Chapter 48 - The Fortress of Newport
The storm intensified as our convoy crossed the state line into Rhode Island.
Whitaker Manor was not a home; it was a fortress carved from gray granite, perched precariously on the jagged black cliffs of Newport overlooking the furious Atlantic. Built in 1895 to resemble a Prussian castle, it was shrouded in salt spray and ancient pines, cut off from the historic tourist path by iron gates thirty feet high.
When our three armored SUVs reached the gates, we found them torn from their stone hinges, lying twisted in the overgrown grass. The security cameras were severed, their glass lenses melted by thermite.
Julian stepped out beside me, his submachine gun raised in a low ready position. "Perimeter is completely compromised. No signs of local law enforcement. She’s jammed every satellite and cell tower within a twenty-mile radius."
"The Old Guard knows their trade," I said, stepping through the ruins of the gate. "Leave the perimeter team outside. Julian, you take the rear terrace. If anyone tries to leave by boat or cliffside elevator, disable them. I’m going inside alone."
"Aurelia, that’s suicide," Julian hissed. "She’s had thirty years of madness brewing under ice. She isn't your mother anymore—she’s a ghost with an army."
"She’s a Whitaker," I answered, checking the slide of my pistol and slipping it back into my coat. "And this is a family matter."
I pushed through the colossal oak double doors of the manor. The great hall was pitch black, smelling of damp velvet, dust, and ozone. Massive crystal chandeliers hung like dead icebergs from the carved mahogany ceiling. But through the grand archway leading to the ocean-facing ballroom, a warm, flickering light danced across the checkered marble.
Candlelight.
I walked steadily down the long corridor, my footsteps swallowed by the tattered Persian carpets.
Inside the grand ballroom, five hundred white beeswax candles were burning on silver candelabras arranged in a massive, concentric circle across the floor. In the center of the room sat two antique high-backed chairs facing a crackling stone hearth.
Sitting in one of the chairs, sipping amber whiskey from a heavy crystal tumbler, was a woman.
She wore an impeccably tailored cream cashmere coat. Her hair, silver-blonde and untouched by time, was pinned back in an intricate chignon. Despite twenty-five years of cold storage, her posture was imperial, her cheekbones sharp as cut diamonds, and her pale blue eyes completely devoid of warmth.
Lillian Whitaker did not look up as I entered.
May you like
"You're seven minutes late, Aurelia," she said, her voice like velvet dragged over broken glass. "A Sovereign should always be punctual for an execution."
***
