Here is the very rough draft of the 1st chapter of my 1st Urban Fantasy novel. I hope you enjoy it; feel free to offer any comments, suggestions, criticism or questions.
Maggie
MacLaren huddled in a pool of stillness, a hostage to the fear of coming
undone. She felt like she might unravel at the atomic level at any moment. Her
eyes roved idly around the room, seeing everything yet taking in nothing. Her
grandmother's executor droned on, his words buzzing in her head and giving her
the start of a migraine. She was perspiring freely and beginning to get
irrationally angry at the pearls of sweat rolling down the small of her back. The
stately old building owned by the Whitaker Law Firm apparently had a stately
old air conditioning unit to match. Even with the tall French doors open to the
hallway for circulation and ceiling fans whirring, it couldn't compete with South
Carolina in August.
It didn't help that she’d felt nauseous since she’d
taken her seat half an hour ago. She hadn't slept but a handful of hours in the
week since Nana MacLaren had slipped away during one of her afternoon naps. Maggie
was plagued with troubling dreams and worried she was beginning to hallucinate
from the lack of sleep. Odd visions were plaguing her waking hours, too.
The temptation to just get up and walk out was
great, no matter that her grandmother would frown on such rude behavior. She couldn't care less about what anyone else in the room would think; she hardly
knew these people. Her only surviving aunt was in some expensive asylum up
north, but her cousins were there; all four of them, with spouses and children
in tow. They had brought family along for support, intimidation; whatever you
wanted to call it. Maggie was well and truly alone. None of them had
cared about Nana. They’d visited rarely and only when they wanted something.
Now here they were, crouching around the mahogany-paneled room like vultures,
waiting to see how much of the carcass they could grab. They were despicable,
but she had to hand it to them; they stuck together, backing each other in the
face of any opposition.
And make no mistake, they considered her the
opposition. She stood to gain everything they wanted. The sly glints thrown her
way told her they knew exactly how alone and vulnerable she was. Their malice
washed over her in waves, suffocating and stinging, a physical shock. It was
more than jealousy or dislike. They hated her. She’d never realized it until
that moment. It rattled her already shaky composure and ran a shiver up her
spine. Even if Maggie inherited everything, she wondered just how long she’d be
able to hang onto it. Shuddering, she tried to block out such dark thoughts by
concentrating on Mr. Whitaker.
What she heard him saying, however, opened a yawning
chasm beneath her feet. She shook her head, unable to comprehend the import of
what the man was telling them. She didn't believe her ears until she saw the
triumph gleaming on her cousins’ faces.
Her home, all of her grandmother's estate, was going
to them? What about her? The betrayal cut deeply. How could Nana MacLaren do
this? What was she going to do? Where would she go, where would she live? How
would she live? She'd put her adult life on hold to take care of Nana when she
got ill, dropping out of University, putting her degree in History off
indefinitely, just to be there, just to help Nana, and now this? She was left
with nothing? All of it was going to these goblins, who Nana had loathed with every
fiber of her being? She couldn't take it in. Maggie just sat there, shell-shocked.
Mr. Whitaker gave her a sympathetic smile that did
nothing to alleviate her anguish. How could her grandmother have bequeathed her
nothing of the vast fortune she’d left in her wake? All told, house included,
the estate totaled in the high nine figures if not more, and there was nothing
for her? Even the lowest of her grandmother’s wide-ranging staff were set for
life. And she, Maggie, who had grown up under the loving and protecting eye of
Nana MacLaren was to be turned out like a beggar?
The skin tightened around her eyes in humiliation
and anger as the murmuring of her cousins grew to outright sniggers and snide
comments. Oh yes, they had definitely won out over her, much easier than any of
them could have possibly expected. They were gloating, swelled up like ticks
gorged on blood at their unexpected coup. And were not above rubbing - no,
grinding - her nose in her downfall, what she knew they considered her
comeuppance.
"So...we get it all? Maggie was left nothing? It’s
– what’s the word I’m looking for…ah, yes, delicious!" Walden, Maggie's
oldest cousin gave a bark of laughter before continuing, "The 'Dearly
Beloved and Perfect Grandchild' cut out cold? Tsk, tsk. Perhaps Nana knew an
ugly side of the sainted Mary Margaret that we've never seen. That or you did
something to piss her off in her decline, eh, Maggie May?"
She hated, hated
his stupid little nicknames; not as much as she loathed him personally, but it
was close. He'd always been the worst of the lot, assuming the role of
ringleader as if being the oldest dictated it. Of course, growing up, Walden
had always taken special delight in tormenting her, scaring her. When she was
younger, she’d imagined she could see his aura, and it was a gray, sickly
yellow. She was certain that if she could see it in truth it would be darker. She
couldn't stand him, the slimy git.
She was struggling to come up with a scathing
repartee when Mr. Whitaker spoke, saving her the effort. "The will hasn't
been changed since the death of Sean and Elena; your parents, Maggie." He
nodded to Maggie, before directing his gaze and words back to Walden with a
stern frown.
"She was not ‘cut out’ of the will. She is to
have all of her personal possessions from the house and those of your
grandmother, as well as the entire contents of the attics. More importantly,
however, Maggie was left a very priceless heritage; one that will more than
make up for losing her home. This is a very unusual legacy, if I must say. I
don't believe any of you have even heard of it; I know Cordelia never spoke of
it."
Mr. Whitaker paused to take his spectacles off and
clean them with a white linen cloth from his coat pocket. Returning them to his
nose, he looked piercingly at Maggie. "Maggie, my dear, there is a...how
shall I say...an ancestral homestead...or at least the pieces to it. The
original MacLaren castle was dismantled from its original site in Scotland
hundreds of years ago. It has been kept together all this time, awaiting
reconstruction. This was bequeathed to you effective your 28th
birthday. I realize that was over a month ago, but with your grandmother’s
rapid decline, it got lost in the shuffle, so to speak. It is your burden to
rebuild it, as your many-times-great-grandfather decreed over three hundred
years ago."
Maggie laughed weakly in disbelief. "No offense,
Mr. Whitaker, but I don’t have two nickels to rub together. How in the world
am I supposed to finance this preposterous venture?" Several snorts of
laughter from around the room underscored Maggie's dire straits, eliciting another
frown from the executor.
"Well, that's another oddity about this whole
business," he answered with an enigmatic smile. "The estate has its
own trust fund, set up for the reconstruction and upkeep of the castle and
grounds. And I hasten to point out, there are sizable grounds. There is a deed
for "1,000 acres of land to be set aside expressly for the ancestral
homestead," and I quote. The legal binding is actually amazing considering
how old the original document is. I assure you, you will never want for money,
my dear. Provided you fulfill the terms of the trust, the funds are completely
at your disposal. And I'm sure," he paused to give his own smug smile to
the cousins, "over the course of three centuries the trust fund has grown
considerably."
Relieved at finding she wouldn't be cast out onto
the street, penniless, Maggie acknowledged his smile with one of her own. She
knew just how pleased he was for her that she wouldn't be at the mercy of her
cousins; he disliked them as much as she. Maggie felt lightheaded. There had
been too many shocks and upheavals in the past few minutes for her to
assimilate them all at once. Drooping in her chair, eyes closed, she felt the
predatory glances from her cousins.
Mr. Whitaker noticed them, as well. Realizing the
possible error of telling the cousins as much as he had, he hastened to wrap
things up. There was much more information he needed to give Maggie, but he
knew the less the cousins knew, the less trouble she would have later on down
the road.
As it was, he knew they were reprehensible enough to
harass the poor dear; they wouldn't be satisfied until they'd made Maggie as
miserable as they could. And he knew that meant they'd be after anything they
thought of value, the greedy bastards. He cursed his smart tongue. He could
only thank the good Lord he hadn't told them the actual amount of the fund.
Cynically, he acknowledged to himself that as much
as they hated their youngest cousin, she might very well meet an untimely end,
should they discover exactly how much of a fortune Maggie had just inherited. He
hid his chagrin behind his ‘lawyer face’ and explained the nuts and bolts of
how they would actually "come into their own," as Walden rudely
demanded to know.
Walden wasn't too happy to find he couldn't take up
residence at the Estate for a full thirty days. Knowing he had no choice but to
accept this, he settled for blustering threats at Maggie. "Don't even
think about trying to steal anything from me. I'll know if there's so much as a
single chipped china cup missing. Get your and Grandma's junk out, and make
sure you don't leave any moldy trunks of moth-ridden rags in those attics,
either. I'm actually rather glad she stipulated that; there's surely nothing up
there but dusty broken furniture and rat-filled boxes of crap; this will save
me the hassle of having to pay someone to clean it all out. I'll be there first
thing September 5th, and if you're not gone, I'm calling the police
to remove you." With that, Walden turned sharply on his heel and left, his
obnoxious wife and son running to catch up.
Mr. Whitaker breathed a sigh of relief when they
had all finally made their hasty exits, all too happy to go spread the news of
their good fortunes to worry about Maggie for the moment. Wiping the sweat off
his brow, he returned his handkerchief to its customary pocket.
He looked up to find Maggie smiling sadly at him. Too
much awareness for such young eyes, he thought; and too much of a burden for
such narrow shoulders. Shifting forward in his chair, he really looked at her
for the first time since before Cordelia had passed on.
Maggie was definitely looking haggard. Her eyes were
sunken and shadowed, and she had a frail look about her, as if the slightest
wind would blow her over. She'd lost too much weight during these past few
months. And it wasn't about to get any easier for her, either. Her words echoed
his thoughts uncannily.
"They're going to cause me a lot of problems,
aren't they? I mean, they think I deserve nothing. All they saw was that I
lived it up in the ‘Big House’. ‘Spoiled rotten’ I believe is how they normally
put it. They're going to either try to keep me from fulfilling the terms of the
trust, or they'll just try to cheat me out of it; blackmail me or something. Maybe
even try to have me committed like poor Aunt Josephine."
Thomas Whitaker couldn't lie, so he just sat
quietly for a moment, letting his tired brown eyes speak his agreement where
his mouth wouldn't.
Finally, he sighed. "I'm sorry, Maggie. It's my
fault. I let that demon cousin of yours get my goat, and I just had to say
something to wipe that smug look off his face. I shouldn't have said anything
about the money, but it made me so angry for you that they treat you so badly. I
couldn't stand them thinking such lies about your grandmother and thinking
they'd won. I'm so sorry, my dear; I fear I've made things a lot harder for
you."
Maggie laughed her first honest laugh in a long
time. "Oh, Mr. Whitaker, don't be silly. They'd have found out anyway. At
least this way, I know they know, so I'll be looking out for them. It's much
better this way; otherwise, I probably would have tried kidding myself that I
was free of them."
He heaved a sigh of agreement. "I'm sorry to
have to say it, Maggie, but you're right. I feel very badly about this whole
situation, all the same. Your grandmother and I were very good friends. She
loved you so much; I can't help but feel responsible for you. I'll keep an eye
out on you. And I'll see what I can do to make things go smoothly. Of course,
what can be done about that group of jackals you've the misfortune of being
related to...Well, anyway. Let's get down to business."
Curious and excited for the first time in a long
while, Maggie broke in with the first question that came to mind. "Where
is it? You said there were what, 1,000 acres of land; where? And where are
these "pieces" stored? Heck, how do you store a whole castle broken
down into parts?"
"Patience, Maggie dear!" Whitaker
chuckled. "From the little information I've been given, it's just north of
here on the border of North Carolina and Tennessee; the Dark Corner; I've always liked that term. It's only a couple of hours from here, matter of fact. And
the warehouses are on site, believe it or not."
"Oh." Maggie was disappointed. "For
some reason, I was thinking it would be overseas."
"As I mentioned, I was given only a very little
bit of information, but it looks like the castle was dismantled from its
original site and moved to mainland Europe before being relocated here in the
States. I don't know what happened that the original site wasn't kept as part
of the deal. 300 years is quite a long time for things not to have changed,
however. I'm just surprised the codicil is still intact. It's amazing that none
of your ancestors have found a way around the legalities to claim the money for
themselves."
Maggie mulled this over for a moment before asking,
"Why has no one ever attempted to rebuild it? I mean, if you’re talking
such a large sum of money, I don't understand why it hasn't been done already.
How is that even possible?"
Mr. Whitaker shrugged. "Who knows? Things
happen. People are strange. Maybe...maybe someone has tried, or...I just don't
know. Perhaps we'll never know. What matters is whether or not you're going to
try."
Maggie’s reply was tinged with the bitterness she
still felt at losing her home. "I don't have much of a choice, do I? Nana
seemed to want to make sure I did this, doesn't it? Anyway, it's all I have,
this inheritance of mine. So give me the details. What are all the
stipulations? And just how much money are we talking about?"
"There isn't much in the way of details. Just
that you rebuild it, and live there, providing the upkeep and management of it,
whatever you decide to do with it. It doesn't say anything specific about what
can or cannot be done with it, operation-wise. Of course, with roughly six
billion dollars, I don't think you're going to have to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast
any time soon."
Maggie felt the room tilt sideways. She had to
swallow several times before she could finally choke out, "Did you say six
b-billion? With a "b"? G-good Lord...that's quite...quite a sum of
money, isn't it?"
She sat back with a stunned faraway look in her
eyes, before refocusing on Mr. Whitaker with a grimace. "I'd say the
cousins would choke on their own bile if they'd heard that. I guess that
explains the age stipulation – I would have thought a trust fund would be made available
at a younger age.
"Hmm; I agree. We'll have to make sure they
never find out; I just don't trust a one of them. And yes, maturity level plays
a large part in the age a trust fund reverts to its inheritor. Normally it is a
bit younger, 24 or 25. But since this entails a bit more than just getting a
lump sum of money, it’s not too odd; at least, no more odd than the whole
business. In any event, you are set to be a very wealthy young woman – one of
the wealthiest single young women alive. And I must say, you're going to be the
only person in America with an authentic Scottish castle for a home. I wish you
well with it. Call me for anything; in fact, we’ll be in very close contact in
the coming months. As your lawyer, I’ll be handling the details for you, unless
you’d prefer someone else?”
At her firm head shake and frown, he continued. “I
have to ask, don’t be offended. The Foundation in charge of the estate and the
trust fund has actually already set up an account for the reconstruction under
your name and a separate account for a personal stipend which you’ll be paid
monthly. Obviously, you don’t get control of the whole shebang until after
everything is completed. We have to let them know everything that’s being done,
submit requisitions for the big ticket items and costs, receipts for
everything, which I’ll handle for you.”
She interrupted him to ask, “Is this Foundation a
bank, or a law firm? Who are these people? Are they going to be hard to deal
with? Seems like a lot of money for them to lose, if they've managed the trust
all these years. And I’m surprised they haven’t already contacted me if this
came due on my birthday.”
He nodded. “This Foundation, which is the official
name by the way, is an interesting group. All I've been able to discover is
that they are very old and very well established, especially overseas. It’s
been around probably as long or longer than the trust; I believe they are the
original executors of the estate, but they don’t strike me as relying on it for
any type of income; so not a bank per se, that uses capital from its customers
for its investments.
“It’s one of those Old World, Old Money institutions
that keep secrets just for the sake of keeping secrets. And as for the other,
they contacted me as the family’s lawyer; they prefer to work through a third
party such as myself. Not very hands on, from the sound of it – they struck me
as a little removed from life; and definitely not in any big hurry. I guess
when the thing’s been sitting for a few hundred years, what’s a couple months? They
were more than amenable to allowing me to wait until your grandmother’s illness
resolved. I was hoping she’d recover, Maggie. Again, I’m so sorry for your
loss. Cordelia was an amazing woman. I’ll miss her.” Mr. Whitaker had to stop and
clear his throat a few times, prompting Maggie to pat his hand on the desk
between them. He recovered his composure and continued, squeezing her hand in
thanks.
“Actually, I’m surprised I got as much information
out of them as I did. I’m sure they didn't mean for me to find out the amount
of money that’s entailed. The gentleman I spoke with sounded distinctly
perturbed that the figure was listed in the dossier I was sent.
“So I won’t have to deal with them then; everything
will go through you, which is a relief. I’d much rather work with someone I
know and respect and trust. I can’t imagine having to deal with some stuffy
European snobby type who’d be condescending and make me feel like a peasant!”
Maggie laughed, and Mr. Whitaker smiled.
“Well. There is a caveat. I hope you’ll take it in
the spirit it is intended.” She sobered immediately, realizing they could make
her jump through all manner of hoops and she’d have to do it.
“They are insisting that you work with an historic
architect, one of their choosing. In fact, they've already assigned him to the
build. You’re actually supposed to meet him for dinner tonight, a Mr. Nigel
Roark.” Her knee-jerk reaction was irritation at being told what to do, and who
to hire – and worse, that she was being ordered to eat dinner with this man.
But that was silly, in light of how much she didn't know about what she needed
to do.
“Tonight! They’re all of a sudden anxious to get
things done, aren't they? That would seriously tick me off, except I wouldn't have even known where to start on this reconstruction. I haven’t even
considered the logistics of this yet. This is one heck of a jigsaw puzzle. I’ll
take all the help I can get, especially since they seem to know more about what
I need here than I do myself.”
“Great outlook, Mary Margaret; I’m glad you’re okay
with it in light of your aversion to working with snobby strangers.” His smile
indicated he was teasing her, and she pasted a brave smile on her face in
return. This was going to be interesting; fun, even; an adventure. She just had
to stay positive.
She decided if she kept telling herself that, it
might alleviate the fear and uncertainty that had taken up permanent residence
in the pit of her stomach. This had to work. She had to complete this crazy
venture, or she was royally screwed; there was no back-up plan, no safety net.
It was go through with the edicts of her inheritance, or start her life over;
alone, penniless, and destitute.
