Basilic

By J.H. White

Dorian and Marlowe's story begins just as it ends – in blood. For Oliver and his brother, running always seemed like the safest path. For Marlowe, it was the only path. And it might have worked if only they knew who, or what, pursued them. That this thing would follow them to the ends of time and drag them back into the past.

Basilic, the second novel in the Tiber Series, weaves the rich tapestry of Marlowe's second life. Beginning in the Autumn of 1929, J.H. White cleverly spans decades to craft the story of Marlowe's found family. This supernatural thriller and historical fantasy peels layer upon layer to reveal a complex world steeped in vengeance and hunger.

A thrilling and thought-provoking sequel which links seamlessly to the first in the series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350918755

Book preview

1

…Easterly winds tangled her hair. Marlowe cherished her afternoons on the beach, and even though the leaves had already begun to change and the temperature to drop she refused to let go of the optimistic pull of summer from months ago. She dug her hands deep below the sand’s surface to the cool powder. Her blue and white striped jersey swimsuit clung to her skin and a nearby towel and sundress peeked from her handbag. Flicking her toes back and forth out in front of her, she inhaled the cool ocean breeze and listened to the gulls squawk and circle in the distance down the shore. Music played from a nearby house’s Victrola as they took afternoon tea on their porch. She could hear the record come to a slow stop; her neighbor stood and cranked the player and the music revved to its entertaining pitch once more.

Checking her wristwatch, she let out a frustrated sigh and stood, brushing the sand from her legs and hands while grabbing her bag. She jogged up the winding path passing beachgrasses and scurrying blue crabs to her house where her mother waited eagerly on the backsteps and wrapped her light-yellow sweater around herself against the October breeze.

You’re late, she chided as she tapped on the face of her watch. Do you know how hard it was to convince him to tutor you? Her mother plucked Marlowe’s woven cloche hat from her head and awkwardly helped her back into her sundress on the back patio. Her swimsuit itched from underneath, and Marlowe tripped over herself as she slid her feet uncomfortably into her flats and repositioned her bangs.

Ma, it’s piano, she laughed.

It’s important, her mother corrected. Worried wrinkles implanted themselves on her brow as she regarded her only child.

Marlowe gamboled into the house and made her way into the front parlor where a stocky man in a tie waited impatiently by the window. A metronome clicked from atop the piano.

Sorry, Marlowe mumbled. She slid onto the piano bench and began dexterously playing scales up and down the keys to the ticking tempo.

Her tutor cleared his throat from across the room as he pressed some tobacco into his pipe. You’ve been practicing? he gruffly spoke, pulling on the lit pipe until the leaves curled and glowed.

Yes, I tried telling my mother I didn’t need a tutor; but the women at her social club insisted, Marlowe rolled her eyes. She abruptly stopped, walked to the window next to him, and flung the sash open before returning to her bench.

Taking another drag of his pipe, he blew smoke from under his moustache and crossed to Marlowe as she began playing Hummel’s Number 2 in A Minor. She couldn’t escape the smell. Yet, for a few moments, she effectively poured across the keys – until he brought a small switch from his jacket pocket and snapped it across her left hand leaving a searing imprint.

Your support is lazy, he barked, You’re too focused on the melody. Play from the beginning but only the bass clef.

Marlowe bit her tongue and stared through the doorway into the kitchen at her mother who ducked her head back as soon as Marlowe caught a glimpse of her. When she finished the music in front of her, she sat uncomfortably, her tutor looming over her. He lingered longer than she felt necessary and now wished she had a sweater or scarf to place over her chest. The ogling man walked to the settee and filled his pipe once more.

Now both hands, from the beginning.

She repositioned the sheets of paper and began yet another pass through the music she once loved so much. Eager to finish her first session with this highly regarded instructor, she increased the tempo ignoring the ticking metronome in front of her. Her hands moved faster and faster as she focused on the tempo in her mind. Another snap of the switch cracked, this time, over the crown of her head.

Are you trying to be impertinent? I have a mind to leave this very moment. Such a waste of my afternoon.

Marlowe stood from the piano bench and reached over to the metronome. She stopped the swaying pendulum and scrutinized him. His cheeks were red with anger and his bulbous nose protruded over his moustache like a large hanging plant. The pipe hung from his lips and his eyes stared at her with disgust.

Her mother hurried into the parlor and interrupted the silence, I see we’ve stopped for the day. Marlowe, would you go to the kitchen and bring in the tray? She gave Marlowe a few subtle flicks of her head towards the kitchen. As Marlowe ambled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, she listened to her mother coo and cluck her way out of this social disaster.

I’m so incredibly sorry, she began.

The young woman needs discipline.

She has, sir. She graduated with distinction from Wellesley last Spring and just needs to be reminded of her talent. From the kitchen, Marlowe shoved a tea sandwich into her mouth.

That may be so, madame. But from what you and my other pupils’ mothers have told me – she has no prospects, romantic or otherwise. And for a woman of her age and status, you may want to discuss with your husband and have him consider…other futures. Good day. He grabbed his hat from the hall closet and made his way out the door.

Marlowe’s mother rushed behind him and called, We’ll see you next Tuesday?

Without a glance or a word, he waved his hand as if to say never. She slowly shut the door and walked to the kitchen.

Marlowe looked up at her from the now empty tray as her mother removed the tea kettle from the flame on the stove. She let out an exhausted sigh.

Is he coming back? Marlowe quietly asked.

Next week, you will be in the parlor – on time – ready and waiting. She poured herself a cup of tea.

Marlowe watched as she carefully added honey and milk and delicately stirred. I’m sorry, ma.

Her mother walked past Marlowe with her tea and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She paused. Let’s not tell your father about this. He’s preoccupied with business and investments right now and I don’t think that today would be helpful. It would just be…a distraction.

Taking a sip of her tea, Marlowe’s mother moved to the back patio and shut the door behind her with a gentle pull.

Marlowe skipped out of her bedroom and down the stairs to the dining room. Her light blue dress, adorned with a sash across the dropped waist, bobbed and swayed with each step. She carried her heels in her hands and dropped them to the floor next to her chair. Her father briefly glanced in her general direction before pouring himself over his accounting books and the newspaper laid out in front of him. Annoyed by this intrusion of business into their dinnertime routine, her mother pursed her lips.

And where are you off to tonight, Marlowe? she asked.

Oh, nowhere special. Going to dance at The Admiral.

With anyone in particular? her eyes lit up with the hope that the tutor had been wrong and her daughter did in fact have suitable prospects.

Marlowe shoveled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. No.

Her mother expectantly looked at her husband. The muscles in his body didn’t move, flinch, or respond in any way whatsoever. Only his eyes. His eyes darted this way and that across the paper and over the pages of his ledger; they were the only evidence his mind sprinted back and forth across the numbers transcribed below. Marlowe ignored his behavior. After all, he had operated in this manner for months – toiling and calculating. The only change taking place was his pulling into himself, ever inwards. He hadn’t spoken a word to either of them since last Thursday.

Shifting the chicken on her plate, her mother attempted once more, What would you like to eat for your birthday tomorrow? She smiled at her daughter.

Filet?

No filet. Her father suddenly grumbled from his papers. A heavy pause permeated the room.

Marlowe, I’ll go to the butcher tomorrow and get a nice roast for the three of us; how does that sound? She reached across to Marlowe’s hand and gave it a loving pat.

It sounds perfect, ma. Marlowe grabbed her mother’s hand and gave it a squeeze before she looked at the clock on the mantle sitting beside their smiling family portrait. "I’d love to stay and have this riveting discussion with father, but I’ve got to run." She wiped her mouth on her napkin and took her plate to the sink in the kitchen. Her mother followed.

Do you want me to walk with you? Or I can drive you?

No, thank you. I’ll be fine.

Her mother hugged her and placed her hands on either side of her face. Don’t stay up too late. I love you. Happy early Birthday. She kissed her forehead then adjusted Marlowe’s bangs with her fingertips. Enjoy your last night as a twenty-three-year-old!

Scooping up her shoes from the dining room floor, Marlowe bounded out the front door and sat on the stoop to strap and buckle them. She inhaled the crisp night air and smiled up into the evening before her birthday. Life was full and rich. Her mother and father would have rathered it be rich with opportunity, but Marlowe willed it to be rich with experience.

She made her way down the lane and hummed as insects clicked in the hanging trees and tall grasses beside her. The sun was just starting to set inland, and she watched as the coastline became black and brooding, stars twinkling out from under the thick blanket of the night sky. As she walked further from her home, noise and energy beckoned to her from The Admiral, a restaurant on the beach that catered to the younger tastes on the coastline. Most evenings included jazz and an array of clandestine spirits being passed from kitchen to table. Everyone knew, no one cared.

When the restaurant was in eyesight, she brushed the sand off her shoes and adjusted her dress. She took a small compact mirror from her clutch and surveyed her appearance – everything in its place. As she entered, she smiled and waved to the waiter on the far side; he pointed her to a seat at the corner table where her friends socialized and drank. One of her friends shoved a chair out from the table for Marlowe and motioned her to sit down between drags of his rolled cigarette. She cut a path through the crowd and landed at the table with eyes wide.

She called over the din, So many people tonight!

It must be the band tonight. Lots of new faces, but some regulars. He looked around the room motioning to groups. There’s Arthur Smith… the Vandermen twins with their new beaus…and there’s those two gentlemen who’ve been here almost every night. He gestured to a pair of men sitting at the far bar.

Marlowe’s breath momentarily skipped in her throat as her eyes fluttered to them. She denied it to her friends for the past month, but deep down she moved a little faster and hoped more intensely they would be there whenever she walked the sandy lane. As soon as her eyes traced them to their usual space at the wooden bar, she saw him looking at her. He had clearly seen her arrive as well and his steel eyes smiled at her from across the room. She watched as he spoke to his friend next to him; his tall companion turned on his stool and stared at Marlowe beneath his brow before scanning towards another girl standing in the far corner behind their table. Marlowe quickly looked down; something about her steel-eyed admirer made her skin quiver and heart quicken. As if she were a small rabbit, Marlowe felt the need to freeze or run.

Marlowe!

She jumped at the sound of her name from next to her at the table. Hmm?

Take this! A drink was slid to her.

Marlowe took a sip and winced. What is it?

It’s called a sidecar. Just drink it. Taking a large gulp, Marlowe’s eyes glanced back to the bar.

They were gone – her heart dropped.

The night moved forward and the music swayed. Marlowe’s glass emptied and filled and emptied and filled, as did her friends’. The cacophony in The Admiral grew to a fever-pitch and the heat in the room from moving limbs and flowing alcohol pressed upon their bodies. She had taken off her shoes hours ago and her bare feet pressed and moved across the hardwood floors. They danced and prattled and lived out the raucous years of their youth in ecstatic abandon. If Marlowe had looked more closely, she would have noticed that the girl behind her table had also left, and she had left with the tall companion who made Marlowe so uneasy for a reason she couldn’t quite place. Even more so, she would have noticed the steel-eyed man hadn’t left at all. That he had simply moved to a lonely, unassuming table out of her immediate sight. She would have noticed that he scrutinized her under dim lights. That he traced his finger on the inside of his palm. That he bit the inside of his cheek. And in her pursuit of joy and experience and release, he held her in his gaze.

But she didn’t notice.

Marlowe ambled home, heels clicking together and dangling from one hand while her other brushed the tall grasses along the beach. She kicked at the soft sand beneath her feet and occasionally stumbled forward. The waves a few feet from her pushed onto the shore in steady intervals as the moon looked on. The distant sounds of The Admiral’s patio receded behind her and she composed a soft melody to herself as she hummed and slowly made her way back to her bed. Her stomach felt warm, and it radiated up to her chest and her face. She passed along the shoreline adjacent to her neighbor’s house and looked up towards their porch. The record that had underscored her afternoon was now silent and replaced by the ebb and flow of the tide on a quiet surf.

She arrived to her back patio and slowly creaked open the screen door. She shushed the door and softly patted the doorframe and hinges with a giggle when she had safely made her way inside. Covered with the fine particulates of powdery sand, her bare feet twitched on the clean wood floors. She grabbed a dish towel from the counter and brushed them off before moving to the cabinet for a glass. Filling the glass with a sloppy pour from the tap, everything felt noisy and uncontrollable in the echoing silence of her kitchen. The alcohol coursing through her veins made her heart seem loud and energetic. Dizziness crept up the sides of her face. The inside of her cheeks became wet and heavy with the impulse to retch. Taking a few deep breaths, she sat on a kitchen stool and dipped her hand into her glass’s water and wiped it across the back of her neck. A few still moments quieted her twisting innards. That is, until a shotgun blast ripped its way through her home.

The sound reverberated into each corner of the room and off the glass in her hand. Heavy, stumbling footsteps moved about the floorboards above and slowly made their way from the front end of the house towards the kitchen and stopped directly above Marlowe – in her bedroom.

Ma? Marlowe’s whispered voice cracked.

She should have run. She should have made her way to her neighbor’s. But she couldn’t. She placed the glass on the table and quietly edged through the kitchen and the dining room, into the parlor, and towards the stairs. The rush of adrenaline overtook the liquor in her body; but the heavy pull of her stomach brought her step by step up those stairs. With each landing foot, Marlowe sent a desperate prayer the wood be kind enough to remain silent, to fight against its impulse to creak and bend from her weight. After an eternity of stairs, she reached the landing and took a quiet turn into her parents’ room. Marlowe suddenly stopped. A silent, suffocated scream ripped at her lungs.

Lying motionless and faceless, her mother’s body rested in the bed. Tucked gently under a quilted blanket with a single foot peeking out, all would have appeared normal until the gaze moved towards the headboard. Blood soaked the wall behind her and the space above her neck receded into the pillow in a grotesque form where one couldn’t tell where the pillow started and she ended. Her yellow nightdress covered her shoulders and arms and her hands rested peacefully by her sides. Everything told Marlowe it was her mother in that bed; but it wasn’t, not anymore. The face was gone, erased in blood and rage.

From down the hall, those dragging footsteps began their walk once more. As if a cannon fired with each step, they sounded their way back towards her mother. Closer and closer they moved until they stood in front of the stairs. Heart racing and throat choking, Marlowe backed away from the door. She stumbled backward on an empty bottle causing it to roll across the floor and betray her presence. Frantically, she searched for a hiding place, any place to keep her from those heavy footsteps masked in darkness.

Marlowe crouched to the floor and moved onto her back as she inched her way bit by bit under the bed, under her mother. She held her shoes in front of her barely rising chest, begging the night to conceal her under the faceless form above her. The heels dug into the flesh in her palms. She held her breath as thundering steps moved into the room.

Step. In front of the door.

Step. Inside the room.

Marlowe pinched her eyes tight and relaxed her jaw to release a slow breath. The rolling, spinning bottle suddenly stopped on its axis. Every cell of her being froze on the stillness.

Step. He moved closer to the bed.

Step. The floorboards bent under his weight.

He stepped next to her mother. Marlowe turned her head to the side and looked out from under the bed skirt at the toes of his black leather shoes – polished and pristine except for a single scuff across the right tip. A scuff that made her freeze mid-shudder and stole her breath. A scuff that she herself had created when she dropped an umbrella at the front door a month earlier. A scuff that her father bemoaned and attempted to polish away but would always remain. She cried softly to herself and opened her mouth in silent pain as he began to move around one side of the bed to the other, Marlowe’s eyes following his heavy steps as long as she could quietly keep them in her sight. The mattress above her began to blacken with thick red blood. The blood rolled to one point and dripped down onto Marlowe’s face, landing upon her silent lips. Marlowe’s face winced with every drop until the drops became a stream and the stream became a running spicket. Her eyes shut tight against the flow, and she yearned for a breath that would not come because of her fear and could not come because of her mother’s blood.

The steps moved away from the bed and into the hall. Then down the stairs. And into the parlor. Marlowe carefully shuffled out from under the bed, leaving a slick trail of blood behind her. Her hair clung to her forehead and cheeks in thick clumps and her hands still gripped her shoes. She inhaled sharply and listened as she heard the man pace in the parlor. And then an abrupt cessation before the pounding reverberations of the shotgun on the piano sounded throughout the house. Smashing and smashing, over and over. Strings snapped and recoiled from within the instrument. One loud thrum after another onto the ebony and ivory keys.

Recognizing the opportunity for escape underneath the cacophony below, Marlowe dropped her shoes, rushed to her bedroom, and flung the window sash open. The hammering and pounding of the piano continued beneath her and moved its way into the kitchen where cabinets and glass shattered to the floor. She