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Peeled orange slices, dried fruits and nuts, bread and cheese, soup and pasta—they all frame a steaming pot of tea.
A section of the wall stands open. I hadn’t noticed any signs of a hidden room before. Walking inside, I gasp. Hurray for modern plumbing in a tower that looks ancient. I strip the charms from around my neck, the bracelets off my arms, and my clothes into a puddle on the floor before stepping into the steaming shower to wash away the portal grime.
The fluffy towels smell freshly laundered. Without any night clothes, I’ll need to borrow something. After rooting through the chest of drawers, I slip into a garment that’s probably a shirt but looks like a tent on me. It has two large slits in the back, but at least it covers all my important bits.
I pour a cup of tea, and floral scents swirl around me. Magical? Maybe. Or perhaps I’ve been through enough in the last twelve hours to enjoy a good meal and safe sleep.
Huey pecks at a bowl full of insects and other things I don’t want to guess at while I eat. I draw the tarot cards from my purse, but I’m too tired to ask for a sign.
With a full belly, I snuggle into Jace’s bed and inhale the scent of him. The beauty of working too many hours at the hospital? I can sleep almost anywhere.
I wake with memories of Lala’s voice floating through my mind: Don’t squeeze yourself into the boxes others would force you into. You’re meant to fly, my love. Flying had seemed so scary before. Perhaps I’d only needed a gargoyle, I think with a smile.
Golden sunshine streams through the window. As the sun begins to set, I venture from room to room. Across the hall, another large bedroom mirrors Jace’s. The armoire’s filled with soft joggers and leather pants, all hung neatly from hooks or folded with precision in stacks. Atticus’s room. It must be.
Does the gargoyle not own a shirt?
Unlike Jace, his twin doesn’t have a single collectible in sight. A chessboard sits atop a small table with the pieces on it moved as if someone’s mid-game, but I find no other clues as to his personality or his reading habits. A large roll-top desk with a chair occupies the same space Jace’s chest of drawers does in the opposite room.
Ooh, is this where he keeps his books?
Ready to snoop, I tug on the handle to see what he keeps inside. It doesn’t budge so I pull harder. It moves a fraction before snapping to stillness. Locked.
I wish I had my friend Ava’s lockpicking skills. While she grew up in a rich neighborhood with do-gooder blood and not a hint of criminal tendencies, her dad is a jokester who believed learning to pick a lock was simply a valuable life skill.
I miss my friends. Was Ava the one who had been stolen when a portal had opened without warning? Or had it been Meg? Was Val okay left alone with a demon? I take a steadying breath. Maybe using my wish to ask the Bridge to see Lala one more time is the height of selfishness. Perhaps I should wish for the time-manipulating elders to take me back to minutes before shit went sideways at the haunted house. Then I could save my friends. But I might not have met Jace or Atticus.
Guilt and indecision weigh on me, and I climb onto Atticus’s bed. It smells like laundry detergent. Not him. I roll onto my side and hug his pillow. Yeah, I’m messing up Rona’s hard work yet I kind of want to curl in a ball until I figure stuff out.
Huey flies in to perch on my hip, bouncing in place like the pity-party pooper he is.
“Hey little guy,” I whisper. He flaps his wings, flies in a circle, and thumps his head against my arm. He’s either the clumsiest owl ever or a true mood barometer who needs me to get up and over myself.
I venture on, finding another door on this floor. A locked door. “When I get back to my world, I’ve got to ask Ava to show me how she does it,” I tell Huey. I lift him to my shoulder, grab Lala’s tarot cards with plans to settle in with a snack and ask for a sign that my friends are okay, and wander downstairs before another mope-fest can set in.
On the ground floor, there’s a massive room with a fireplace that looks as though a couple of thrones would complete the castle look as well as a kitchen that seems very Vintage Country Homes magazine chic. Although I haven’t managed to catch sight of Rona again, proof of her magical cleaning touch is everywhere.
A knock at the door makes me remember that I haven’t worked up the nerve yet to meet the orc guard.
I probably should.
I’ve met gargoyles and a brownie without warning. How bad could an orc be? Clasping Lala’s tarot deck like a protection charm, I channel calm, inviting thoughts while ignoring memories of how the orcs looked in Lord of the Rings and one of Meg’s game designs.
I can do this. I’ve handled gangrene, boils, maggots, and more at work.
Besides, Huey seems to be ready for a nap on my shoulder. Nothing could be too stressful if it didn’t bother the nervous owl, right?
Plastering on a welcoming smile, I open the door. My tarot cards slip from my hand, fluttering and twisting in the breeze like fallen pieces of my hold on sanity.
Then I scream.
15
ATTICUS
FIVE OF SWORDS: SOMETIMES NO ONE WINS THE BATTLE
Rosemarie screams, and I fight the magic that keeps me trapped in stone. We are only moments before dusk, but I need to be with her now. The urge to protect her is more than the need to defend a queen. She’s our mate. I know it.
