CHAPTER ONE
Nebraska City, Nebraska. April 1901.
He would not let go.
No matter how much his hands ached, Neville kept clutching his axe. He had no idea where he was being taken. The carriage driver said nothing, only quietly whistled a tuneless melody as they meandered through a corridor of trees. Alexander’s silver head gleamed at the sight of these wooden titans, eager to chop into one, bring it hurtling toward the ground. The idea brought a tingle to Neville’s groin, and his breathing became intense.
Even with this minor surge of arousal, his anxiety didn’t subside. He kept his cramped hands firmly on Alexander’s handle. They seemed to be going farther and farther from town. For all Neville knew, this corridor led to another world.
The driver’s tuneless noise continued, accompanied by the early evening crickets. The man was either unaware or uncaring of Neville’s anxiety. This bothered Neville.
He wanted to shout, to demand answers like a man was supposed to. But to his shame, his dry throat could barely utter a croak. He was just as dazed as he was scared. There was no way he could have anticipated this day turning out the way it did. He was supposed to be on a train by now, heading toward Minnesota. It was difficult to pinpoint what had gone wrong. All his mind could conjure were those massive yellow eyes, that animalistic stench, a malicious giggle echoing through the air. Were those eyes watching him now? The thought made his body go cold. He pulled Alexander closer to his chest.
The driver’s song sounded like a butchered version of “Stars and Stripes Forever”. The familiar tune pulled Neville back into the moment. He focused on the driver, on the man’s short black hair. Who this man was, where they were going, who Mr. Morton was—that had precedence over the creature.
It embarrassed Neville to think how unquestioningly he had gotten into this man’s carriage and let himself be taken away. But everything had happened so fast. When the Sheriff told him his bail was paid, Neville’s first thought had been that somehow, his father already knew of his predicament, despite being thousands of miles away in San Francisco, and that his journey would be over. He had been certain then that he would be condemned to working in the museum again, polishing up artifacts from distant lands until he finally worked up the nerve to hang himself.
But then he left the sheriff’s office to find a tall, slender, copper-skinned man—a native, Neville assumed, though he had never met one in person—waiting for him. With his worn work clothes and tattered old hat, the man looked almost as filthy as Neville was, but the carriage he stood beside was elegant and clean, pulled by a healthy grey horse.
“Come with me,” the man had said, not even introducing himself. “Mr. Morton would like to meet you.” He had a surprisingly deep voice, unfitting for such a narrow body. Neville was shorter, but no thinner, yet his own voice was high and nasally.
Neville shuddered with self-loathing. He should have demanded answers before getting into
the carriage. Instead, he meekly did as he was told, following a strange man’s orders like a good little boy. So disgusting. Neville had an urge to chop his own hand off. Only a true man deserved his hands. Perhaps his father had been right all along. With that thought, Neville fancied going further and cutting off his own head.
Before Neville’s self-resentment could simmer further, the end of the corridor came into sight. There, standing proudly in the evening light, was a white house. It was two stories tall and wider than some of the finest mansions in San Francisco. The roof seemed broad enough to hold an entire garden. The house almost reminded Neville of ancient Roman temples with its multi-pillared facade. ...
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