytail fell over her
shoulder as she fumbled in her purse.

Headlights burst from the open gate, blinding me in a flash of white as a vehicle
suddenly flew out, headed in our direction. I screamed and reached reflexively for
the dash. The oncoming car hit its brakes and veered to miss us, spraying seashell
gravel onto our Toyota like rain. Mom swerved to stop on the shoulder of the private
driveway.

“Idiot!” She smacked the horn.

The other vehicle, a shiny black Vette with lots of chrome and dark windows, gunned
the engine. My heart thudded. I craned in my seat, watching the guy’s thoughtless
retreat. A license plate reading “GEOFF” in reflective blue letters disappeared into
the gloom.

“You okay? I’m sorry.” Mom sighed, collecting herself.

Rubber squealed in the distance as the other car spun onto the asphalt.

“Barely.” I scowled at the way she always accepted blame whatever the situation. My
instincts told me to hang my head out the window and call the driver the name he
deserved, but an awful thought stopped me. “Was that your new client?”

“I don’t think so.” She bit her lip as she steered our car back onto the road.

The jerk had left the gate open, so we rolled past the entry’s digital keypad. The
bars closed automatically behind us with a metallic clank as we moved from the
lighted gateway for the black woods ahead.

Mom offered an embarrassed smile. “Poor guy didn’t expect anyone to be out here at
night. He was probably Ben’s—”

“Ohmigod!” I sat up.

The road curved, and a lighted building emerged at the end of the driveway where
ancient oak trees spread twisting lace-shrouded limbs of gray Spanish moss. Ginormous
pillars surrounded a white house.

Mom’s eyes were hopeful when she glanced at me for my reaction and parked the car by
the brick sidewalk. “This must be Antonia. What do you think?”

I dropped the IPod and tumbled out the door for a better look.

Burning with desire to draw, I walked backward so I could take in the mammoth
building. The plantation-style house stood three stories high with balconies. The
downstairs rooms glowed with movement inside, while the upstairs windows were
lifeless and dark. Far above on the top floor, a single gauzy curtain flew outward,
up and down, waving us away.

Leave. Leave. Leave.

I rubbed at the goose bumps on the backs of my arms, dismissing the thought as too
much like one of Dad’s wild notions.