I tear my attention away from the tic in his jaw and the sheen of pain that wells up in his clover-hued eyes. We both fall silent for a moment as the weight of his words settles all around us. “How much longer until we get to wherever it is that we’re going?” he asks impatiently, and I suddenly feel like there’s some hourglass of doom looming over us, each grain of sand counting down the milliseconds until everything shatters. I have no idea how I’m going to help him, but I know I have to, and I sure as hell know I need the grimoire if I hope to have any chance of doing it.
My SUV threatens to tip as I take a sharp left and force it to charge over a steep hill. “We’re almost there.”
I turn down a ridiculously long driveway that’s lined with tall majestic trees that are just on the cusp of shedding all their green for a myriad of oranges, plums and yellows. I hate my aunt, but the beauty of her property can’t be denied. What can be denied, however, is her claim to own all of it. These eighteen acres originally belonged to the family in its entirety, but somehow through sketchy wheeling and dealing, they ended up in just one sister’s name several generations ago, the Harridans. The property was then passed down to only her line instead of belonging to all the Osseous clan like it was originally intended to be.
The whole situation is fuel for feuds. Some of the family has given up on trying to change things, but it doesn’t keep the rest of us from giving them the stink eye and cursing their every move. While I was growing up, Grammy Ruby tried to pull the tattered branches of the family tree back together, but now that she’s gone—and with the stunt Magda and Gwen Harridan just pulled—there will no longer be any hope of that happening.
The dense line of trees thins as I speed down the lane. Up ahead, the driveway loops around a gaudy and ostentatious fountain spewing water from various statues’ orifices. There’s a mansion that was built on top of the skeletons of old colonial style homes that our ancestors built, and the monstrosity that now sits before me can’t make up its mind between being some kind of English-inspired castle or a Craftsman on steroids.
We screech to a halt in front of the large entrance, and I turn in my seat. “Hoot, I want you to go in there and pee on anything and everything you can find, do you hear me, buddy? Now’s your chance to say fuck the patriarchy, I’ll go where I want to go!”
With that, I shove my door open, the hinges squealing in outrage, and jump out of the car. Rogan meets me as I come around the side and speed walk to the front doors. I’m not sure if they know that I’m here. I didn’t go through the front gate where a guard would have called them to ask if I was authorized, but they probably have cameras somewhere that alert them to what’s happening on the property.
I reach for the brass knob, and the door opens without the slightest hint of objection. “Of course the stupid elitist pricks didn’t lock the door,” I grumble as I let myself in.
Surprisingly, no one comes running to intercept me. I call out hello a couple of times and give it a minute, but nothing happens. Well, that’s anticlimactic. Even if Magda and Gwen are somehow not here, they usually have a whole staff of maids and cooks running about. I look around, not sure what to do. As much as I’d love to tear through this entire house to find the grimoire, Rogan’s made it clear that we don’t have a ton of time. If only I were a Sanderson sister and could call the book with an enticing sing-song voice. Shit would be a hell of a lot easier if it would come floating out to me from wherever they’ve decided to hide it.
A round mahogany and glass table sits in the center of the foyer. I stroll over to it and grab the large vase of flowers from its middle. I double-check that Rogan still has Hoot in his arms, and then I chuck what is probably a Ming vase—that costs more than everything I own combined—at a gargantuan brocade mirror that’s hung on the wall of the entryway.
The sound of shattering glass slices through the quiet house like a knife. Shards of the vase and mirror crash to the marble tile below. Chunks of flowers and filler plop to the ground in a staccato of splats. And hurried footsteps pound in our direction.
“Well, that’s one way to get their attention,” Rogan observes behind me. He’s looking around at the house, but he doesn’t seem impressed or intimidated by the opulence; he just looks, surprise surprise, impatient.
“Theresa, what in the name of the equinox is going on in here?” my aunt demands as she rounds the corner, her lips pursed and her brows dipped with irritation. Her angry gaze lands on me, and she freezes mid-step. “How did you get in here?” she demands, her voice pinched and a little higher pitched. Her dreary gray-blue eyes widen with shock and a tinge of fear, and satisfaction warms me.
“You should really start locking your front door. Wealth doesn’t make you impervious to crime,” I tell her, just as a slight woman in a crisp blue dress and apron comes rushing into the foyer. She takes one look at the mess, then at me, crosses herself and then promptly leaves. I’m not sure if she’s making a break for it or just going to fetch a broom and a mop.
“You are not welcome here, leave,” my aunt growls, steeling her spine, but the panic in her gaze gives her away.
“Oh come on, Aunt Magda, aren’t you going to congratulate me?” I taunt, stepping closer to her. Glass crunches under my sneakers as I close the distance between us, and her whole body tenses.
“Mother, what is going on? I told you I need to study, but how am I supposed to do that if the maids can’t keep from destroying the house while they’re cleaning it?” a whiny shrill voice demands, and right on cue, my cousin Gwen rounds the corner.
Unlike her mother, she doesn’t seem to notice that she has an audience. Her petulant stare is fixed only on Magda, as though she’s solely responsible and needs to be taken to task. It isn’t until my aunt trains her anxious gaze on her daughter, that Gwen takes a moment to assess the scene. Bright blue eyes turn and take me in, but instead of fear, rage flashes in Gwen’s doe eyes.
“How dare you show your face here,” she seethes, stepping in my direction, her hands balling into fists at her sides. I’m uncertain if she’s about to throw a temper tantrum or a fist.
Rogan moves protectively closer to me, and both Magda and Gwen seem to notice him for the first time. Gwen stops, as though his presence has glamoured her and she’s forgotten what she was just about to do. Her mouth drops a little with surprise, but she recovers quickly and delicately presses her lips together in an annoyingly enticing way.
I want to look over at Rogan to see if he’s captivated and trapped by her obvious attraction, but I internally slap myself for caring. Gwen is beautiful. She’s all long red hair, legs for days, and the D cups that her mom bought her for graduation. But she’s a vapid, selfish, little twit, and if that gets Rogan the Ridiculous all hot and bothered, then more power to him, why should I care?
“Who are you?” Gwen asks, her voice breathy and missing all the acerbic bite that was just there for me.
I roll my eyes.
“Rogan Kendrick, and you are?” he asks, his tone dripping with manners he’s never bothered to use on me.
Outrage hammers through me, and I turn an offended look on him. “Are you serious?” I demand. “I get magic whammied, and she gets Southern charm?”