I grow a little self-conscious, even though she isn’t staring at me like I’m losing my marbles. Far from it. She looks excited. Intrigued.
So fucking dangerous.
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. I don’t tell her the house had teleported me—though I’m still not sure how—outside from the study, coincidentally at the same time Rosemary must’ve arrived.
Her lips part slightly. I stare at the fullness of them, glistening with a touch of lip balm, the seams wet and pink. She’d stopped using lip gloss in second year, the first time she’d splurged on some fancy, expensive Aloe Vera thing and never looked back. She’d been drawn to the bright green packaging, I recall, and feel the exact same pulse of fondness now that I’d felt then.
I want to suck that full lower lip into my mouth, make it glisten with my saliva instead. Dig my blunt human teeth—because, psychotically, it would takemoreeffort—into that soft flesh until I taste blood.
My hands drop into my lap as my claws pop out. I fist them tight, ignoring the way they dig mercilessly into my palms. Blood seeps from the wounds, soaking into the thankfully dark material of my shorts.
“Has it always been sentient?” Rosemary wonders, oblivious. “Do you know for how long?”
“Unfortunately, no.” I tilt my head, trying to parse her expression. “I take it it’s not a common thing?”
“Not at all.” She takes a breath. “It’s not even … allowed.”
I snort. “Who has the authority on that?”
She shrugs. “Powerful coven in Lagos—the largest and most influential in Nigeria. They dole out magical “law”, and have mediators in each state sent to execute those laws and maintain the “balance” between the magical and not.” She says it sardonically. I make an amused but understanding noise. I guess, like every other organisation with power, they sling that power around without a care for who it might hurt, and rarely do what they’re supposed to.
“And they hate sentient houses for some reason.”
It’s Rosemary’s turn to look amused. I want to see her full radiant smile so badly it has me digging my claws in harder until they meet bone. Pain has been such a constant in my life for the past few months that I barely flinch.
“For a house to be sentient, that means a lot of really old, really powerful … eshé.”
One eyebrow lifts. “Spiritual … current?”
“If you want to be literal,” she says with a smile. She leans forward, then back. Uses her middle and pointer fingers to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her scent is fizzy like popped champagne. “Sorry, I’ve never told anyone about this before.”
“Have you not?” I say casually, trying not to let the confession affect me. It means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but the ever-possessive beast covets it, a precious first that belongs only to me.
“I haven’t.” Her glasses are sitting properly, but she still gives them a little tap with the same fingers as before. I catalogue thenew nervous gesture with barely-masked greed. “On the surface, eshé might literally mean spiritual current, but for oerhwus, it goes deeper than that. It’s the element that creates, sustains, and surrounds all life. It’s the air we breathe. It’s energy or vibrations or auras. Some oerhwus believe it’s the presence of the gods all around us. Everything, both alive and not, has its own eshé to varying degrees. The ability to sort of, tap into this current and harness it, is what makes an oerhwu.”
“And you’re saying the house has enough of its own … eshé, to make it sentient?”
She nods. “The issue is, eshé that ancient and concentrated can often be … unstable …” Her eyes widen. “Yourhousemust’ve called me here.” Her voice is bright with wonder and a little bit of accusation. Then she frowns. “Wait, no. That makes no sense. Unless … does the house have a rotary phone? It needs to have a strong connection to whatever it used to communicate with me—possibly something attached to the actual building that it can manipulate since it doesn’t have a mouth,” she explains with a barely-there smile.
My eyebrow lifts. That sounds wild as fuck. “Not that I know of, no.”
“Whywouldyour house call me here?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I don’t know why this house does anything. If my grandmother hadn’t warned me, I’d have thought the place was haunted. Granted, it’d be the least threatening haunting on earth, but still.
“If the house did call me here, then it isn’t going to let me leave until I figure out what it wants.” Rosemary already looks lost in thought. “Itwouldmake sense why my call to the shannko didn’t work,” she mutters to herself. I feel another deep pulse of fondness—a sweet ache underneath my breastbone. “But if the eshé doesn’t belong to her but the house instead, then—”
I stop listening. My heart has started to pound, and sweat forms on my temples as I come to my own realisation.
What if the househadcalled her here—because ofme?
But why would it do that? And how can I be sure?
Why would it evencare?
I think of sticky floors when first I’d arrived yesterday afternoon and tried to go up the stairs, each step more adhesive than the last. When I’d first felt that strange presence coming from the attic, but the hatch had refused to budge—the wood refused to even dent or crack, no matter how hard I’d punched and clawed at it using my supernatural strength.
Then last night, when I could’ve sworn I felt a powerful pressure around my throat, threatening to crush my windpipe. A root, serrated and jagged, sawing through my chest. I’d choked and clawed at frail, invisible hands, but the grip had been unrelenting, the pain in my chest so unbearable tears had spilled down my cheeks.
