Garden of Snakes

  GARDEN OF SNAKES

  Copyright © 2017 Keary Taylor

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First Edition: March 2017

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Book design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  Taylor, Keary, 1987-

  Garden of Snakes (House of Royals) : a novel / by Keary Taylor. – 1st ed.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About Keary

  The House Of Royals Series

  The Fall Of Angels Trilogy

  The Eden Trilogy

  The Mccain Saga

  What I Didn’t Say

  To view all of Keary’s books, click HERE

  The shiny silver blade casts a bright reflection in my direction. Its surface is polished, smooth. The handle is free of blemishes, still with a luster finish, very few fingerprints to smudge its surface. It’s in perfect condition, just waiting to fulfill its purpose.

  It hangs on the wall, supported by two nails driven into the sheetrock, anchored into studs. Directly in my line of sight, where I can look at it every day, reminding me of what is to come.

  “I told you to stop looking at that damn thing all day long,” a voice from behind me says.

  “I told you to stop telling me what to do,” I emptily reply as I study the curve of the ax, imagining how cold the metal must be to the touch, how icy it will feel when it finally kisses my flesh.

  “So this is going to be one of those morbid days, then?” he asks.

  A little spike hits my blood for a moment. I’m a calm and collected person—always in control. But even I have my moments where I can be pushed to the rocky ledge. I force my eyes closed, collecting myself, just as I’ve trained my brain to do for my entire life.

  I turn away from the little window, back to face the spacious room and the man who sits in an overstuffed chair, his booted feet propped up on the coffee table.

  Michael Savage studies me with a dark look that never really leaves his eyes. He’s got his collar pulled up high and he bites the inside of his lower lip as he watches me.

  “Every day is a grim day, isn’t it?” I ask as I cross the room and grab the blanket from the couch and curl myself into the two of them.

  “Every damn one of them,” he growls. He throws the pen he’s been twirling between his fingers, and the tip of it sticks in the wall next to the door. A mess of holes dots the area. It’s a method of entertainment he utilizes frequently. “Why don’t you get us some real entertainment down here, huh?” he yells at the ceiling.

  The ceiling—which is all busted and damaged, the sheetrock crumbling and broken.

  Because this isn’t just some lovely, mundane room we reside in.

  It’s a prison cell.

  Michael has tried busting through every wall, every portion of the ceiling. Only every space behind the seemingly normal walls is lined with sheets of steel—several inches thick. Michael, as a Bitten, is far stronger than me. But even he doesn’t have the strength to break through these prison walls.

  We’re both dying of boredom. Left to rot and languish.

  The days are long and uneventful.

  “Tell me another story from the farm,” I say, lying my head on the arm of the couch.

  “Aren’t you sick of these boring farm stories yet?” he asks with a chuckle.

  “Beats staring at the ceiling,” I reply.

  He shifts, working his way further down into his chair. With ease, he crosses his feet at the ankle and laces his fingers together, resting them on his chest.

  “When I was about ten, I was helping my dad with the hay, first year he’d let me help him with the big equipment,” Michael begins his story. He reaches up, scratching the beard that is growing long on his face. “It was a Saturday and school was almost over. It was the first cut of the year. I’ll tell you, the smell of fresh cut hay takes me right back.”

  He smiles, which is the most creepily charming one I’ve ever seen in my life, and shakes his head. “Dad woke me up at the ass crack of dawn and even gave me a cup of coffee when we got down to the kitchen. Made me feel like a man. Like an equal.”

  I study his face as he speaks, the crow’s feet that spread from his eyes, the wrinkles that frame his mouth. The salt and pepper that creeps from his beard into his dark hair. Michael Savage is an attractive man, even at his age, old enough to be my father.

  “We went out to the barn,” he continues. Only I know the building he’s talking about isn’t really a barn. It’s massive, huge, more like a warehouse. I’ve seen it. It’s where I first met him. “He let me drive the tractor once he hooked up the baler. It was this massive piece of equipment. It picked up the cut and dried hay, smashed it into a rectangle, baled it, and spit it out to pick up later.”

  He bends one knee, resting his foot on the edge of the coffee table. “He walked alongside the baler, making sure I drove in a straight line so it could grab all of the cut hay. Watched me like a hawk, yelled when I started veering off course.”

  I hear him grit his teeth together, and something in his mood shifts. “I heard the rock it picked up, all the sudden made it this horrible grinding noise. Dad started yelling to shut the thing off, so I did.”

  The muscles in his jaw flex and anticipation spikes in my blood.

  “Dad reached in to pull the rock out. But my hand…” he hesitates. “I didn’t even realize it was still sitting on the switch. When I accidently bumped it, the whole thing started back up.”

  My own hand twitches, as if pulling out of a heavy piece of equipment, a flash of pain searing up my arm.

  “Dad lost all four fingers on his right hand, just like that.” Michael makes a cutting motion across his right hand, right at the base of the knuckles. “Kept his thumb though. Just lost a little skin off the tip.”

  I curl my fingers into a fist, suddenly immensely grateful to have them.

  “He was pissed,” Michael chuckles darkly. “Never heard a man swear like he did then. But he just smacked me upside the head when we left the hospital and didn’t talk to me much the next few days. But he needed my help. I was back on that tractor two weeks after that, even though I was scared shitless.”

  “I can imagine,” I say, staring down at my own hand. “That must have been traumatizing.”

  “Just a little bit,” he says in a gravelly voice.

  Footsteps outside the door pique my attention and I suddenly sit upright. Michael sits up straight in his chair, our eyes darting to the little window in the door.

  A face appears there, and a fraction of a second later I hear a familiar sound whistle through the air. A howl rips from Michael’s lips and he hunches over, his muscles tensing and twitching in pain.

  There’s a thin needle sticking out of his neck.


  One of my toxins.

  Curse words fill the air as he rolls to the side, falling off the chair and onto the floor. Something beeps and clicks and the door swings open.

  Angel steps inside, studying Michael to make sure he’s not going to try anything. Her long willowy limbs move with grace and silence as she crosses the room, standing above him with a stake in her hand.

  “You could have just said please,” Michael hisses through the pain as his eyes roll back in his head. His jaw clenches so tight I’m sure his teeth are going to fracture.

  “And trust a Bitten to keep his word?” Angel laughs. She shoves him with her booted foot and he cries out in pain once more, unable to defend himself.

  Because of me.

  They’ve been using my own toxins to disable my one and only friend here.

  “Come on,” Angel says, nodding her head at me. “He wants you upstairs for dinner.”

  Numbness creeps through my veins as I release it, giving it permission to take over my emotions and expression. I empty out my anger, my fear. Drain it all out, leave it on the floor.

  It’s easier this way.

  I drop the blanket on the couch and walk out ahead of Angel, who holds a Taser at my back, ready to take me down if I try anything. I’ve danced with it once before. I’m not anxious to try it again.

  The common room is dark when we step into it, like this house always is. We pass the bar, climb up the stairs, and the temperature rises significantly. My limbs instantly tingle and I take in a deep breath as I feel myself thaw out.

  I’m always cold. But it’s far worse living in the basement.

  The scent of roasted chicken and garlic potatoes makes my mouth salivate. My stomach instantly growls.

  “You’re hungry,” a voice calls from across the house. My eyes search until I find Charles Allaway, working in the kitchen. “Have you not been eating your meals?”

  “I have,” I say. “It’s just dinner time.”

  His eyes rise up to look at me, studying for lies. But I’ve always been proud of my poker face.

  “Have a seat,” he says, though it’s directed at Angel just as much as it is to me.

  She pushes me in the direction of the huge table that dominates the dining room. A dozen chairs are placed around it, and she directs me to one on the left side. She takes her place next to me.

  “Dinner is served!” Charles suddenly yells.

  I hear doors open upstairs and one by one, Megg, Murphy, and Russell all file into the kitchen, each of them taking a dish and carrying it to the table. They take their seats, sitting close together all at one end of the table.

  Six chairs are occupied. Out of the dozen at the table.

  And it’s a testament to why I am here. The House of Allaway is reduced to four members and their Royal.

  A House of five.

  “So lovely of you to join us,” Charles says as he dishes my plate, piling it high with more food than I could ever actually eat. “I hope you rested well last night.”

  “I did,” I reply, because I know I have to. “Thanks for asking.”

  He gives me that creepy little smile of his, pouring me a glass of grape juice. Charles takes a bite of his chicken, just as the front door opens and in walks five people.

  They each look around, taking in the house, looks of curiosity on their faces. But I see the hint of fear there, slight disgust.

  “You’re late,” Charles growls as they walk up to the table, each of them standing beside one of the House members seated. “I’ll cut your payments in half next time you’re late.”

  “You cut them in half and we may have to remind you that we far outnumber you, Mr. Allaway,” a tall man with a long beard says. “We let you stay because of the financial benefit you’ve offered to the town of Woodson.”

  Red embers ignite in Charles’ eyes, but even though he is a Royal, he knows the fragile position he is in.

  Charles grabs the man’s arm roughly, and suddenly black veins on his face join the red glow in his eyes. His fangs lengthen and instantly sink into the man’s wrist. The others at the table don’t hesitate a moment. They each sink their fangs into fleshy wrists, as well.

  The five humans suddenly stand stark still, the look in their eyes glazing over. They sway slightly, the threat of falling over a very real thing.

  My stomach rolls as I see a drip of blood slip down the bearded man’s wrist, splashing to the wood floor at our feet. Megg’s chin is coated in blood. Russell’s expression is of pure bliss.

  This is the world I live in now. The one I’ve always lived in.

  The one I’m never going to escape.

  No matter how far I run.

  Angel leans back from her feeder, wiping a smear of blood away with a satisfied ahh. Charles, too, releases his man, as do Megg and Russell.

  “That is plenty, Murphy,” Charles snaps when the man doesn’t release the woman he’s feeding from. Three more seconds, and he still doesn’t let up.

  “I said, that’s enough!” Charles bellows, smacking his fist down on the table.

  Murphy startles away from the woman, his fangs dripping blood as he guiltily looks at his regent.

  But my eyes are fixed on the puncture wounds in her arm, the blood that drips down to the floor.

  Slowly, the fog in each of their eyes fades. Slowly their muscles relax. They blink fast, shaking their heads as everything comes back into focus.

  “Same time next week?” the bearded man asks as the group of humans head for the door.

  “Don’t be late next time,” Charles says with annoyance.

  The man only chuckles in amusement, holding the door open for everyone else. He closes it loudly behind him.

  “Don’t let the food get cold,” Charles says, trying to force a smile back on his face.

  I take my fork, stabbing at the chicken on my plate.

  I take nibbles, small bites, while I carefully look around the table at the five vampires who surround me.

  Charles has been in a perpetual bad mood since he brought me here. Angel and Megg both do his bidding, they accompanied him when he kidnapped me. But Murphy and Russell seem to have realized that Charles needs them more than they need him. They’re both lazy, doing absolutely nothing all day.

  The tables certainly have turned in this House. They hold more power than Charles does right now. He’s so limited, he’s even the House cook these days.

  I can barely call this establishment a House. Even Alivia had more power when she was human without a single member at her side.

  This is just sad.

  But maybe that makes me more pathetic still.

  After all, I am the prisoner of this sad, little Royal.

  “Eat up,” Charles says coldly in my direction.

  I stab a steamed carrot and put it in my mouth, but I don’t taste anything.

  “I want you to pay a visit to the Garrow family in Detroit,” Charles says in Murphy’s direction.

  “Send Megg,” he says without looking up from his food.

  “I said I want you to do it,” Charles says between clenched teeth.

  “Detroit is disgusting,” Murphy says, his eyes rising to challenge his leader. “I don’t want to go.”

  “You’ll go,” Charles says, glaring death and curses. “Or—”

  “Or what?” Murphy says with a dark laugh. “You’ll cut me off? Take away my money? Send me away?”

  The two men glare heatedly at each other, and the angry look in Charles’ eyes tells me he knows he’s backed into a corner.

  “Perhaps I might like living in Vegas more,” Murphy says as a cruel smile curls on his lips. “Or maybe even the South. I’ve always wanted to see the Mississippi River.”

  Charles slams his fist down on the table again, cracking the wood. He bares his teeth, a hiss forming deep in his chest.

  “I’ll go,” Megg cuts in. Her eyes don’t quite rise to meet either of theirs. “I don’t mind Detroit. Is there anyone in particu
lar you want me to talk to?”

  Slowly, Charles’ tears his eyes away from Murphy. “All of them. I’ll send an offer with you that I think the entire family won’t be able to refuse.”

  Megg nods. The rest of us continue eating in silence.

  I’m not familiar with the Garrow family who apparently lives in Detroit, but if Charles is inquiring about them, I’m certain they’re Born. Perhaps like Aleah and Duncan’s family, one large in numbers.

  It’s what Charles needs, after all.

  I tried to help him with that. Tried to set up a system we could one day turn over to him.

  But he cared more about revenge than he did his power.

  “I’m full,” I declare ten minutes later. I push away my plate, only half the food eaten, and stare at the wooden surface of the table. “Can I go back to my room now?”

  “What, are you not enjoying our company?” Charles says, the smile once more on his face. He may be bullied by his House members, but I am the lowest notch on the pole. I’m the last person here he has left to terrorize.

  “I’m tired,” I say instead of the truth.

  Charles sighs, but he throws his napkin onto the table and pushes his chair back. He holds out a hand for mine, and I know better than to hesitate in taking it. I slide my ice-cold hand into his, and together, we head back toward the stairs, back down into the basement.

  “I do wonder what your brother would do should he ever find you,” Charles says with a smile as we reach the bottom of the steps. “I’ve heard tales about his abilities. I’d very much like to see him in action some day.”

  “Ian would rip your heart from your chest,” I say evenly. “Before he Resurrected, it would have taken him about ten seconds. Now that he’s a Born, you wouldn’t even see him coming.”

  “I’m sure it would be something,” Charles says with a smile as we stop outside the locked door to my room. “I must say, I’m equally curious to see the reaction of your lover. Especially since he probably thought he knew exactly where to find you.”

  “You leave him out of this,” I hiss. The careful façade of my control chips, fractures.

  Charles’ smile grows wider and he lets out a little laugh. “You’re an impressive woman, Elle Ward. It astonishes me that you could fall for that fool, Lexington.”