Byronic

By Sandi Beth Jones

When the creatures in her dark drawings come to life, Chelsea finds that the mysterious Geoff is the only person she can confide in. But she can't help wondering who she's kissing: her tender confidant or the dangerous Byronic rebel bent on shocking his detached father.Starting over in the South Carolina Lowcountry is just what sixteen-year-old Chelsea needs. Unfortunately, moving also means living with her mom's snobbish British novelist employer and his moody son Geoffrey. Troubled and reckless after his brother's mysterious death, Geoff often mimics his father's literary favorite, Lord Byron, acting "mad, bad, and dangerous to know." Knowing that her new home likely used to be a slave holding plantation doesn't make Chelsea feel any more at home. Chelsea buries herself in her art, though the darkness of her drawings troubles her and others who see them. When people in the Gullah and Geechee community point out that she has been drawing Boo Hags and haints -powerful and terrifying creatures of local legend and superstition- she starts to wonder about her own heritage and her connection to the Sea Islands. She begins to question her own grasp on reality when it seems those creatures start making their way out of her drawings and into real life.It's clear that Geoff has some secrets of his own, but he might be the only person she can confide in. Chelsea must decide who she can trust, when nothing in the Lowcountry is what it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Omnific Publishing
• Release date: Jun 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781623421342

Book preview

Chapter One

Where there is mystery,

it is generally suspected

there must also be evil.

~Lord Byron

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. It had gotten too dark to draw any more, so 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, dimly lit stone entrance. I removed an earbud.

I have the code for the gate on my phone. My mom’s blonde ponytail fell over her shoulder as she fumbled in her purse.

Headlights burst from the open gate, blinding me with 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 a 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 its 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 of the main road.

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 names 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 automatically closed behind us with a metallic clank as we moved from the lighted gateway into 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 brightly lit building emerged at the end of the driveway, where ancient oak trees spread twisting lace-shrouded limbs hung with 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 the desire to draw, I walked backward so I could take in the mammoth building. The plantation-style house stood three stories high with balconies on each floor. The downstairs rooms glowed with activity 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.

Mom led us past lighted palmettos and flowering shrubs along the drive—an impressionist’s dream of soft and sharp textures—up the steps of the wraparound porch to the double doors of what could’ve been the set of an old Civil War movie. Except the house didn’t seem old. The paint looked fresh and white, the wood solid.

I hoped the place was new. Plantations in the South meant slavery. My mom, of all people, would respect my feelings. Surely she wouldn’t expect me to sleep under the roof of former slave owners.

My stomach knotted as she rang the brass doorbell, my hands still trembling after our near miss with the reckless driver. But why did I dread meeting Mr. Ramsey? I’d never heard anything bad about the British author. Lots of people I knew read his bestsellers. My grandma, for one. His readers wanted to know more about him, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t manage to write his story. Too humble. Or too boring. Mom had spent hours chatting with him on the Internet before they’d decided to work on his memoir together in person.

The door opened, and a man wearing a blue dress shirt and khakis blinked at us through metal-rimmed glasses. He made his disgust for me clear with a curl of his top lip. Then he focused on Mom, and his expression smoothed. Lori!

I’m sorry we’re late, Ben. I should’ve called.

Not a problem at all. His graying brown comb-over and wide smile erased my suspicion that Mom found him attractive. Too nerdy. Dinner’s still warm.

I want you to meet my daughter, Chelsea. She nudged me.

Ramsey hesitated, barely concealing his disapproval, then shook my hand in his cool grip. I’m so very glad to finally meet you. I’ll wager you’re both exhausted.

I lifted a shoulder. It’s not been bad. Well, except for just now. I threw him a repulsed glare of my own. Who was driving that Corvette?

Mom touched my shoulder. Honey—

Do come in, Mr. Ramsey interrupted, widening the door. We can talk over dinner.

Paranoia prickled me as we moved through the foyer, my worn combat boots clomping across the hardwood floor, but I’d save my questions for later. I’m patient, unlike my dad.

Nothing had prepared me for the beauty of the place. Dark-veined marble columns supported high ceilings, and light filtered through the crystal prisms of a chandelier overhead. We washed up in a formal bathroom, where I was afraid to touch anything for fear someone would smack my hand and say I wasn’t allowed to handle stuff.

An arrangement of fresh tropical flowers sat in the middle of the dining table before us. God, I’d love to capture those beauties on paper with gouache paints. However, the aroma of fried food distracted me from the subject matter as a serving woman wearing a gray uniform brought in a covered tray and then lifted lids off the awaiting platters. I caught her slight frown as she poured water in my glass. At first I thought she was eyeing my hair and the blue streak I’d put in it this summer, so I pushed it off my shoulder.

Perhaps you’d like to change clothes? she murmured for my hearing alone.

I followed her stare to the sleeves of my T-shirt, held attached to the shoulders with a couple dozen safety pins. Uh, no thanks. I eased the tablecloth over my lap before she could notice the larger split I’d created and pinned down the inside of my leg.

Ben, it was getting dark outside when we arrived, but we saw lots of young people leaving Hilton Head Island. It’s a popular place, isn’t it? Mom said cheerily.

Ramsey nodded. Absolutely. I’ve made an appointment for Chelsea to meet with the director of admissions at the Hilton Head Island Collegiate Academy tomorrow. He lifted a piece of something covered in golden cornmeal batter. Fried pickle?

She held out her plate. Thank you.

"Wait. A prep school for me? Why?" Alarm twisted the knot in my stomach tighter.

Lori—? He hesitated.

It’s on the island. Very prestigious. Mom smiled, but her eyes pleaded.

My fork clattered on my plate. So that was the drawback to this gig?

I’m no Barbie. Hadn’t he seen how I dressed? Not to mention I’d probably be the only half-black student there. They’d hate me.

Thanks, but I’ve always gone to public schools.

Nonsense. My son will be attending the Academy, too. You’ll ride with him so your mum won’t have to drive you back and forth through the tourist traffic. Shrimp and grits?

I stared at the grayish-orange formless lump he deposited on my plate. My throat constricted, no longer hungry. I was sixteen and could drive myself.

I opened my mouth to argue just as my gaze caught Mom’s. She mouthed, Please.

There had to be a way out. I squinted at her, as if to say, We’ll talk later. But another thing popped in my mind. Your son? You have a son? And he lives here, too?

Oh no. Not a nerdy brat living under the same roof.

I’m a loner. An artist. I needed my peace and solitude. I couldn’t share it with some annoying, spoiled prepster even in a house the size of Antonia.

Um, yes. He frowned, picking at the stringy green vegetables on his plate. Geoffrey is staying with my ex-wife in Hilton Head tonight, but he’ll be moving back this week. Lori tells me you have a four-point-oh GPA, my dear? Well done. I expect you’ll be a splendid influence for Geoff, then.

Geoff. The name from the license plate.

Unbelievable.

Aw. What a shame he can’t be here tonight, Mom said dejectedly. I was hoping to meet Geoff today. I hate moving in here without him. I feel like we’re invading his territory. Mom stared at her hands. She’d barely touched her plate.

Ramsey cocked his head to the side with a small smile. Not a problem. None of the boy’s business. And I’d intended for him to meet you over dinner, but…he had other plans. You just missed him, in fact.

I felt the blood drain from my face. Perfect. This anti-Barbie was riding to school with NASCAR Ken and…

I. Was. Going. To. Die.

The door closed behind me before I remembered to thank the housekeeper—was her name Rose?—for delivering me to my new room. Her footsteps trailed away as she ascended the stairs in the hall. I dropped my duffle bags where a braided rug covered the worn wood flooring. The only furnishings in the bleak white bedroom were a table with a stoneware bowl and pitcher, a dresser, and the bed. God only knew what the bowl and pitcher were for, and I prayed they were just antiques, not anything people actually expected me to use. Those, along with the old brass doorknobs and ornate tin ceilings, told me my first impression was correct. We were staying in an authentic plantation home after all.

Nausea curled through me. How many people had slept under that ceiling while they contemplated the fates of whole families of slaves?

I rubbed my eyes and tried to shake the thought.

The stark emptiness of the negative space unnerved the artist in me. The first thing needing to be fixed was the bed. I yanked off the uncomfortable-looking antique white bedspread and pillows and tossed them in the corner. Then I replaced them with my zebra-striped blanket and fuzzy purple pillow. Once satisfied with the sleeping arrangement, I turned my attention to the closet situation. Or actually, the lack of a closet.

How the hell did people manage without a closet?

Ramsey had told me the housekeeper and cook would be at our disposal, but I couldn’t imagine asking someone to iron or do my dishes for me. Despite wanting to make a good impression on Mr. Ramsey, my ultra-considerate mom would never allow me to depend on others for what I was capable of doing.

I opened my duffle bag and took out my clothes. Starting from the top dresser drawer, I worked my way down until I only had three pairs of jeans left by the time I reached the bottom drawer. But the last drawer was stuck. I tugged the handle as hard as I could. When it didn’t budge, I kicked the dresser. Sometimes a kick helped my old wooden dresser when it swelled on a humid night. Still no luck. It could wait until later.

After all the travel, I wanted to be comfortable, so I pulled off my boots and pushed them under the bed. I wiggled my toes in my socks—so much better—and surveyed my surroundings.

The ceiling creaked above my head. Maybe Rose was up there and could give me a hand with the drawer.

I wandered into the hall and found the stairs. The lights were on in the living room where I’d left Mom and Mr. Ramsey talking about their project, but I didn’t want to disturb them. If I knew one thing about writers, it was that they hated being interrupted while they were working. Instead, I went in search of the housekeeper.

At the top of the stairs, moonlight seeped through a single window at the far end of a long hallway. There were four closed doors between the window and me, so I knocked on the one that should’ve been just above my bedroom.

No sound came from within, but a dim light shone underneath the door.

Hello. Is somebody in there? Uh, Rose? I asked softly.

A floorboard inside creaked. I waited, but still no one answered. I imagined her turning down a bedspread inside, ignoring me—the teen daughter of another Ramsey employee.

Then a grunt followed. It could’ve been a lazy invitation.

What a biddy, I whispered. Without taking the time to acknowledge that I was cranky from travel and the whole prep school situation, I tried the doorknob. The metal hardware rattled as the door came open.

Inside, the room was decorated way more modern than mine, with a chrome lamp and a neatly made bed with a navy comforter. Two framed lithographs of sailboats hung on the wall in perfect balance. The salty, slightly stagnant smell of the marsh filled my nose. On the other side of the bed, a French door opened to what looked like the balcony. The curtain was drawn, but a silhouette moved outside the gauzy white veil. The person standing outside wore pants, unlike Ramsey’s female help.

My stomach dropped, having expected to see the housekeeper, not a guy. Oh, sorry. Excuse me. Geoff?

The curtain billowed inward with the breeze. When it fell still again, I couldn’t see him.

Hey! Crossing the floor, I felt a trace of moisture seeping through my sock feet. A light trail of water led to the balcony. Had I heard a shower running earlier?

I opened the curtain as footsteps entered the room behind me. Miss? Are you lookin’ for me? Rose asked.

The warm wind touched my face, and the faint woodsy scent of cologne lingered over the smell of the marsh. The moonlit balcony, stretching the length of the second floor in a humid blue haze, was empty. The doors leading to other rooms were closed. There was no sign of the guy.

Weird. My cheeks heated with embarrassment as I released the curtain to face her. Yeah. I thought I heard you up here, so I came upstairs. Mr. Ramsey’s son, uh…Geoff, didn’t answer his door when I knocked. I glanced down at the floor. The water had already evaporated, too, unless my socks had soaked it all up.

Rose smiled, a little sadly. This isn’t Geoff’s room. It was his brother’s room. George’s.

Her answer hit me like a Mack truck. "George? Mr. Ramsey has two sons?"

She shook her head. No, miss. Not anymore. George is dead.

Chapter Two

And, after all, what is a lie?

’Tis but the truth in a masquerade

~Lord Byron

I LAY ON MY BACK, puffing for air. A fish out of water.

Not even a limber, aerobatic fish. A puffer fish.

Who was I kidding? I’d joined the pep squad at my middle school in Midtown Hotlanta as a joke, but that was three years ago. Trying out for cheerleader here? Right.

Sorry, Mom. It’s not going to happen.

Staring up at the sky, I tried dragging in some air, but my lungs felt as if they’d collapse. I hacked and hacked.

No one offered me a hand when I pushed up on one elbow and glanced around to see the damage. My nearest audience, the current members of the cheerleading team, quickly wheeled their backs to me, mouths hidden behind hands, as if I couldn’t tell they were laughing their heads off after my disastrous attempt at a vault. The cheer coach and her assistant had already forgotten my existence, too busy scoping out the other hopefuls waiting farther down the line.

Are you okay? co-cheer captain Tiffany Bensimon called sweetly, forcing her face into a mask of concern.

Tiffany and I had Pre-Calculus together. The first student to speak to me that week, she’d encouraged me to try out—probably as a joke. I was a fool to think I might fit in here. Even before I’d demonstrated my klutziness, I’d recognized my downfall.

The name Bensimon stood in giant letters over the luxury car dealer Mom and I had passed when we’d first arrived in Beaufort County. Two other cheerleaders had more intimidating surnames. One was related to Mike Childers, some tennis guru even I had heard of, though I knew nothing about tennis. And another one was—no lie—a freaking Hilton.

Who was I to them? A nobody.

My hopes of making the team…any team?

Not a chance.

Maybe I’d lost my grip on reality, like Dad. Obviously I’d hallucinated my first night here, imagining water that evaporated as quickly as I’d felt it and then seeing the shadow of a boy who died two years ago. Even though I didn’t know he’d ever existed until after I’d seen him.

Then today, having delusions of grandeur and trying out for cheerleader…

Mom often suggested I lacked compassion, so, though I would never look the part, I’d meant to at least try to understand the Barbies.

Mr. Ramsey had also been eager for me to participate in social activities. I suspected he’d pulled strings with the director of admissions for me to attend the selective school. He’d gone out of his way to make Mom and me feel welcome in his home so far. The two of them stayed in his office writing most evenings while I ate in peace, alone in front of the TV. Luckily, his ex-wife had allowed their over-privileged son Geoffrey to skip school and stay at her place. Rose, the housekeeper, lived in Beaufort, the town north of ours, and was only around during the day. That had left Dorothy, a terrific Southern cook but a sourpuss of a woman, in charge of driving me to school for the past three days.

No, I’m fine. I smiled through the pain, blinking away the tears in my eyes. No way I’d let them see how much it hurt.

Tiffany shrugged and went back to her friends, leaving me to wallow in my misery.

I sat up and pulled my legs in, burying my face against my knees. I didn’t know what I wanted to do more: laugh or cry.

Suddenly, I felt a thump beside me and glanced to see a football wobbling just inches away. Wonderful. Had the whole football team witnessed my spectacular fall? I heard someone running and lifted my face.

A boy dressed in black towered over me, a chiaroscuro swatch of dark against the light of day, catching his breath. Rusty, eh?

Excuse me? I shaded my eyes with my arm so I could see him better.

He squatted down to snatch the football, and I couldn’t help but notice the wide leather cuff with dangling chains on his arm, his worn jeans, and the Periphery concert T-shirt. Back in ATL, a lot of nonathletic kids went out for sports to get out of their school uniforms for at least one period a day. This guy seemed to fit that category. The black ink of a tattoo peeked out from his shirtsleeve. It was amazing that the school had allowed it, not to mention the jewelry, on the field.

Haven’t kicked a football in over a year. I suck, right? He nodded at the ball.

I couldn’t place his accent, but it definitely wasn’t the local twang. My gaze roamed up his pale face to his shaggy sable hair and back down to his warm hazel eyes half-hidden in the messy locks. My toes actually curled.

I-I thought you meant me. That I was rusty. Idiot! He probably hadn’t even noticed my tryout disaster. Way to point it out, Einstein.

He glanced around, rolling the ball idly in his hands. Are you all right, then? His crisp accent made him even sexier.

Dandy. I snorted.

My face went hot. Dandy? Who says that? And did I just snort?

He held out his hand. I stared at it, frozen, looking at the heavy silver band on his index finger, adorned