The Phantom King (The Kings) Read Free

brown eyes narrowed on the house’s façade, her auburn hair brushing against her cheek s , neck and bare arms.
    Down the street, a cop car kept a discreet distance, its occupants quietly watching Siobhan, though she could feel their presence as strongly as if they were standing inside of her personal space bubble. She turned and shot them an “I know you’re there and I’m grateful” smile, waved, and acknowledged the return flash of head lights. Then she looked back up at the house.
    It was a Victorian styled manor and, according to its records, it was one hundred and thirteen years old. From what Siobhan could see, it showed. The wrap-around porch hosted broken beams and a sagging roof topped with cracked and splitting tiles. Half of the windows on all three of its above-ground levels were shattered or boarded up. The red brick chimney jutting from the top roof was half as tall as it should have been and quickly crumbling to its foundation.
    The building’s wood en exterior had seen so many layers of paint, it was difficult to tell which was supposed to be the latest, and the house’s grounds were a tangled mass of dead or dying rose bushes, shrub s, and crab grass.
    But the close-looking eye could see there was scrollwork in the wood that spoke of a careful, skilled craftsman’s hand. Some of the windows that remained intact sported stained glass figures in beautiful clothing and graceful poses. And the mansion’s foundation gave the artistic impression of Germanic wooden bridges spanning babbling brooks. The wooden shingles might be molded or missing, but once upon a time, a lot of love had gone into the creation of this home.
    As Siobhan stood there and took it all in, the realtor straightened on the front porch and shot a worried look over the padded shoulder of her dark blue blazer. The realtor’s name was Jane, which struck Siobhan as secretly funny. It seemed every realtor she’d ever met had been named Jane.
    No doubt, at that moment, Jane was thinking that Siobhan had changed her mind. In fact, Jane had probably lost hope before she’d even allowed it to take hold; the house had been on the market for two long years since its last owner . No realtor in her right mind would begin to feel hope now.
    But Siobhan hadn’t changed her mind. She wasn’t going to turn tail and run. She wasn’t that kind of girl.
    With a smile meant to reassure, Siobhan left the side of her car and made her way up the walk that led to the front porch. The cement , which obviously wasn’t a part of the original home but had been added years later, was cracked and overgrown with yellow weeds that someone had half-heartedl y sprayed with poison . Siobhan counted the cracks; she couldn’t help it. It was something she’d always done. There were thirty-two before she reach ed the bottom step .
    Countless changing seasons ha d seen the paint job on the stair s peeled into curly-q ringlets and guitar-pick sized chips of white that looked like a dragon’s lost scales. Warped wood yawned open underneath, charcoal-gray and dry as a bone.
    Five steps to the top.
    The house seemed to lean toward her as she reached the last step and stood before the door. Jane gave her a wan smile and turned to unlock it. Siobhan noticed the key she used: A skeleton key.
    “Now, as I mentioned before, this one has been empty for a while. As you can see, it needs a bit of upkeep,” Jane told her as she fumbled with the lock. The key had slipped in, but didn’t seem to want to turn. Siobhan watched the woman struggle with it a bit as she went on, “The last owner has agreed to provide a repair allowance and to pay closing costs, and the price has been reduced twice.” After a few seconds of frustrating failure, the realtor pulled the key back out, gave it a hard look , and slipped it back in to try to turn it once more. “I don’t know why they never replaced these locks,” she mumbled as she worked. “It isn’t safe to keep locks from owner