“Two dear friends are joining us for dinner,” my uncle said. “A close business associate of mine and his son, who will be one of your classmates. I’m sure you’ll become fast friends.”

Great. Uncle Bosque was making playdates for me.

My eyes wandered to tall double doors at the center of the balcony, but Bosque led me away from them toward a long hallway.

I pulled back, pointing at the closed doors. “What’s in there?”

His eyes shifted onto me, then away. “The library.”

“There’s a library?” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’m afraid the library is one place I’ll ask you to stay away from,”

he said.

I started to protest, but Bosque shook his head. “It’s not a tradi-tional library, Shay. It houses valuable books. Collector’s items and personal records. I have to ensure its contents remain in pristine condition. Only a trained archivist can use its collections.”

“Can’t I at least see it?” I asked.

“You have plenty of books, Seamus,” he said. “Any you need you can order and have them sent here. There’s nothing of interest to you in my library. Please respect my privacy.”

His words had a note of finality that quelled my instinct to push the issue further, but it was like a bur under my skin. Bosque knew I’m a reader, and he knew I liked old stuff. Antiquity rated as interesting bordering on cool in my book. Plus, I hated the way he was treating me—like a kid who might mess up his fancy house. I was a senior, not a preschooler.

Anger had stoked up in my gut enough that I was about to argue with him again when the art lining the hall he strode down caught my eye. The burning outrage in my stomach went ice cold, quickly becoming nausea. I tripped over my own feet and stopped to stare at one of the dozens of floor-to-ceiling paintings. A naked man, almost life size, was bent backward in the portrait. Shadows swirled around him, snaking along his pale skin as if they were alive . . . and slowly twisting him apart. Though no physical implements of torture were present in the painting, the man’s torment was clear. I forced my eyes off the picture and turned around to examine the painting on the opposite wall. This portrait held a woman, her clothing no more than rags dangling from her body. She was on her knees, head bowed in defeat. Gashes covered her shoulders, stomach, and calves. Crimson pooled beneath her, darkening until it bled into the swirling void that filled the rest of the canvas.

“Are you coming, Shay?” Bosque had reached the end of the hall and was turning a corner.

I nodded, worried I’d gag if I tried to speak. What the hell kind of art is this?

It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that art was full of violence. I was pretty sure I’d seen a hundred depictions of the martyring of Saint Sebastian alone in museums throughout Europe. But something about these paintings made me sick. They weren’t tragic at all—they failed to evoke the grief of death, loss, and sacrifice that martyr portraits aimed for. The paintings that filled this mansion seemed to depict torment with a life of its own and torture that was still occurring. Why would my uncle want to collect images like that? Why would anyone?

I didn’t want to give it too much thought and decided I’d just look straight ahead when I walked down this hall. My eyes flicked over a marble statue at the corner where my uncle had turned. Its beautiful, gleaming shape resembled the work of classic masters of sculpture. The man looked like any rendition of Greek or Roman heroes of myth with one exception. He had wings. Not pleasant, silky-feathered angel wings. The long, folded appendages sprouting from the sculpture’s shoulders looked like they’d been stolen from a giant bat, or possibly a small dragon.

“Weird,” I muttered under my breath as I passed it, liking it better than the paintings but not that much better. “Too weird.”

I found Uncle Bosque waiting for me at the end of another hall.

He opened the last door on the left.

“Your abode.”

I stepped into the room and was kind of relieved that unlike the rest of the house, it wasn’t as big as an airplane hangar. The bedroom had dark wood accents and a lot more of a bed than I’d had in a while, but otherwise it felt like a place I could make my own. My trunk was already sitting at the foot of the bed, and several shipping boxes were stacked near the closet. A brown-wrapped package rested amid the bed linens.

“This is great,” I said. “Thanks.”

“The bathroom is two doors down across the hallway,” Bosque said. “The cleaning staff is here every Tuesday. If you set out your laundry, they’ll wash and press your things for you. They will also keep your room and the bathroom in pristine condition.”

“Uh . . . can they not do that?” I asked, shoving my hands in my jeans’ pockets.

“Excuse me?” He eyed me curiously.

“The bathroom is fine,” I said. “Yes, pristine. All good there. But my room is my room. I’d rather not have strangers scouring every inch of it on a weekly basis. I’ll keep it clean. I swear.”

He laughed. “If you’re worried about their discretion, you needn’t be. I’m certain they would understand if you have gentlemen’s literature among your other books.”

I coughed, feeling a blush scramble up my neck and into my face.

I didn’t know what was worse, that my uncle had just referred to porn as “gentlemen’s literature” or that he assumed I had some.

“That’s not it. Seriously.” I didn’t look at him while I spoke. “I haven’t ever had a personal cleaning staff. I don’t need one now.

What I need to know is that I have some real privacy in this mega-mansion.”

Bosque smiled, his gaze telling me that he didn’t believe I was anything other than a teenage porn hoarder, which made me even more uneasy about the wacko paintings in the hall and what kind of

“gentlemen’s literature” he might have stashed in that library.

Yuck.

“As you wish. I’ll instruct your staff to treat your bedroom as sacrosanct.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bosque.” I sat on the edge of the bed. “Is this house usually empty? I mean am I the only one living here? Because it’s pretty huge.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “The art collection is rare, and I do allow the local historical society to schedule tours when I’m not in residence.