by Kat Faitour
Dead Weight
The Orphans of Antwerp Book One
Kat Faitour
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
A Note From Kat
Also by Kat Faitour
About the Author
© 2017 Kat Faitour
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address the publisher at:
[email protected]
or
Kat Faitour
PO Box 1149
West Bend, WI 53095
Visit the author’s website at www.katfaitour.com (Join her readers’ group and always get the first book of every series free.)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by James at www.goonwrite.com
Editing by Jami Nord (www.chimeraediting.com) and Megan Cavanaugh (www.meganedits.com)
Created with Vellum
For Monsieur Faitour
I guess you’re off the hook for any more diamonds
xoxox
Prologue
A basketball bashed into the metal fence beside Mason, sending the chain links rattling. Startled, he yelped before quickly stifling the tiny sound.
Too late.
The sounds of teenage boy laughter, caught somewhere in a pitch between youth and maturity, assaulted him.
“Scared, Graff?”
Mason ignored the taunts as the offending ball bounced away from him across the dusty concrete of the school courtyard. It slowed to a roll then came to a stop near one of the boys.
The tallest of the group, David Harris, picked it up and began tossing it in the air, nonchalantly catching it again without taking his eyes off Mason.
The sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless blue sky. Sweat began to bead on Mason’s upper lip, but he forced himself to leave it be. As if he could detect weakness, the other boy slowly began walking toward Mason while he continued to rhythmically toss and catch the basketball.
“You deaf?”
Mason shook his head, not daring to speak in case his voice broke.
“You mute?”
The ball was in the air, then back down. Up then down. Over and over as the boy strolled ever closer. Mason shook his head again, caught himself, and then cleared his throat.
“No.” Of course, hormones failed him, and his voice cracked over the simple, one-syllable denial. David’s lips moved into a cruel smile.
Without warning, the ball punched into Mason’s stomach. The other boy had hurled it hard at him. Mason gasped as all his breath whooshed out, while the ball rolled harmlessly away.
“You piece of shit. You can’t even catch it when you’re two feet away.”
It was an exaggeration but only a temporary one as David continued to close the gap between them. In a typical display of morbid curiosity, classmates gathered and inched closer in a loose semicircle around them.
“You’re a worthless loser, Graff. No wonder your parents dumped you here. They can’t stand to be around you either.”
Now that stung, but Mason was nothing if not logical. “Then your parents must feel the same, David. Because you’re here too.”
The other boy’s face flushed with anger or embarrassment, Mason couldn’t be sure. He didn’t have time to decide before David’s large palm shot out and slapped him across the face, knocking Mason’s head to the side with the force of the open-handed blow.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mason saw his friend Liam approaching the circle of spectators. Mason held out a hand to stop his progress, knowing the situation would only worsen if his friend jumped in, fists flying. Luckily, Liam froze at the outer edge of students, his height allowing him to see over the others in front of him. His brows were lowered, a scowl affixed to his face.
Mason’s cheek and ear burned from where he’d been hit. David stood smirking, probably confident Mason would behave as usual and make no effort to defend himself.
But a slow and building rage began to heat within him. Unaware, or simply uncaring, David’s pale eyes seemed to glow with confidence and power. He stepped closer, towering over Mason by several inches.
Lightning-fast fantasies of tearing into the taller boy flew through Mason’s brain. But instead of acting on them, he stiffened his knees and refused to budge. He wouldn’t fight the boy. But he wouldn’t cower, either.
Their eyes locked. They’d been friends once, long before social pressures and teenaged cliques drove them apart. A couple of scrawny eight year olds, they’d arrived at the private boarding school within days of each other. They’d bonded over their shared experience of being pulled from American schools to move to Johannesburg.
A rough shove reminded Mason those days of friendship were long over. He held his arms wide in a gesture of surrender. He was ridiculously outsized, but more than that, he knew the only way to stop this was to refuse to participate.
“What’s wrong with you, Graff?” David was red-faced and trembling with anger at Mason’s refusal to engage. “You’re standing there, stupid and scared like some girl.” The final word came out as a sneer.
As if summoned, a tall, skinny, red-haired tornado came flying through the crowd. No one had a chance to react as the girl took one solid fist and clopped Mason’s tormentor square in the Adam’s apple, robbing the boy of his ability to speak.
David fell back, clutching his neck.
Mason shot the other boy one horrified look before turning toward his rescuer.
Ruby Stark.
The newest girl to join their school, the younger redhead was a whirlwind of kinetic energy, good-natured most of the time, except when her temper got the better of her.
Like now.
Hands planted on hips, she stepped between Mason and the other boy, absolutely remorseless in the face of David’s choking pain.
“Now who’s stupid and scared?” she taunted. She pointed a finger upward at the boy’s face. “Go cry somewhere else.”
Mason groaned. Ruby, though well intentioned, just made everything so much worse. Now Mason would be known as the boy who needed a girl—a younger one—to fight his battles.
He reached forward to curl his palm over her shoulder. “Ruby, I appreciate it, but I don’t need your help.” He’d no sooner gotten the words out when the other boy recovered enough to deliver a stinging backhand to Ruby’s cheek.
She blanched, her freckles standing out starkly against her colorless skin, except for an angry purplish imprint from the boy’s knuckles.
Mason saw red.
He took one second to shift Ruby behind him, then lowered his head and charged at David. Logic fled as long-repressed rage came to a head and boiled over.
Mason plowed his head into the boy’s diaphragm, stealing his breath. With punching fists and flailing feet, Mason struck any part of David’s body that he could. The other boy dropped to his knees, his arms folded around his head to protect himself from Mason’s thrashing blows.
Someone was tugging on Mason’s shirt and belt loops in an effort to pull him away. But he wasn’t finished. Not yet. Not after all this time.
More determined than ever, he dropped to the ground and flung his arms wide to continue grappling with the other boy. His elbow
caught David in the face, and blood spurted from either his nose or lip, Mason couldn’t be sure.
Frankly, he didn’t care.
This was his moment to take something back for himself. For Ruby. And for everyone who’d ever been bullied by someone larger or more powerful.
He thought of his mother and bit back an angry sob, fists dropping.
His best friend, Liam O’Donnell, took advantage of the momentary lull and grabbed Mason with surprisingly strong hands. Like the rest of their male classmates, Liam was taller and more developed than Mason. He used his advantage to pull Mason several feet away from the other boy.
Mason was breathing hard and his heart pounded in his chest to an angry tempo. Feeling lightheaded, he stumbled before Liam gripped his shoulders to steady him.
“Mason.”
His friend’s voice was steady and deep. No sign of hormonal changes in Liam. Mason wasn’t sure he’d experienced any, just passed from childhood to teen without a hint of awkwardness. Mason sucked in a breath.
“Yeah?”
“Are you done? Can I let you go?”
Mason realized Liam wasn’t just holding him up. He was holding him off the other boy. He shrugged his shoulders to shake off Liam’s hands, but they remained sure.
“Yeah.” He rolled his neck, the muscles taut. “Let me go, Liam.”
“You promise you’ll stay over here?”
“Geez,” Mason complained. “Yes. Now let go.”
Liam released his hold on Mason and slowly moved his hands between them, palms outward in a universal sign of peace. Before either could speak, Ruby ran up to Mason and began tugging his shirtsleeve.
“Mase. Mase.” It had been her nickname for him since her first day at the school.
He looked down at her. “Are you okay?” He reached out to touch the livid welt on her cheek but dropped his hand when she flinched. He settled for resting his palm atop her head. “You shouldn’t have done that, Carrot.”
She was practically wriggling out of her skin. “No, no. Look.” She pointed her finger across the courtyard to indicate their headmistress, Clara Bridges. The older woman was marching toward them with a grim expression. “You’re going to be in so much trouble, Mase.”
Liam was staring down at Ruby with raised brows. “You need to get some ice on that shiner you’re going to have.” He grinned. “Leave Ms. Bridges to us.” He paused. “Carrot.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
Too late to send his friends away, Mason squared his shoulders as Ms. Bridges drew close. Dutifully, they all dropped their eyes from the woman’s direct gaze. But instead of taking him to task over the fight, she lightly touched his forearm. Surprised, he stared at her hand as she began talking.
“Mason, I need to speak to you,” she said.
“It wasn’t his fault.” Ruby jumped in to defend him. “David started it.”
Ms. Bridges looked at her with wry resignation. “Ruby, I admire your loyalty. But this isn’t about the fight.” She turned to Mason. “Please come with me. I need to speak to you alone.”
A strong sense of foreboding made Mason dig in his heels, unconsciously refusing her gentle tug.
“Please, Mason.” In her dark eyes, he saw strength, compassion, and sadness.
It was the sadness that worried him.
“Why? What’s this about?” Somehow, he knew this moment would change all the others to come in his lifetime.
And he was right.
Ms. Bridges sighed, draping one arm around his narrow shoulders to lead him away. Mason felt himself wilt beneath the slight pressure, as if the weight of the world had settled on him.
“I’m afraid it’s about your father.”
Chapter 1
Margaux Taylor stepped out of a black London taxi on Piccadilly in front of the Ritz-Carlton, sparing the ornate entrance a smile. She tucked her bag under one arm, threaded her other through her assistant Julian’s, and walked with him to enter the iconic, illustrious hotel.
As they entered the elegant salon, known as Palm Court, Margaux’s eyes were immediately drawn upward past the soaring mirrored walls to the opaque glass ceiling. An enormous arrangement of creamy white flowers set amid dark waxen leaves marked the central spot beneath the skylight. No matter how many times she visited, the venue’s grandeur never failed to impress.
“It’s like an oasis, isn’t it?” Julian asked. He gestured to the tranquil surroundings.
Margaux nodded. “It is.”
“I know it reminds you of her.” He lightly touched her hand. “Are you okay?”
Margaux took a breath. He was right, as Julian invariably was. She and her mother had visited Palm Court countless times. “Being here makes me feel close to her.” Her smile widened. “And that’s a good thing, right?”
Julian’s pale-blue eyes were soft with understanding.
“It’s a very good thing. She would be so proud of you, you know.” He patted Margaux’s hand. “She was a remarkable woman. As are you.”
Julian steered her after the maître d’, who led them to the table where her father sat beside his new wife Melanie. As Margaux caught sight of the young woman, only a handful of years older than herself, her shoulders dropped.
“I thought he was coming alone,” she murmured in an aside to Julian. Her stomach twisted at the intrusion.
“So did I.” He squeezed her arm, again offering reassurance. “Give him time, Margaux. He’ll come back around.”
As an only child, Margaux had enjoyed wonderful relationships with both her doting parents. After her mother died, she and her father had grown closer, especially after she’d gone to work with him at the company. But since remarrying, he’d become distant and removed.
Margaux pasted on a bright smile and hitched up her shoulders as they joined the table. Unaccustomed doubts coiled in her empty stomach as she questioned whether she was an unwanted, extraneous part of her father’s life now.
A small sound from Julian brought her attention to him. He was looking at her, his gaze steady and unblinking. Tiny smile lines creased the outer corners of his eyes. Under his breath, so the others couldn’t hear, he murmured, “You belong.” A grin emerged. “You practically match the place.”
It was true.
Margaux’s flawless complexion and wheat-blonde hair perfectly complemented the classic decor of ivory walls and linens intermixed with burnished gold finishes. Even her perfume echoed the scent of the small bouquet of gardenias adorning their table.
Feeling herself again, Margaux held out her hand, manners perfectly intact, even if her insides were still slightly jittery. “Hello, Melanie.” She nodded at the other woman, taking in her impeccable appearance. Dark sable hair was pulled back into a loose knot. A pale pink Chanel suit complemented her pale skin and dark-blue eyes. Her lips were ruby red, something she carried off without a trace of awkwardness.
She looked like the living embodiment of Snow White.
“Hello, Daddy.” She extended her cheek, and he bussed it lightly. “I brought Julian, to even the numbers.” She waved a hand to indicate her assistant.
“Julian is always welcome.” Her father smiled stiffly. “After all, he’s practically family too.”
“Thank you, sir.” Julian accepted the compliment while holding out a chair for Margaux.
Margaux felt slighted. She adored Julian, but when her father equated them in that way, she couldn’t help but feel hurt. Determined to keep trying though, she distracted herself by settling her bag beneath the table and unfolding her linen napkin. A waiter appeared to fill their cups from a sterling teapot. A three-tiered stand laden with tiny scones, finger sandwiches, and miniature pastries appeared shortly after.
Margaux took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on her father. “How are you, Daddy? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.” She tried very hard to ignore the image of Melanie in her peripheral vision, but the crimson lipstick kept drawing her attention. Margaux wondered if s
he would ever get used to seeing them together.
Under cover of the table linens, Julian lightly squeezed Margaux’s knee.
She shot him a grateful smile then turned back to her father, who hadn’t responded. “No matter, since we’re all together now. Tea?” Margaux poured the cups nearly full without waiting for anyone to answer. Then she grasped the small silver pitcher of cream and raised it in Melanie’s direction. “Milk?”
For all of Margaux’s effort to be conciliatory, it seemed Melanie had no such concerns. “Goodness, no,” she exclaimed. “I don’t consume lactose.” She made a face in the direction of the tiered stand. “Or gluten, for that matter. And I try to avoid sugars.” She took a delicate sip of her plain tea.
Irrepressible humor bubbled up in Margaux, and she was hard pressed not to laugh. She contained herself with a wry shrug before topping off her own tea with a large dollop of cream. Though she usually drank her tea white not sweet, she added a spoonful of sugar for good measure.
Julian was eyeing her with frank, unrestrained amusement. In the spirit of solidarity, he added both to his tea too, even though Margaux knew he normally preferred his black. Out of sight of her father or Melanie, he winked.
He was an absolute devil, and Margaux thanked the universe for it. Years ago, when she hired him as her personal assistant, it was like winning the lottery. He was a model of efficiency and professionalism. But it was his friendship that made him a treasure beyond value. And the best part was their ability to remain utterly platonic.
Margaux could admit he was like a breath of fresh air in that respect. And rare, too. She unabashedly loved men—and was fully confident they adored her in return. But it was a supreme relief to have at least one male relationship where none of the normal sexual tension existed.
She returned his wink then shifted her attention back to her father. “When did you return from Johannesburg, Daddy?” She sipped her tea, suppressing an instinctive shudder at the sweetness. “I thought we’d be meeting straight away to talk about the mine. What did you find?”
