Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Blackthorn Grange
The new job wasn’t so bad. A farce really. No risk to it, at least not physically. Sure, if John fucked up, people lost a lot of money. Wasn’t his money, and he wasn’t one prone to fucking up so he didn’t much worry. Pay was okay. Better than okay, decent. Made more in a year now than he did in two while he was in the service. Bonus. Oh, yea, there were bonuses too. Nice one that was. Couldn’t say he minded that part.
Part that got to him was the sitting around. If he got lucky and shoved onto a plane and shipped off to God knows where to meet and greet, then there was a bit of a pickup. Most times though, none of that. It was behind a desk, either in an office that was too big or the one at home that was posh and comfy. He liked the posh and comfy, truth be told.
Had to hit the gym on the regular otherwise he’d be outgrowing all the fancy suits he had to buy to meet the clients in. Guess now he could afford it, but still. He had a reputation. He wasn’t going to be one to sit around and grow round. Haha.
Today was good. Got back Wednesday from the last business trip. Had scuttled about Paris for a stretch. That was nice, getting a decent hotel, sampling the wine and good restaurants. Lot more comfortable than getting packed into a transport like sardines and praying not to get jostled out the rear hatch that wasn’t closed for some blessed reason. Yea. Good. Wouldn’t mind another trip. Not really for the sights, outside of the museums. Just for the chance to stretch his legs and pretend he was finally civilized.
Older men aren’t any more civilized than younger men, he could account to that. They just lacked the energy to chase it the way younger men had. It was easier to sit back and watch them make fools of themselves than it was to be the fool. Oh, shit, should really start writing this down. These are really witty little numbers.
John sipped at his scotch in the posh comfy office, clicking through his social media rather than finishing the proposal in front of him. Well, minimized on a different screen, but technically in front of him, despite its diminished stature. It would keep. Besides, clients fucked off for the weekend already. He may as well too.
A message.
🎉 Congratulations, John MacTavish. You are the Grand Prize Winner of the “Dinner Among Friends: Midnight Mystery Edition.” 🎉
Your entry has secured you an exclusive invitation to Blackthorn Grange, an 18th‑century estate long hidden among the North Yorkshire moors. The manor has stood empty for decades, save for the caretaker who keeps only a single wing lit — a tradition meant to honor the house’s peculiar history.
As our winner, you’ll join a select group of guests for a private chef’s dinner, followed by an immersive mystery experience that will unfold through the Grange’s shuttered corridors, locked attics, and the old family crypt beneath the east lawn. The hosts assure us the evening’s story is inspired by events once whispered about the estate — disappearances, unanswered letters, and a final diary entry no one has ever explained.
Please confirm your attendance by clicking the link below. Transportation will be arranged, and you will be escorted directly to the manor gates. We look forward to welcoming you to Blackthorn Grange, where the past is never as quiet as it seems.
Well, that seemed fishy as hell. He didn’t recall entering anything. Probably some kind of random ransomware or phishing thread. Just his luck. The sender seemed legitimate. Real words, name for the account was associated with something.
A website. Fine. He went to his browser and typed in the website name. Blackthorn Grange Dinner and Mystery Evenings. Scrolling down, there were options for Dinner and a Murder, Dinner and a Mystery, Haunted Mansion sittings. A whole slew of date night or group scare activities. He clicked on the “About Us” link:
About Blackthorn Grange
Blackthorn Grange has stood on the North Yorkshire moors since 1764, watching over a stretch of land where travelers once vanished and locals still refuse to walk after sundown. The Riley family has called the grounds home for over five centuries. The manor was built with more rooms than they ever admitted using, and more doors than anyone has managed to count.
Guests speak of cold spots in warm halls, locked rooms that unlock themselves, and a single lantern that burns in the east wing even when no one is staying there. One notable heir disappeared in 1923, leaving behind only a half‑written note and a trail of muddy footprints leading toward the orchard.
Today, the estate welcomes visitors who enjoy history with teeth. You’re free to explore the grounds — though most prefer to leave before the moors go quiet. Those who stay past dark rarely stay alone.
Hum.
John pushed his chair back and thumbed open his phone, texting his best mate.
🧼Cocksucker. know anythin’ about a contest and a place called blackthorn grange?
🍺 Fuck off. Never heard of it. And that’s Captain Cocksucker to you.
🧼Right. seems i won something. ye’ve got nothin’ to do with it, right?
Three dots, then nothing.
John finished off his scotch and reached for the bottle, pouring himself another.
No answer came. Fuck it. He got up and headed to the kitchen for a sandwich. Not a lot of sense cooking when it was just him. House was nice. Job was decent. Lonely as hell though. He was used to a unit, small as it was, they were tight. All together from sunup to lights out. Hell, the escape to the barracks was a welcome chance alone. Not anymore. Now it was like a sentence to solitary.
After a few, John’s phone buzzed again.
🍺 Fine, so maybe Roach and I decided you were moping too much, and hell, didn’t expect you’d win it. Have fun, mate.
🧼 No shit?
🍺 Serious. Was a big display at the pub last month. Had to text him and see if it was the same thing. Guess they were looking for business.
🧼 Right. Well hell, should see if ye can come with.
🍺 Probably have to pay. But sure. Check it out. IF they’ve got a spot, I’m game.
🧼 Right. i’ll let ye kin.
He grinned bright as day. Well, there was something. Wandering back to his office, he finished off another glass of his scotch and clicked on the link to accept. If there was room for Gaz to join that night, they’d manage the whole thing. Nothing some backwoods rich estate owner trying to cash in on ghost stories could come up with that he and his best friend hadn’t already lived through together. Could be fun.
--
Two weeks passed in a blur. John kept busy enough. Gym in the morning, proposal edits in the afternoon, scotch in the evenings. Saw Gaz at the pub, caught a football match or two. Nothing wild, but it kept the edge off.
If he admitted it, he was looking forward to this, whatever the hell it was. Most times, the promise of “adventure” was just a dressed-up snooze, but something about a crumbling old estate, the promise of wandering crypts and shuttered rooms, brought the itch up his spine. He wasn’t ever going to be the round-arsed desk jockey, not in this lifetime.
The car rolled up at exactly six. Sleek, black, windows so dark he almost saw a ghost of himself as he stepped out onto the driveway. Driver was a square-jawed kid straight out of the MIB reserve pool, polite nod, didn’t say a word. John grinned and slipped into the leather interior.
He dressed right for it. Matte black boots, steel toes, scuffed just enough to show they were for business. His favorite jeans, snug through the thighs and calves, showing off the muscle he kept honed every day. Henley in deep charcoal, sleeves tight as second skin over biceps built like a pair of cannonballs. Black bomber jacket over the top, zipped only a third up, the curves of his broad chest and the flash of ink peeking underneath. His hands were big, calloused. Clean-shaven, not a stubble in sight, and the mohawk was kept razor fresh. Short, black, sharp as a damn blade. The SAS tat on his right deltoid caught the light when he bent, the partial sleeve crawling up from wrist to elbow with a riot of skulls, roses, winged things. Hidden under it all he had a knife in his right boot, little lockpick kit in his front pocket right beside a small torch, lighter, and two squares of foil-wrapped painkillers in his wallet. He travelled light, but not dumb.
The ride out to Blackthorn Grange was all grey skies, low clouds, and endless waves of moor right out of a Brontë fever dream. John watched the landscape of spindly hedgerows, wildflowers choking the ditches that blurred past. It felt good, being out of the city. Air was different, smelled like rain and peat and something a little wild.
“Long way out,” he commented, just to see if the driver was awake.
“Aye, sir,” came the reply, clipped and clean, with a York accent that made a man’s day.
“Ye think Ah’m comin’ back, then?” John grinned.
“That’s not for me to say, sir,” the driver deadpanned, eyes fixed on the winding road.
“Fuckin’ hell. Remind me to tip ye if Ah make it through the night.”
The driver cracked a grin in the rearview, then fell back to stone silence.
The Grange appeared out of the mist all at once, rising like a bloody mausoleum of blackened stone and twisted iron. The drive up the lane was lined with ancient yews, branches reaching overhead like claws. Moss crawled up the pillars flanking the gate, which creaked open at their approach. Past the gates, the house loomed. It was three stories, Georgian bones gone gaunt with neglect, shuttered windows and a single lantern burning above the east wing doors. The entire place looked drunk with secrets, windows staring down like blind eyes. There was a chill on the air as John stepped out, boots crunching the gravel.
The cold hit him first, sharp as a switchblade across the skin of his neck. John grinned into it, dragging a lungful as he squared his shoulders. Couldn’t fault the place for atmosphere, that was for damn sure. The lantern above the east wing doors flickered in the wind, orange light painting the stone slick and haunted. He rucked his jacket tighter, thumb running absently along the line of his wrist tattoo as he surveyed the approach.
He wandered up the walk, noting that the weed-choked path had been swept clear, at least for tonight. Whoever kept this place tuned for show knew their job.
The entry doors were double-wide oak, banded with iron, the knockers shaped like a pair of blackthorn branches knotted together. Very on brand. He reached for the handle, but the door swung open before he could touch it.
Standing just inside, filling the doorframe like it was built for him, was the caretaker.
Fuck.
Guy was a stump-puller, thick through the chest and shoulders, every inch of him saying ex-military or ex-basement-dungeon, nothing in-between. Brown suit tailored close over muscle. Short blonde curls, neat as a show dog, but the golden eyes caught the light sharp as autumn sunlight, and so damned direct it made John’s scalp prickle under the mohawk. There was a black surgical mask fitted tight across the lower half of his face. Odd, but not the oddest thing John had seen a bloke wear to dinner. His hands were huge, fingers long and scarred. John had a sudden, inappropriate urge to see what those hands would feel like pinning him against the door.
“Mr. MacTavish.” The caretaker’s voice was smooth, deep, the accent Manchester, but educated, every syllable as precise as a snapped salute. “Welcome to Blackthorn Grange.”
“Not even in the door and ye know me by sight. That’s either good planning or bad luck, mate.” John raised a brow, couldn’t help himself.
“We get a briefing on our guests. You’re the final arrival.” the man’s eyes crinkled, a smile hiding behind the mask.
“Ah’ll say that’s a first.” John jerked his chin inside, boots thumping on the threshold. “What’d ye get me on, the security watchlist?”
“Nothing so dramatic. Please.” Stepping aside, the caretaker motioned him into the darkened grandeur of the hall. “The others are waiting.”
John followed, taking in the echo and hush as the door settled closed behind him. The entryway was classic murder manor. Black-and-white tile, timeworn carpet, the scent of old wood and colder secrets in the walls. High above, a chandelier loomed like a tangle of bones, crystal arms catching every stray bit of light. Far off, thunder rolled.
He made a point of walking steady, taking the place in as he followed the caretaker’s heavy step. The guy moved silent for his size, controlled. John clocked every movement, every glance. The way his hand hovered over the bannister, never quite touching, the way he checked the position of every wall sconce as they passed. Not nervous, just tuned in. John hid a grin.
At the end of the hall, warm light spilled from a pair of open doors.
“Your fellow guests await,” the caretaker said, pausing to straighten the lapels of his suit. “If you’ll join us.”
“Aye, Ah’ll do my best to get along.” John flicked a glance up and down the caretaker, letting himself appreciate the view. He lingered a half-beat longer on those golden eyes. “And yerself, Mister?”
“Riley. Simon Riley.” The caretaker’s gaze held steady, like he could see clean through to the bone. “Caretaker of the estate.”
“Ah, grand. Now it’s a proper show, innit?” he couldn’t resist. “How’re ye fixed for candlesticks, Simon? Or do we do dinner first, aye, and get stabbed after?”
There was a pause, a ripple of something that might’ve been laughter behind the mask. “We take our cues from the classics, Mr. MacTavish. But tonight’s menu is bespoke.”
“Right. Ah’ll remember tae keep an eye on the wine.” the line of John’s smile sharpened at that.
Then Riley opened the doors, and John stepped into the sitting room.
Seven people arranged in loose orbit around a pair of velvet couches, flutes and tumblers gripped tight. The room wore its age like jewelry. Its walls were paneled in dark, scarred wood, ancient fireplace sulking beneath a portrait of some severe bastard with axe-murderer cheekbones. The windows were shuttered tight, candlelight flickering in every glass, so shadows licked and stretched across the faces of the guests.
Everyone turned as John entered, the outsider, the last man in.
He swept his gaze over them, cataloguing like muscle memory. Two women by the fire, one petite with a sharp angle to her jaw and a swing of black hair that said city, not country. The other blonde, lush, draped in purple silk that clung to curves and a sly smile.
There was a tall bloke by the bar cart, lean, slouched, smirk already on his face. Next, a little guy in a too-big suit, hands jammed in his pockets, bug-eyed at the room like he’d never been indoors before. Then a serious-looking fellow, heavy brows, navy turtleneck, eyes flat as cold steel.
Two others, a woman and a man, stood off behind the rest. The woman was striking, copper ringlets and a slash of red lipstick, her gaze hawk-sharp. The man next to her was olive-skinned, handsome as hell, tailored jacket over jeans, projecting confidence and cool, though the tightness of his mouth told John he was wound up beneath.
The caretaker moved to the center of the room, commanding silence with a shift of posture.
“May Ah have your attention, please?” His voice was calm, unhurried, the voice of someone who never had to raise it to be obeyed.
John found himself paying attention, right enough.
“Now that our final guest has arrived, let me welcome you all.” Simon Riley let his gaze settle briefly on each face, then returned to John’s. “My name is Simon Riley, caretaker of Blackthorn Grange. For the duration of your stay, Ah’ll attend to all your needs. Should you require anything. A tour, a drink, a warm blanket, you need only ask.”
He gestured to the spread on the sideboard. There were silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, neat rows of canapés and filled tartlets, glasses sweating with gin and whisky. “Please, help yourselves to refreshments. Dinner will be served at eight. Until then, Ah invite you to relax, mingle, perhaps enjoy the beginning of the evening’s mystery.”
The guests shifted, a few murmurs rising, the smallest tremor of uncertainty in the air. John took it upon himself to break the ice, never being a shy one. He strode for the drinks first, poured a neat measure of scotch, and leaned back against the bar.
“So, who’s going to ask if Tim Curry’s joinin’ us?” he called, grinning wide. “Come on, dinnae tell me Ah’m the only one thinkin’ it. We’re a Miss Scarlet and Professor Plum away from the full set.”
The woman in purple silk barked a delighted laugh. “Oh, I was absolutely thinking it. If anyone finds a wrench or some lead pipe, you’ll let me know, right?” Her accent was pure London, melodic and sly.
“Only if we find some candlesticks in the billiard room, darlin’.” John knocked back half his whisky, eyes sweeping the group. “Name’s John, by the way. Just John. You lot regulars at this sort of thing?”
There was a flutter of awkwardness, then the guests introduced themselves, one by one.
The woman in purple draped an arm over her curves, flashing a dazzling smile. “Tabatha Martin. I write for a lifestyle magazine, so this is all research. That’s my excuse, anyway.”
Next to her, the sharp-jawed woman nodded, mouth a straight line. “Julie Curix. I’m a solicitor. My sister signed me up. Apparently, I need to socialize.”
The lean man at the bar snorted, extending a hand. “Maxwell Austin. Call me Max. Used to teach history. Now I mostly annoy my ex-wife.”
The bug-eyed fellow piped up, almost squeaky. “Larry Sands. I, uh, do IT. Like, server stuff. I don’t actually like murder mysteries, but this seemed cool?”
“Brave of ye to admit, mate.” John grinned at that.
The serious guy gave a stiff nod. “Michael Norn. I work at the museum, curation and archives. The Grange has quite a reputation.”
“Creeped out already?” John teased.
Michael just shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.”
Next was the red-haired woman. She eyed John coolly. “Tory Ellis. I work in forensics. Thought I’d see how well the professionals hide the bodies.”
He laughed, liking her. “Jesus, Ah’ll have to watch my arse with you about.”
The last, the olive-skinned man, offered a small, perfect smile. “Amaar Solvich. I do architecture, restoration mostly. Thought it would be interesting to see an estate with so much… history.”
There was a pause then, the group settling, recalibrating now that the introductions were done. John caught the way eyes flicked to Simon Riley, looming just inside the door, still as a statue.
Riley’s gaze met his, anchored and unflinching. There was something in it, a taut wire strung between them, tugging at the edges of John’s focus.
Simon inclined his head, businesslike, but John saw the pause in the line of his throat, the shift in his stance, subtle but readable as a thumbprint on glass.
“Ah, caretaker… hope ye dinnae mind me sayin’, but ye look like maybe ye’ve a sight more experience with mysteries than the rest of us.” John grinned, challenging, as he poured a second whisky. “What’s your story, Simon Riley?”
Behind the black mask, the man’s eyes glimmered. There was a smile, sly and secret. “That’s classified, Mr. MacTavish. But Ah’m happy to play host.”
The others scattered, picking up drinks and canapés, little splinters of awkward conversation flaring and fading. John kept his post at the bar, watching Simon Riley move through the room, the way guests shied out of his path, called by the gravity of those wide shoulders and that unreadable gaze.
He poured a double and held it up, flicking his eyes to Simon. “Ye joining us, or do all the best caretakers drink alone?”
For the first time, Riley hesitated. Then he strode forward, his walk easy but deliberate, each step landing silent on the old carpet. John watched the cut of his trousers, the flex of solid thigh, the way even a simple motion carried power in it.
“Ah’m off duty once dinner is served,” Simon replied, voice low but carrying. “But for the moment, Ah’ll keep company.”
He accepted the glass from John, gloved fingers brushing the backs of John’s knuckles, brief but electric. Up close, Riley was even more imposing, the lines of his jaw clean and strong beneath the black mask, the scent of him subtle, expensive, like cedar and smoke.
Their eyes met over the rim of their glasses. For a heartbeat, nothing else in the room mattered.
John let his voice drop, just enough for Simon to catch. “If Ah dinnae know better, Ah’d say ye were meant for the part. Ye always wear the mask, or is that just for the city folk?”
A pause. Amber eyes fixed on him, unreadable. “It’s tradition. Blackthorn Grange has rules for its caretakers. You’ll find a few more before the end of the night.”
“Guess Ah’ll have to see how many Ah ken break before breakfast.” John’s grin was all challenge, teeth bared, and he watched a shiver go through the glass in Simon’s hand.
“Ah wouldn’t recommend it.” The words came out with a purr, so deep and intimate it vibrated through the whisky glass and up the bones of John’s arm. The flash of challenge behind Simon Riley’s gold-shot eyes was impossible to ignore. It was like the caretaker was stripping him bare in front of the entire room, daring him to push, to break the rules and bloody see what happened next.
For a breath, everything else in the world faded, the clink of glass, the soft unspooling of awkward chatter, the way light guttered along velvet and old wood. It was just the electric wire, taut and humming, strung between them. Simon’s gloved hand ghosted over the bar top, lingered almost close enough to touch, and then vanished.
“Aye? That a threat, caretaker, or a promise?” John let his voice drop, rough burr rolling through the words, eyes fixed and hungry.
Riley’s gaze cut a fraction sharper, the line of his jaw flexed beneath the black fabric and something dark and dazzling danced in that wolf-bright stare.
“Could be both. Depends on how you play your cards.” Then he tipped back his whisky, eyes never breaking.
Fucking hell. He wanted to see what was under the surface, wanted to see what that voice would sound like panting and volatile in his ear, wanted to…
“So, who’s going to start the betting pool on who dies first?” Tabatha’s bright, sly voice cut through the tension, her smile aimed straight at John. “I’ve got Larry pegged for the first act, unless our friend Max here decides to get creative.”
“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?” Larry’s face went scarlet, round eyes darting to every shadow in the room.
“Means she assumes there’s no running water and I’ll try to kill everyone for a bath.” Max, at the bar, just smirked and raised his glass.
“Statistically speaking,” Tory broke in, cool and analytical, “it’ll be one of the women. Always is, in the old stories. But I’m not planning on being the sacrificial lamb.”
“Good. I don’t fancy being haunted by your ghost.” Amaar tilted his glass to her, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. Even the banter had bite to it. In here, the strange hush and shimmer of old secrets made every word heavier.
“Hell, Ah’ll volunteer to be the first if it’s got a good payout, or at least a round on the house.” John’s laugh rolled warm through the room, the ribbon of heat still anchored in his belly.
“Noted.” The glimmer that Simon threw him was all teeth and carnality, the kind of look that said he’d eat a man alive and ask for seconds. Jesus Christ, it set the nerves in his spine all alight. He was definitely getting a number before this night was over, if not more.