“Well, here’s to dodging another embarrassing encounter.” Zoe tapped her coffee cup into mine.
Cheers to that.Caden was trouble. The literal definition of hot and cold, goading me all night until I cracked then acting the hero in the middle of a stampede. And what had he meant when he said, “I don’t hate you. That’s not what this is?” What was it then?His words had implied some ulterior rationale I had no knowledge of. It was beyond frustrating.
Zoe covered a yawn with her hand. “All right, I just wanted to check on you after last night. I’m going back to the dorms to try to make up for some of my lost sleep. The country club is closed until the police finish with their investigation, so I don’t have a shift tonight. Call me later?”
“Of course. Let’s watch a movie or something.”
“Fine, but I get to pick. No horror movies. A cheesy romantic comedy. I need something fluffy after what happened.”
“Deal.”
Zoe headed for the exit while I returned my stack of books to the shelves. I checked out the one with the old photograph of Clarke Manor—it could be worth examining it again later. There might be something I missed.
Halfway to my car, my phone buzzed. I eagerly retrieved it from my pocket, thinking it might be a text from Ivy. I tapped the screen. It was a text, but not from my cousin. The blocked number was followed by a familiar address—one I’d just seen in the book currently stowed against my hip.
A blast of chilly air speared through my sweater, tossing a scattering of dried leaves around my ankles. All around me, students walked by, their heads down, braced against the wind. They scrolled through their phones, completely oblivious to the supernatural undercurrent that had marked their university.
“We’re waiting for you . . .”
The faint words ghosted past my ears. A tingle of curiosity prickled my spine.
I sucked down the rest of my coffee and straightened my shoulders. A little exploration couldn’t hurt. That was all I’d do. Check out the house and then head back to my dorm room to study for my midterms. Maybe take a nap before meeting up with Zoe.
It was that or look for another job.
Ghosts and a creepy text won.
***
The dirt drive leading to Clarke Manor didn’t look any more inviting during the day than it did at night. I double-checked the address on my phone and turned slowly down the lane. My car bumped over each rut, almost bottoming out at one point. Weeds scraped alongside the doors as I tried to stay inside the worn tracks.
About a hundred yards in, a rusted metal gate appeared, separating the end of the drive from the entrance to a looming three-storied manor. I peered through the windshield and between the metal slats, my features scrunched in horror. The place looked nothing like the photo from the history book. What had once been an architectural jewel sitting beneath stunning oak trees and swaths of hanging wisteria was now a crumbling residence with broken windows and a cracked stone staircase. The trees and vines were overgrown, almost suffocating as they blocked rays of sunlight from reaching the ground. If I didn’t get tetanus from the gate, the house would likely fall on my head, burying me beneath the rubble, and there was no one around to hear me scream.
I put the car in park and stepped out, planting my boots in weeds so thick I couldn’t see my ankles. The crisp scent of fall invaded my senses as I waded through the brush toward the gate. Out of habit, I pressed the lock button on my key fob, and over my shoulder the car beeped. It was almost comical. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The alarm was basically a squirrel deterrent at this point.
Iron spikes ornamented the bars of the gate, which were enclosed by a thick chain. The padlock was open, so I unwound the chain, metal clinking against metal, then pushed against the left side of the gate. The hinges screeched, sending up a flock of crows into the trees.
“Hello?” I walked toward the house looking for any sign of habitation. Glancing up at the second story, I searched the windows for movement, noting the way the creeping vines covered a wide swath like a leafy eye patch. Someone could watch me approach from behind those twisting stalks. An icy chill penetrated my cable-knit sweater. I rubbed my arms to banish the goose bumps.
A low hum of energy surrounded the estate, growing in intensity the closer I got to the house. It wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone else, but to a witch it felt like static shocks against my skin. The kind you feel when touching a doorknob after walking across the carpet in your socks.
Climbing to the top of the stone steps, I cupped my hands around my face and peered through the grimy windowpanes. Inside, dust cloths draped the furniture of a small sitting room. A hearth sat cold and dark against one wall, soot blackening the brick.
The house didn’t appear lived-in, but I took a deep breath and pounded my fist on the door just in case.
“Hello? Is anyone home?” I pressed my ear to the door.
When no one answered, I tried the handle, and the knob twisted easily beneath my fingers. Wrinkling my nose at the moldy air, I took my first step across the threshold.
“I’m looking for the owner,” I shouted, my voice echoing down the empty hall.
This was pointless. There was no one here. I’d made a big deal out of the Spellwork symbol and finding the demon mark, thinking the two were connected. As if I would waltz inside the manor and find a team of investigators huddled around a billiard table, sharing theories and sharpening pool cues.
I wandered deeper into the house. My boots left prints in the dust coating the floor. Peeling wallpaper clung to the walls, and water stains darkened the floorboards. I gazed up at the plaster ceiling, noting the water stains there too.
Considering the damage, the house should be condemned—and maybe it was and I’d just missed the sign. If this had ever been a gathering place for witches, it wasn’t now. Any lingering magic must be remnants from another time.
Another century, if you ask me.
