Clinton Priest

Chapter Five

I finger my rosary around my neck, slowly reciting short prayers in my head.

"Do you always do that?" Mr. Priest asks. I can see his ring glinting in the little sunlight that manage to peep through the thick clouds.

"Do what?"

"Pray."

I nod my head and turn to the window.
"Yes. It helps keep me calm."

He flexes his hands and smiles grimly.

"It's a good habit. I used to pray a lot too."

"Used to?" I'm curious. The Priest family have always been religious. Even Everest, before he'd been chased out of town had never missed a day at church.

"I stopped. Then I started again."

"You stopped believing?"

He chuckles.

"I never stopped believing. I only stopped praying."

I blink hard at him. I can't imagine a time when I ever stopped praying. Prayer is something that has always been there. Something I always clung to.

I turn to the window, my lips parting in a soundless gasp at the sight of a young woman clinging tightly to a shirtless muscular man as they kiss on the grass covered ground. I feel heat rush to my cheeks as the image of the two plagues my mind even after we have passed them. They were almost making love.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" Mr. Priest asks. He leaned over to look at them and his warm breath sends goosebumps across my skin.

"What is?"

"Voyeurism. The one secret desire of every man."

"It's... odd. Love making is supposed to be private and precious and shared between two people."

He smirks.

"You are so naive, Evangeline he says and I duck my head in embarrassment.

The virgin green landscape fades to pavements, gardens and fountains. 'The Devil's Manor' is the largest estate in Haven followed closely by the Sinclair Mansion. I gasp softly at the sight of the ancient, hauntingly beautiful building as the chauffeur slows to a stop.

I have always imagined what the estate would look like but nothing prepares me for the awestruck feeling that envelopes my body.

The house is stuck in the past while the rest of the world, the rest of Haven, has stepped into the glorious future.

I ran my hand along the wooden edge of a portrait that hangs above the fireplace. It is of a woman, dressed in a black v-neck body hugging gown. Her eyes are a startling green and her skin, dark like the earth. Her hair is short and thick and her lips, plump. She is beautiful.

"Who is she?" I ask.

"Haven," he says. "She was the most beautiful woman of her time."

I can feel his breath on my neck as he speaks.

"You have a lot of portraits depicting many women," I whisper as I walk from portrait to portrait in the dimly lit long corridor. In various sexual positions, remains unsaid.

"They're all collections I've gathered in the course of my travels," he says.

"I haven't seen photographs and paintings of so many beautiful women in one place."

"I'm a collector," he repeats, "and I have specific tastes that others might call decadent."

I'm oddly comfortable in his home and it unsettles me greatly.

"Why did you invite me to your home?" I ask him as he leads me to the sitting room.

I sit on the intricately carved chair, my legs crossed at my ankles waiting for him to answer my question.

He takes out a cigar from a carved box, lights it before turning to me.

"I simply wanted you for company," he says.