Scarlet Desire: Covet: Scarlet Desire, #1

Thank you for taking the time to purchase and read the first book of the Scarlet Desire Series.

Caution: the book you are about to read includes scenes of violence, assault, and explicit sex which may not be suitable for all readers. This novel carries a trigger warning.

On a less serious note, be aware that Canadian spellings appear and Newfoundland words and phrases.

If you, dear reader aren’t from my lovely province, or can’t quite make sense of some of the words and phrases spoken by my characters, I have provided for your convenience at the back of this book a CFW (Come from Away) guide that will translate those words and phrases for you.

HAPPY READING!

Sincerely,

Tina Traverse, author

Chapter 1

Scarlett

HEAVY BREATHING DRAWN through clenched teeth echoes in the barren room. The air grows bitter as I sense a presence beside me. Icy breath tingles my neck, and goosebumps pepper my skin. A phantom hand grazes my arm.

Red, sweetheart, time to get up and get ready for school, my father whispers, using his nickname for me.  I rise from my slumber and reach to give Daddy a kiss on the forehead. My lips feel strangely wet. Pressing my fingers to my mouth, they come away slick with blood.

What’s the matter, Red?

Dad’s voice is tomb-soft, barely above a murmur. Blood from a large hole in his forehead drips down the centre of his face. The air seems to electrify as phantasmal fingers trace my cheek, lifeless eyes boring into mine, accusing. 

Why did you do it? I loved you.

Daddy, I didn’t do anything.

You did. Look.

The cold, hard steel of a gun rests in my hand, my fingers curled around the trigger. Gore drips from its tip, sprinkling the black lettering of a note. A shriek slithers its way up from the frigid pit of my stomach, choking me until I have no other choice. I set it free.

The sweat clings to me like a wet blanket as I scrub the rug. No matter how hard I clean, there is no removing the reminder of the horror of two days ago. 

Scarlett! It's time for supper, my mother calls from the kitchen.

Mom is setting the table and pouring water.  The aroma of freshly baked chicken, potatoes, corn, and gravy consumes the kitchen. For a brief moment, all seems normal. I expect my father to waltz through the door at any moment, kissing my mother and praising her for another excellent meal.

Did you get the stain out of the rug, Scarlett? Your father would want that rug perfect for the guests.

No, Mom, but I’ll keep trying.

There’s a faint knock at the door.

I’ll answer it, Mom.

The new parish priest of Petite Forte stands at the threshold, holding a bouquet of flowers and a plate covered in tinfoil. Good evening, Scarlett. Sorry, I’m late; I had a little parish business to clue up.

Oh, pish posh, Father. It’s no big deal; we just started. Come and sit down.

Please accept my flowers and plate of homemade lemon squares as a small token of my appreciation for this lovely meal, Mrs. Winters.

My mother presses the yellow tulips to her nose, inhaling their fragrance. She retrieves a vase from the cupboard and fills it halfway, placing the flowers in before setting them on the table and places the squares on the counter.

That is quite lovely of you, Reverend. Thank you.

You are quite welcome.

Father Smith digs into his chicken with gusto and seems to savour each bite. The conversation is mostly small talk in between bites and sips of water. Finally, he broaches a painful subject.

I apologize to be bringing up such a hard subject at the dinner table, but it’s necessary. Mrs. Winters, have you finalized your preparations for David’s funeral?

My mother chokes back her tears, wiping a stray one with her napkin. Yes. Scarlett and I have the final requests and papers all in order. I have them all over on the countertop.

Perfect. I will take those when I leave, and put the final touches in place for tomorrow. Father Smith squeezes my mother’s hand. I promise, I’ll take the utmost care and attention to make sure that I provide David with a meaningful and peaceful memorial.

My mother squeezes his hand back and wipes the tears from her red cheeks. Thank you, Father. David deserves to be sent to his resting place and into the arms of God.

The day is cold, and the sky hides behind thick clouds. The grey stillness of the day suits my somber mood. My father's funeral is today, and my heart thuds with dread.

In the bathroom, my mother applies a final touch of lipstick with trembling hands. It's blush rose, your father's favourite colour.

I catch her gaze in the mirror, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I brush her long black hair. You look beautiful.

Mom reaches behind and squeezes my hand. Thank you. So do you. I just need one more thing to make me look perfect. Could you get me the black hat in my room?

Sure.

I enter my parent's bedroom, careful not to look at my father's side of the bed. Opening my mother's closet, I retrieve her fancy hat, a black derby embellished with white ribbon around the middle. My father bought her that hat on their honeymoon in London, and it was her only formal headwear. The hat falls from my hands and lands in front of the mystery closet. The mystery closet is a simple brown door on the left side of the room; only my mother has access.  I remember as a kid I had wondered what was inside, and begged my mother to let me see. Her response was always no, the contents weren’t my business.  My mother could never be swayed with my repeated requests, so in time, I learned to drop my curiosity.

I still wonder what could be so secret that my mother would keep it locked away.

TO OUTSIDERS OF THE small community where we live, my family appears to be normal, unassuming. When we moved to Petite Forte, Quebec, the citizens of this town thought that as well. To all appearances, we were just the Winters family; a father who worked as a construction foreman, and a mother who was a homemaker. Together, they raised seven daughters. Six are grown and scattered throughout the country, with the youngest preparing for university.

It all changed when father was found dead from a bullet to his brain. My mother was left a widow. Gossip ran rampant, fuelling ghastly rumours about mafia connections, a gambling debt that had to be paid, or that my mother had caught my father cheating on her. None being true, the cause remains an enigma.

At my father's grave site, I clutch a personal prized possession to my heart, a letter addressed to me. My eyes sting with the effort of holding back the tears.

Mom’s gentle touch grazes my shoulder. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. You ready to lay your father to rest?

No. How can I ever be ready to let someone go when I never got to say goodbye first?

I know. I can't let him go either, but we must. He needs to go to his peace. This life wasn't easy for your father; he deserves his reward.

My gaze darts between my mother, who has struggled to keep composed when she has every right to fall apart, and Father Smith, who has barely taken his eyes off me. I shiver with an odd sense of foreboding.

I fold my father's letter and slip it into my pocket, allowing my fingers to linger for a moment for strength. You're right. Let's go.

The reception passes in a blur. Each person that lives in this tiny hamlet has come by to pay their respects, and left us with a tower of casseroles, sandwiches and squares. They’re like robots, all saying and performing the same meaningless gestures. Mayor Lucien Crow embraces my mother with a ghost of a hug.

So sorry for your trouble, Kelly. Please accept my condolences. If there’s anything Linda and I can do, just ask.

I cringe. That line was the one I detested the most, because it was stupid and empty. Five of my sisters buzz about, tending to everyone’s needs, while Lucy, just a year and a day older, is out on the porch, smoking. The sisters’ visit is so brief that my time with them has been non-existent. Between the funeral arrangements and catching up with their friends, there is no time left to spend with family.

Mind if I sit down?

The voice comes from behind me, unnerving me. I look up from my perch on my dad’s favourite leather recliner in the den and see the smiling face of Father Smith. He hands me a glass of water before taking a seat on the couch. I guess my permission is a formality.

How are you holding up, Scarlett?

I’m well as can be expected.

The Reverend clasps my hand in his, and even through his gloved fingers, his flesh is cold to the touch. I pull away, but he holds firm. His piercing blue gaze locks with mine, as though he is seeing through to my soul. I shiver, feeling uneasy.

Do not be afraid of your tears, Scarlett. They cleanse and heal the soul. It’s quite normal to cry. Your father died.

I manage to wiggle free of his grasp, folding my hands in my lap. I have no tears, Father. I said I was fine, and I mean it.

You feel fine right now because it has been such a shock. I can’t imagine how horrifying it was for you to find your father lying dead by his own hand.

Feeling the weight of my father’s note is comforting. Having his words close to me reminds me that he isn’t far away. Repeating the words of his last letter to me over in my head to block out the preaching of my unwanted guest, I fail at the attempt. Somehow, the Reverend’s drone dominates.

It was horrifying, yes, but I have a ton of support to help me through it.

That’s excellent. Always remember that the best support is our Lord. He is your constant comfort.

I’m in no mood to hear about the imaginary entity my mother put all her faith in.  Instead of shooting him with a response on how ‘God’ couldn’t bring me peace, I smile and nod. Father Smith reaches out and picks up a picture off the coffee table, admiring it.

This picture is beautiful. Where did your mother find it?

He turns the frame around and points to the vibrant landscape of the town. Mom took the picture from outside the town limits on a hill. Green fields blanket the landscape, and purple, pink and blue sky paint the horizon, dotted by 19th-century architecture reminiscent of an old west town you see in the movies.

My mother didn’t find it anywhere. She took it.

Really? The picture is beautiful.

My mother is an artist. Every picture you see in this room is her work.

The holy man’s eyes flint across the room, admiring it all. She’s very good. How long has your mother been doing this?

Since she was eighteen. It started out as a summer job. It just grew from there.

Father, would you mind blessing Kelly, the girls and their home? The guests are ready to leave.

The request comes from the mayor’s wife, who is insistent.  Breathing a sigh of relief, I watch Father Smith retreat into the living room. My respite only lasts moments. The posh elderly woman in the doorway beckons me.

Coming, Scarlett?

Yes, Mrs. Crow.

Chapter 2

Scarlett

SMOKE STINGS MY EYES, burning my throat as I crawl through the inferno. I cover my mouth with my sleeve in an attempt to prevent more smoke seeping into my lungs. The exit looms in front of me, beckoning. I scratch my way through the vaporous cloud inch by inch, toward the saving grace.

I raise my head to see how close I am to the door, and see a shadow figure in the corner next to my father’s chair. Opening my mouth to yell is an impossibility, because my throat is raw.

M-mom! I’m—cough—over here.

Silence. The figure is motionless. As I squint to identify the figure, it vanishes. The door is near. Feeling dizzy and overwhelmed, the edges of my vision blur and fade. Cool air penetrates my senses. I cough, gasp, and wheeze as my lungs greedily suck it in.

My head thumps with every breath. I rest my cheek on the grass and close my eyes to rest.

Kaboom!

The sudden noise shakes me from my fire-induced stupor. I roll over on my side, grinding my teeth against the shooting pain in my head and limbs. My burning vision centres on the crumbling dwelling I called my home. It smoulders and burn, its light blinding my eyes. Embers cough from the remains floats into the heavens, reducing my life to ash.

I cradle my head in my hands, sobbing. There is a crunching noise behind me and a flash of black in my peripheral. It’s a pair of legs, and I look up. Through my blurry vision, a hand reaches out and pulls me to my feet. 

Are you able to walk, Miss?

Y-yes.

I’m confused and disoriented. Paramedics lay me down on a stretcher and affix an oxygen mask over my mouth. Focusing on the blinding white ceiling as disembodied voices swirl around me, I try to block out the cacophony of deafening alarm bells.

Chapter 3

Diana

WATCHING THE HOUSE solder and char, the light stings my eyes. Embers, coughing from the remains, float in ever climbing spirals to the skies. The blaring of first responder vehicles drowns out the musings of my companion. When the police, fire trucks and ambulances fade away into the night, I hear what he’s saying.

Is she the one?

"She is. Without any doubt, Robin. Scarlett Winters must be persuaded to join."

May I ask how you purpose to complete that goal?

Follow the plan of our esteemed benefactor. This fire is a tragedy, but it helps fulfil the divination. It’s now your turn to put your skills to good use, Robin. Carry out the next step.

Chapter 4

Sebastian

GET OFF ME. GET THE fuck off me. No. No. Please don’t hurt me again. Ahhhh!

My sister’s screams snap me out of a deep sleep. She's having one of her nightmares. I push the covers off me and stagger out to her room, still in a sleepy stupor. Declynn is sitting upright in bed, trembling.

I gather the frightened girl into my arms and squeeze, but she pushes me away.

Get away.

Declynn, it’s me, Sebastian.

Oh, Sebastian, what’s going on?

You had the bad dream again.

Oh, Christ, not again. I wish it’d stop.

That is something I've desired for her for years. She’s done everything she can to kill the nightmares, but nothing worked. We’ve given up. What’s the use? She has to live with the dreams.

I gaze out at the clear midnight sky, and an idea pops into my head. Hey, Sis? We both know that you’re not going to go back to sleep, so how about we go to our favourite place?

Enthusiasm replaces the fear in her expression as she rushes about, getting dressed. Well, come on, slowpoke. Get yer arse in gear.

The intermingling scents of sweat, booze and cheap cologne assault my senses. I inhale deeply and grin. The I’se de B’y and Jigger pub is our second home. A place where Declynn and I come to escape, and they’ve never minded that we’re underage.

Well, will ya look at that? The Sinclair twins are sneaking off for another night of tomfoolery. What ye youngsters got planned for tonight?

Declynn saddles up to the bar and orders us a Blue Star beer. She finishes half of it in one gulp, letting loose a belch before responding to the gruff, middle-aged bartender. Ah, come on, Ag. You know me and Bass are never up to anything good. We loves our fun.

Ye are a bunch of sliveens. Are ye two goin’ to grace this group of angishores with your gift?

What about it, Bass? Do you feel up to giving these losers the treat that’s us?

I polish off the last of the refreshing brew and shrug. I suppose.

We stroll up to the wooden platform that is the pub’s stage. I sit on the stool and retrieved my instrument out of its case. The weight of the accordion settles in my hands, and the buttons are cool to the touch.

The whoosh between the bellows introduces the first notes of the crowd’s favourite song.  Declynn waits a couple of beats before joining in.

Our instrumental is quickly drowned out by the audience’s out-of-tune singing. Some remember the lyrics and sing the song, while the others, too drunk to recall more than sporadic words, sing them in a continuous loop.

Her eyes they shone like the diamonds...

They say she was queen of the land.

Her hair slung over her shoulders...

Tied up with a black garbage bag.

Black garbage bag? For fucksake, Jimmy, it’s black velvet band. How drunk are ye, b’y?

Eh, Thomas, suck me shaft.

I almost fall off the stage as Jimmy flips his brother the bird. Declynn is lost in the music, and never notices Thomas throw a beer in Jimmy’s face, which sparks an all-out brawl, until I stop playing.

Why did you stop fer?

See for yourself.

Jimmy and Thomas are wrestling in blood and beer on the floor as the others cheer, including the barkeep. Declynn laughs so hard that she falls into me, losing her breath. I pat her on the back as I struggle to swallow back a snort and wipe the tears from my eyes.

Bah haha hoo hoo. Idiots.

My sister and I stagger offstage and into the cold night. Gulping big, deep breaths, we drink in the fresh air. The clouds blanket the sky, and drops of water pour down on us, sobering us up. Declynn and I run through the rain and make it home. Careful and quiet, we climb the outcroppings to my sister's open window. I tumble onto my knees, knocking her lamp onto the hardwood.

Shhh. You’re going to wake Mom and Dad, you klutz.

My twin places the lamp back on her night table and pushes me out of her way, forcing me to the bed. 

Fuck, where are you going in such a rush?

I got to take a piss, newsbag.

I creep out the door behind Declynn and collide with my father. His disapproving stare rakes over my appearance. Where have you’ve been?

Declynn had one of her nightmares, and I took her to her favourite place to chill out so she could sleep.

John Sinclair shakes his head. Helping your sister is noble, but going out to god-knows-where in the middle of the night is not the way to do it. You should’ve called me or your mother. We would’ve helped.

Dad, you know how Mom doesn’t like to be disturbed. She hates being woke up in the middle of the night.

I know. You should’ve gotten me. Your mother will be upset once she finds out that you've gone against her wishes.

I don’t understand why Mom would flip, Dad. Sebastian and I are almost nineteen. The defiant teenager nudges past our father to stand next to me. Dad hears Mom stirring, and ushers us into my sister’s bedroom.

I don’t want to wake her. Closing the door behind him, the weathered middle-aged fishermen adjusts his tattered robe and continues with his lecture. "Your age doesn’t make