John hunched over the dining table with his copper-rimmed spectacles. Cyan liked that their new home was compact—the front door revealing a living room; a big-screen TV on the wall; two couches, one blue and one brown, making a ninety-degree angle around a coffee table; a round dining table behind the brown couch; and a kitchen entry after that. She liked the functionality, but the spread of clock keys and parts on the entire surface of their living space was impractical. Cyan untangled the sweater from her waist as a white BMW sped away from the window.
"Cyan, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't consider tweed dress and heeled pumps." John smiled at a grandfather clock winder.
Corinne took upon herself to be Cyan's driver since the day the Toyota passed out. The dark-haired diva met John at the store once, and two of them only agreed on a formal introduction. Corinne, like most affluent heiresses here, fashioned herself in designer sophistication. Colt was home to many tough crowds, but Cyan had no interest to conform. The motive behind this friendly gesture was digestible—Corinne only befriended Cyan to keep her enemy close. Cyan let Corinne in because Corinne assumed that chromosome and monochrome were the same.
"In this weather? Nah." Cyan flopped on the couch, and the chair behind her creaked.
"I don't have to tell you how to pick friends, right?" John's voice streamed from the kitchen along with the clink and clatter in the refrigerator.
"What's wrong with Corinne?" Cyan yelled and pulled a laptop out of her backpack. Wearing expensive clothes was perfectly legal. Corrine was harmless unless Cyan thought about Everett.
"Tweed dress and heeled pumps." John, with a bottle of beer in his hand, eased on the couch next to the window. "We're out of apple juice." He plunked a can of soda near the laptop.
"The lecture rooms are freezing, and tweed fabric prizes elegance and stability." Cyan made an excuse for her new friend. Colt was much warmer than Boston, so the university was generous with its air conditioners. Today, Cyan roamed around campus in her tank top, whereas in classes, she shrank in a sweater. A tweed dress was logical for the Colt lifestyle. "But I'm not planning on breaking our bank account." Cyan had a more threatening problem to solve than seeking approval of Colt's residents. "Anyway, I know what we should do this weekend." She spun the laptop screen to John and shifted to be next to him.
John cringed. "Ask Corinne."
"With tweed dress and heeled pumps?" Cyan giggled and rested her head on John's shoulder. A picture of a stunning gothic church took over the web page. The flying buttresses held the eldritch structure like claws, its striking dark towers and spires thrusting into the sky like spears. "Remember that place we've been... you know... with Mom."
"Cyan." John stiffened, his breath disappearing. "We've never..." He pressed his chin on top of her head. "But yes, she would have liked it. Not me, though."
"Nobody wants to go there." Cyan let out a harsh breath and butted John's shirt tenderly in the hope of convincing him. Corinne, Frey, and Bianca thought Cyan was crazy to be attracted to a place like that.
"I can see why." John stretched and scrolled down the page. "Besides, I'm going to be busy," he mumbled. "This family is certainly hot."
On the screen was a photograph of the ancient church founders: the Watts family. In front of the façade, two men stood. Both were in black suits and black ties, taking pride in their magnificent creation.
"Who's that?" John pointed at the picture of the man on the left side of the page.
"Colt Luther Watts," Cyan read.
Even in the afterlife, Colt owned this land. People talked about him as if he was divine. Perhaps he was. Even a glimpse of him from the internet caused a spine to freeze. His eyes were sharp like those of wolves.
John snatched a phone from his shirt pocket. "I think Constantine Watts." An article on the phone was about Garrison Watts Campaign for the U.S. Senate. A man next to him had gold hair, sharp blue eyes, and gloriously pink smirk.
"That has to be the same person." Cyan peered at the screen.
Constantine was the first son of Bill Watts's first cousin. He looked eerily identical to his great-grandfather–the Watts Clan's noble origin. Nobody could ever tell them apart.
"You know one of Bill Watts's sons looks just like him, too." John grabbed the phone from Cyan's hand. He typed something eagerly and showed it to her. "Check this out."
A picture was Bill Watts and a younger version of him at a fundraiser. William Watts was Bill Watts's doppelganger, the article pointed out. The wealthiest endowment the Watts boys inherited from their ancestors were genes. Cyan wondered if Everett, too, was a copy of the past.
"So, you stalk them now?" Cyan nudged John's arm.
John rolled his eyes. "Well, one of them stalks us."
"He doesn't." Warmth spread on Cyan's cheeks. "Are we going to have a boyfriend-talk? I don't need that kind of advice right now, you know. You can relax." She turned back to the article about that beautiful church. Its grand portal and rose window reminded Cyan of the old parts of her—the childhood memories which faded beyond recognition and her mother, who was too far to reach.
"That's what I'm worried about, Cyan. You're seventeen. Be a girl, not a grandma."
"Grandma." Cyan pointed at a portrait of a raven-haired woman at the bottom of the page. She looked like what Cyan wished to make Corinne. If Cyan could repair Corinne as John restored those old clocks, Corinne would have those icy blue eyes and a smile that could kill a man. "That's Bill Watts's grandmother."
"Can anyone please look like her?" John gaped.
YOU ARE READING
The Grave Shadows
Paranormal"Father! I'm sorry about yesterday." "When people catch you like that, Everett, your head and legs are free. Don't let anyone stop you without giving him hell. When I was twelve, I saw a man like you with a bullet hole in his back escape a clutch of...
