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.