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Quinsey Wolfe's Glass Vault


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Some see it... Some don't...

People in the town of Deer Park, Texas are vanishing. There is a strange museum, known as Quinsey Wolfe's Glass Vault, that appears overnight. Perrie Madeline's best friend and ex-boyfriend are among the missing. Perrie and her friend August go on a pursuit for them in the mysterious museum. Could the elusive Quinsey Wolfe's Glass Vault have anything to do with the disappearances?

A book that intertwines horror elements and retellings, with humor, romance and darkness. 



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Published 26 June 2018
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EAN13 9788826002521
Language English

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CANDACE ROBINSONCopyright © 2018 by The Parliament House
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use
of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Amanda Wright and David Rochelero
ISBN: 9788826002521
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The Parliament House
Created with VellumC O N T E N T S
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About the Author
Help Perrie
The Parliament House
AcknowledgmentsFor Nate and Arwen
We make up the ultimate Three MusketeersP R O L O G U E
verwhelmed with boredom, Vale stared down at his fingernails. He could only spend soO much time tormenting those he encountered in the afterlife. After making them as miserable
as possible, he found himself needing to search for new prey.
The fire beside him flickered and gave off a comforting heat. To Vale it felt like a warm blanket
against his cool skin. He hummed a melody to himself as the fire crackled, accompanied by a chorus
of screams that continued to grow more intensely.
Vale should have felt something, yet he was incapable of compassion. It made his torture of
others necessary, and with no complete spectrum of true emotion, their agony provided him with a
sick sort of pleasure. It was the only real feeling he had ever truly known.
He picked at his nails a little longer with a sharp instrument until they were back to their pristine
condition. The one thing he couldn’t tolerate was the filth and grime that built up under his
fingernails. One might consider this an oddity. After all, his experiments usually ended up being the
cause of his distress.
Studying his fingernails one more time, Vale set the tool down next to a row full of other
torturous devices—giving him another thrill. When so many of his experiments resulted in such
beautiful messes, he could forgive himself the lapse in hygiene.
Rows of cages filled with useless souls lined the walls of his domain. They would help him to
crush the mortal lives he needed to flood the earth. After the time he had spent in his dark place, he
grew tired of tormenting the ones who “deserved” it—he wanted them all.
The time had finally come to bring down humanity—he wished it could be as simple as a snap of
his fingers. Vale didn’t like to do things the easy way, though. No, he liked to do things the way that
brought him the most pleasure. This time he was going to be known as Quinsey Wolfe. This time he
would make sure the world ended in flames while orchestrating its demise and rebirth. There must be
a space between his underworld and the human world, where the new souls could become immortal
with true power. It would take time, but he would build this place. Then, he could discover the ones
he truly wanted. Hearts would surrender, souls would suffer, and at the end of it all—he would
watch it burn. From the ashes of its undoing, Vale would recreate it all in his image.CHAPTER ONE
he mirror is a foggy mess when I step out of my literally five-minute shower. I let myT stupid alarm continue to go off when I should have woken up right away, so that meant
less shower time. Quickly, I draw a flower—a weepy-looking daisy to be exact—on the glass before
rushing to my bedroom to get dressed.
My mother and I used to do this together when I was younger. It was before she ran off to another
state with another man and never spoke to my dad or me again. For some weird reason I uphold this
so-called mirror-drawing tradition of ours—possibly to remember something that used to be
“Dad,” I yell. After throwing on a pair of jeans and an old Bon Jovi band tee, I hurry down the
hallway. Sometimes I can catch him before he leaves, but today he has already left for work.
I find a note on the kitchen table that reads: Have a good day at school! Happy Birthday! Beside
the note sits a little, red velvet cupcake—my dad rocks!
Since my mom left—it’s been years now—I don’t feel anything for her. I simply don’t care, but I
know my dad still does. There’s a picture of them together on his bedside table from when they were
maybe sixteen—they were high school sweethearts. My mother is looking off to the side laughing,
genuinely amused, while my dad’s staring at her with such an expression of love and admiration. It
used to make my heart skip, but not anymore.
I know what that kind of love feels like, and I have missed it every single day for the past seven
months. I toss those feelings of that particular boy in my personal, little trashcan inside my brain—
almost completely hidden away.
Distracting myself, I turn my thoughts back to my mom. It isn’t much better, but those thoughts
don’t bother me anymore. The one thing my mom left me was her maiden name as my first name, yet
it defeats the whole purpose since she spelled Perrie with an “ie” instead of a “y.” I prefer the spelling
the way it is, that way I’m connected to her as little as possible.
Grabbing a small bowl for my breakfast from the cabinet, I pad over to the pantry where there are
at least ten varieties of cereal to choose from. Dad can’t get over my cereal-stocking obsession. The
different sugary shapes on the covers usually call to me. What else can I say? This morning, I go for
the bag that only contains colorful marshmallows—no healthiness included.
As I reach for the bag, feeling like Willy Wonka, there’s a sudden poke on my shoulder that
causes me to jump. I squeak and flail in my panic, effectively sweeping my bowl off the countertop.
Then I thank all the fish in the sea that it’s plastic, because it makes a “thump-thump” sound as it hits
the ceramic tile.
My back smacks hard against the granite countertop as I flip around to face the intruder. Maisie,
my best friend and cousin, stands a few feet away smiling and I feel the anger pulsing through my
veins. She just loves to scare the living daylights out of me when I least expect it. It’s not like this
hasn’t happened before. Odds are, I should have expected this. Maisie lives next door and we’ve beenplaying at carpool for as long as I can remember.
She’s grinning from ear to ear while I rub my stinging arm. Her one, bright-blue eye is twinkling
with mischievous intent. The other eye, which I’m sure has a twin expression, is safely hidden behind
an eye patch. She usually pulls her long black hair away from her face to highlight that one accessory
but has decided to let it relax around her warm brown skin this morning. I envy her Turkish
complexion. Instead, I’m chalky to the core.
When my mom left, Dad’s sister offered up the house next door, which she and my uncle own.
The tenants had recently moved out, so they asked Dad if he wanted to rent the place. Ever since then,
Aunt Krista has been more of a mom to me than my birth mother ever was, and I adore her to pieces.
“I’ll get you back one of these days, Maisie Jaser!” Squinting hard at Maisie, I try to look mad and
hide my smile. My surprise has washed away, but I’m determined to best her at least once in my life.
“I also have a key to your house, you know.”
“You’ve been saying this pretty much forever, and I’m still waiting,” Maisie says laughing.
Bringing a hand up, she brushes it against her latest eye patch. Today it’s hot pink and shaped like a
diamond with yellow stars and the moon on it.
I point a finger at the newest addition to her two-year-long parade of endless eye patches. “What’s
going on today with this one?”
Maisie scrunches up her nose as if she’s thinking incredibly hard about this. “Well, I was in the
mood for a night sky, but I wanted the sky to be pink because black is, well, you know?”
Shaking my head, I let out a laugh. “Well, no, I don’t know.”
She tilts her head back and forth while I wait for her to spit out the answer. “Oh, you know. It’s
just such a dark color sometimes.”
“You also realize you’re still not blind, right?”
Her smile grows even wider. “I know, but I have to show support to those who only have the one
eye.” She points her index finger at the eye patch like she’s missing the eye.
Maisie has been on a kick ever since she started reading books, watching movies and TV shows
where characters wear eye patches. She even started an online store where she has sold quite a few.
I’m not sure if these people legitimately need an eye patch, or if they’re using them for costumes, but
either way, they can make any outfit rock.
I know there are other people out there who make eye patches, but I have to admit, hers are quite
amazing. If I needed a patch, I would wear one Maisie created. Now, I still don’t get why she wears
an eye patch all the time, but Maisie has a personality all her own.
“You keep showing that support.” Picking up the blue bowl that fell on the floor earlier, I toss it
in the sink. There isn’t time left to eat my cereal, so I grab two granola bars out of the pantry instead
and throw one baseball style to Maisie. I have to admit, she still has quick reflexes with only one eye.
Glancing over at our dainty, kitchen table, I notice a small green box sitting beside the salt and
pepper shakers. Maisie must have set it there before sneaking up on me.
“What’s in the box?” As I start toward the box, Maisie flings past me to the table and runs back
quicker than I can blink.
“Happy Birthday!” she yells.
Thrusting the gift at me, she whips a tiny yellow noisemaker from her pocket and blows loudly.
The sound has me reeling, and Maisie is panting as if she’s just run a marathon. I don’t get a lot of
gifts for my birthday, so I’m always excited to receive hers, even if most of the time they’re on the
strange side.
“Is it another wood chip creation like the lion you made me that one year?” I ask. Her parents
were going to clear out their flower beds several years back and replace the old with rubber mulch.Maisie objected and found a way to repurpose the mulch for her crafts. The figurine looks just like a
lion, and it still sits proudly on the bookshelf in my room.
“No, my parents are still all about the rubber mulch.”
“Too bad,” I say as I inspect the box from Maisie. It’s dark green and wrapped in a delicate, yet
vivid green bow of a different hue. I open it slowly, first removing the ribbon then the lid.
Tucked inside is a banana-yellow eye patch. Upon closer examination, I see it has the image of a
ferocious lion on the front. I can tell she stitched it herself using fur-like pieces surrounding the
outer edges to create its mane. It’s beautiful, and she knows how I have a fondness for lions. I don’t
even know why they’re my favorite—maybe it’s because they’re strong, fierce, and aren’t afraid of
Gently, I set the patch aside and pull another gift from the green box. It’s another lion—though
this one is tinier. Maisie made this one with sticks from tree branches, and then hand-painted it with a
miraculous amount of detail. The colors are not what I would have expected. This lion is washed in
bright greens, hot pinks, and brilliant blues. I don’t even know how she manages to blend and put
colors together so artfully.
Someone, give me these skills.
I feel myself tearing up because I know how much time and effort she put into these gifts for me.
Unashamed, I tug her into an awkward but perfect hug.
“Thanks so much. These gifts have seriously made my day.”
Maisie leans back and fixates her eye on mine. I can tell she’s serious. “Are you going to wear the
patch now?”
Letting out a loud snort, I shake my head. “No, but you know what? I’ll wear it tonight, just for
Suddenly remembering the time, I book it for my room and shove a pair of black boots on. I take
one last look at myself in the mirror hanging on the back of my door, before pulling my brown hair
into a low ponytail. I don’t have time to do anything exciting with it. It’s not like I would anyway,
that would take effort. Besides appearing a little tired, my chestnut-colored eyes are a little lighter
this morning and I have to admit, I’m a step up from a zombie, so it works.
“Perrie! Hurry the heck up!” Maisie shouts.
Finally, I grab my backpack and coveted cello from the floor by my desk chair. With the
combination of a heavy backpack and even heavier cello case, I know I’m bound to have a bad back
by the time I reach twenty. A practical person would have dropped the cello, but not me. I’ve been
playing the instrument since sixth grade. After my mom left, playing music on my cello helped with
the healing process and got me through a lot.
“Come on, Perrie. We need to get going.” Maisie’s already standing on the porch, holding the
door wide open when I come bounding out of my bedroom.
After we pile into her car, I relax in the seat and munch on my granola bar. Maisie finishes
chewing hers and ditches the granola wrapper. I’ve barely taken one full bite. Sometimes, I think she
may seriously choke because she eats abnormally fast for a normal person. Maybe she could win an
eating contest with that kind of speed.
“So, did you hear there’s another person missing?” Maisie asks as she turns down the next road.
My eyebrows furrow as I meet her gaze. “No. Is it someone we know?”
“No. I don’t think so. His name’s Ben Johnston. He’s a twenty-three-year-old from the
University,” Maisie answers while chewing on her left thumbnail, flipping her gaze back to the
odometer to check her speed.
There are two major things I know about Maisie, one being that she absolutely has to be goingthe exact speed limit. It doesn’t matter where she is, she keeps to one speed at a time. Second, she has
the habit of chewing on her nail when there’s a riddle she wants to figure out, or a puzzle she wants
to slide the last piece into.
Leaning my arm against the car door, I rest my chin on my hand. I scan through the people I know
from memory to see if I recognize that name from anywhere. It isn’t a long list of names either.
“Yeah, I don’t recognize the name, but I don’t know many people who are older than us besides the
ones I was in Orchestra with.”
Lately, strange things have been happening in our neck of the woods. Not that we have many
wooded areas here. There has been an increase in disappearances in our city over the last few weeks.
Ben Johnston is the sixth missing person I know about, and the victims’ ages and genders have all
varied. The local police department has been investigating, but they claim there’s no clear answer. No
predictable method or motivation. Thankfully though, no one I know personally has gone missing. So
it makes it seem not as real.
Despite my own calm, my dad, on the other hand, has been a worried mess. My midnight curfew,
as well as Maisie’s, has been cut back. It isn’t like we have anything to do to stay out that late for
anyway, but it was still a blow to our potential social lives. The last time I stayed out late was a
month ago when Dad and Aunt Krista extended our curfew for prom.
I wasn’t in the mood to go at first, but Maisie bugged me about it endlessly. Despite offers from
a couple of guys and girls, Maisie politely shot them down and convinced me to go with her instead.
Sometimes, I think she’s asexual, like certain plants, and I admire her independence. I would even
venture to say I aspire to it.
Maisie rubs at her chin and I can sense her detective skills are itching to come out. Hell, mine are,
“Maybe we could question friends or family who know these missing people?” she asks.
“Nothing is getting done here.”
“I’m not sure that would go over well, even if you did have a badge. One day you’ll have plenty
of time to solve any crime you want.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” she says. Maisie pulls into the parking lot of the school,
and we manage to find a good spot.
Maisie sighs, and I can tell she’s still thinking about the missing people. She once told me she
wanted to pursue a career in fashion design, but these days I think she’s leaning more toward lead
I may be eighteen and an official adult according to “society,” but it doesn’t feel like much has
changed. That’s probably because I’m still in high school and I don’t have a good job. Hell, I don’t
even have a part-time job like most people my age. I’m still figuring out what I want to do.
Apparently, the college I’m looking at doesn’t offer miming as a major, which I would be all over.
I’d even find it useful wearing one of Maisie’s patches while working my hands across an imaginary
wall. The only thing I have so far is a scholarship for Orchestra. But I have the rest of my life to
figure things out, right?CHAPTER TWO
pening the car door, I throw my heavy backpack over my shoulder and grab my cello out ofO the trunk. A wave of mixed emotions flow through me, and I just know today is not going
to be a shit day.
As we’re walking, with her hands thrashing all over the place, Maisie asks, “Are we going to the
horror film festival? It’s next month!”
“Hell yeah, I’m all over it. I think the guy who plays Pinhead is supposed to be one of the guests
there. If only some of the classic horror greats were still alive.”
Her hands continue to thrash ridiculously. “I know, right? Boris Karloff is practically my baby.”
When we finally breeze into the school, I make the mistake of turning my head away from Maisie.
My smile and laughter cut off. The first bell hasn’t even rung and I’ve already spotted the jerk.
Neven Lee. Formerly known as “Nev.” Once my Nev. Then he ripped my heart into a thousand
tiny pieces, cutting those little morsels even smaller before lighting them all on fire—until they were
nothing but ashes.
He’s standing off to the side with his black hair overgrown and shaggy—his warm brown eyes
catch mine. He tries to give me a close-lipped smile and I turn my head away, but not as quickly as I
should have.
Maisie’s eyes follow the remnants of my gaze. “Just ignore him. We’re almost done with school,
and then you won’t have to see him again.”
She’s being sympathetic but I know she still misses him. I never actually told her she couldn’t
talk to him. Maisie feels just about as betrayed as I do, and I want so badly to scrub that part of my
brain clean to forget about him. It has been seven months. Seven whole months since my heart was
left for dead. I know I’m being overly dramatic but I don’t care.
I can’t help it.
“Easier said than done.” Turning my head to him one more time, I see Neven walking toward us.
Damn. Maisie scratches the side of her face. Then she looks at the ceiling and off to the side, not
knowing exactly what to do.
Forget Maisie, I need to figure out where I can go to get away from him. My surroundings offer
no escape, and I’m completely rooted in place. All my nerve endings are lit up, and the panic begins
to take form. Then I feel his large hand delicately enclose my bicep.
“Happy birthday, Perrie,” Neven says hesitantly. I yank my arm out of his grasp, as if his touch
will melt my skin away.
“Don’t touch me.” My voice is just a whisper.
Hurt radiates across Neven’s face, as it always does when I lash out at him. For the first two
months after I stopped speaking to him, he tried every single day to talk to me. Then it turned into
every week, then every month, and then he didn’t try anymore—until today.
He never stopped looking at me in school, though. It’s almost as if he was waiting for me toapproach him. That, I thought to myself, would never happen, and he could stay being an asshole for
all I cared. Yes, I believe asshole is still the correct word at this moment.
Like always, I have to crane my neck to see his tall hovering form. “Don’t give me that look, Nev.
It isn’t going to do you much good. And don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”
He has the nerve to smile. I mean, he smiles a wide grin, displaying each and every annoyingly
perfect tooth. “You called me Nev. Not ‘Neven’ like you have been.”
Flexing my fingers at my sides, I bring them to my palms and dig them finger by finger into a fist.
I want to punch him—hard. But I don’t. I can’t because I still see a friend in his face. I shut that
thought down fast.
“Neven,” I say as harshly as I can. “Leave me alone. I’ll never forgive you.”
The frustration is there on his face. I can tell because he runs his hands through his hair and grabs
it like he wants to rip it out—most likely to throw the strands at my face. We just glare at each other
until he calmly lowers his hands to his sides.
“Damn it, Perrie. How many times do I have to tell you that I have no clue what the hell you have
been talking about for the past seven months? Anyone else would have given up already, but you and
me”—he points back and forth between us—“we’re the real deal. If I have to wait an eternity for you,
I will.” He tips his chin at me and walks off.
“Well,” Maisie says in awe.
Whipping my head back to face her, I hiss. “Well?”
Maisie shakes her head like she has sand or something in her hair and is trying to get it out. “Oh,
yeah. Screw that loser!”
Sighing, I nod my head. Summer can’t come soon enough. No more Neven, no more school.
The bell rings then and we go to class. Maisie’s in my first-period class, English. Our teacher, Mr.
Carter, is possibly the only teacher who I find awesome. My writing skills are average at best, but he
can turn anyone’s work into a masterpiece.
After I finish writing a short story on why classic horror movies are an art form, I watch from my
desk as Mr. Carter draws a picture resembling the Mona Lisa in Paint. He does this every day after he
teaches the lessons, and I’m always flabbergasted that he can use a computer mouse to do it. I tried
once and gave up after attempting the letter P, which was when I realized my handwriting had been
much better as a three-year-old.
The rest of my classes before lunch pass way too slowly. During Math, I finish my homework, so
I don’t have anything to do besides stare at Mrs. Briggs’s seventies-styled hair. It’s not seventies cool
either, it’s rough—try Farrah Fawcett with a curling iron and electricity. I’m not quite sure if she’s
stuck in an older era or invented one herself. Either way, I have no intention of ever visiting it myself.
My stomach lets out a monstrous rumble. It has been repeating the broken-record process since I
walked into class.
I groan, watching as the second hand on the clock slowly forces itself to the number I need—and
then the bell rings. Yes! I think to myself, practically wanting to do three fist pumps instead of one.
That’s how much I love feeding the monster in my belly.
Having already packed up my binder and other belongings, I grab my backpack and start to stand
up. Out of habit, I reach for my cello. Then I remember I dropped it off after first period in the music
room. As I head out the doorway, I see my friend August is already waiting for me at our usual
meeting place before lunch.
Green eyes meet mine, and in an instant, we’re both smiling at each other. August is about as
relaxed as I’ve ever seen him in black chucks, jeans, and a baseball tee. The sight of him gives me a
great rush of eagerness. I practically run into his arms and back him up against the lockers. Laughingdeeply against my ear, he hugs me back with just as much force.
Luckily with August, I don’t have to look up as far as I had to with Neven to see his face. I’m
about to say something when I spot the Devil passing us in the hallway. If looks could kill. Neven
doesn’t so much as glance at me—his dagger-throwing gaze is for August alone. They used to talk a
little, but not anymore.
“So, I got you something for your birthday,” August says against the side of my face. His breath
brushes my ear, and my skin absorbs the warmth.
Pulling back, I look at August. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
He lets me go and unzips his backpack, pulling out a tiny box. “Don’t worry. It isn’t an
engagement ring.”
Laughing, I take the box from him and open it up. Tucked inside is a silver necklace with a
cellobow pendant, encrusted with small, sparkling sapphires. I love it.
“You can also read the back.” He grins.
I flip it over and see it’s engraved with two words: “I’m here.”
Okay, so I rarely get this choked up over birthday gifts, but I pull him to me and kiss his soft
cheek. “Thank you!”
I don’t know what it is, but lately I’ve been feeling something more for August. Unfortunately, I
told myself I didn’t want to have feelings for anyone. After breaking up with Neven, my goal was to
get through high school, do the college thing, and see what happens after that.
August has been making it harder. We may have started out as friends, but something has started
to change. I’ve chosen to ignore it for as long as humanly possible by reminding myself I hated him
before all of this.
When August moved here and started his senior year at my school, I never thought I could hate
someone so much, so fast. There was no real reason—he hadn’t attacked me per se. He just waltzed
into Orchestra class and took over first chair, my first chair, like his name was written on it. I was
undeniably pissed. That first day of senior year, I was happily sitting in my seat from the prior year.
As class began, our teacher introduced the new student, August, and stated that he had a late audition.
It was a surprise to everyone when he took over first chair right then and there, like he was a king or
Cello was the one thing I was great at and I knew it could get me a scholarship to college. I still
got one, but back then I thought everything would be wrecked.
I remember wanting to rip him apart. I couldn’t believe that this guy, with his perfect face and
perfect curly blond hair, had taken my spot right out from under my nose. He sat down next to me
without so much as a glance, even though I was staring multiple daggers at him.
When the bell rang, and the class had emptied except for us, I waited as far away from the
offender as possible. Neven was running late after basketball and our teacher had already left for the
day. It was just the two of us and that alone made me even more furious.
Finally, he glanced my way, and the look he gave me had zero emotion—then he turned around. It
was almost like he couldn’t have cared less.
My brows lowered, and I thought, He did not just ignore me.
Picking up my expensive bow that Dad had saved for my last Christmas present, I took it and
slowly approached him. As I came upon him, he was completely oblivious, polishing or maybe
tuning his instrument—which made me angrier. When he finally glanced up from his cello, confused
by my aggression, I looked him straight in the eye and tapped my bow to his chest.
“So, you think you can just magically come in here like some kind of magician and poof your
way into first chair?” I was standing so close I could smell his soapy scent. It was an addicting smell,