He glares at me, doubling down on the snake-charmer smile. Combined with the crunchy hair and ruined shirt, he’s definitely in the running for Guy Most Likely To Buy Alcohol For Teenagers In Hopes of Getting a Handjob.
Trust me, I know the type.
“You may have my sister fooled,” I seethe, “but she’ll figure you out soon enough. And when she does, you’d better?—”
His hand shoots out and grabs my arm, and the wine glass falls to the ground, shattering. His rage is nearly as overpowering as that cologne. “Careful, Miss Bonnivarde. Very easy to lose one’s footing down here, as we’ve established. Mind the glass.”
He holds my gaze a beat longer to hammer home the message, then finally shoves me away, and off he fucks, buttoning up his suit jacket to hide the stain and trotting up the stairs, his pretty-boy Italian shoes tapping on the rickety old wood.
“What a moldytwat,” I say. Maybe louder than necessary. The twat pauses mid-step, clears his throat, then continues on.
A faint flash from the corner of my eye, and I turn, expecting to see Calista.
But it’sher.
My mother.
She doesn’t acknowledge my presence.
She’s glaring in the direction Nathan Killroy went.
And in her trembling hand, she’s holding a knife.
fifteen
MERRICK
Tucked into the darkest, dustiest corner of my beloved archives, seated at a battered oak library table across from Warren and Oliver, I attempt to relay the utter, absolute shit show that is Graves Hollow and the Bonnivarde three. Saying it all out loud, trying to piece it together into some semblance of a story, I’m left to wonder once again why this heinously impossible task was appointed to me.
Bitterness ensues.
Being back here again, cast as we are in the soft familiar glow of the green bankers’ lamps, hemmed in on all sides by books, dust motes dancing in the air, my singular wish is that I might return to my research, to the true task of my heart rather than entertaining the whims of a capricious overlord who dangles freedom like a carrot, yet only ever delivers the stick.
Still. Despite my well-earned frustrations, I find myself thinking, of all things, of Miss Bonnivarde. Wondering what she’d make of this place. How it would look through her inquisitive eyes. Would she run her fingers along the bookspines, as I have done on so many occasions? Would she remark upon the vaulted ceilings bewitched to look like a stormy sky? The cerulean mosaic tile flooring? The endlessly fascinating architectural marvels of men stolen from her realm and brought to ours to house this most precious collection of sacred, arcane knowledge?
Would she ask me to read for her? Would she sit beside me near the hearth, glass of wine and notorious marijuana cigarette in hand, and allow me to weave for her a dark and dreamy fantasy that leaves her breathless and enraptured, wholly transformed?
If I close my eyes, I can almost feel her presence, see that long blonde hair trailing her round the next shelf…
Alas. The daydream is nothing but a cruel tease. One in which I don’t have the luxury of indulging.
I finish my initial report. My companions seem especially distressed.
We’re all three in our demonic forms, black as night, horned, shadows gathering close. Beneath the glow of the lamps, we look even more ominous; a Renaissance painting of Hell brought to startling life.
“If the hunters are active again,” says Warren, “your witches are in grave danger, Merri.”
“I’m aware.”
“Quite the clusterfuck, innit?” Oliver rises from his chair, pacing. “These girls need to understand and learn their magic in order to protect themselves and stabilize the portal. But they need the grimoire if they want a bloody chance. And the men who most want their heads on a pike?—”
“Iwon’tlet that happen,” I say.
“Point is, the bastards who pose the most immediate threat are the same fucks who stole the spell book. Right? So how areyou proposing they get it back? Saunter into the lion’s den like three pieces of raw meat?”
“What’s their angle, you think?” Warren asks. “The hunters, I mean. Use the grimoire to lure the witches out of hiding?”
“They’re notinhiding,” I reply. “The witches have made no secret about their arrival in Grave’s Hollow. They’re working with professionals on settling the estate, selling the home… There are no shortage of people who know exactly where they are at all times, just as the hunters knew where Evelyn was. If they wished it, the hunters could execute the witches this evening.” The thought sends a chill through my very bones. I shake my head, adamant. “No. If they wanted to eradicate the line, they could’ve easily done so by now.”
