Page 94 of Love at First Fright

“Brilliant,” Brad said flatly. “Does it have pictures?”

Charlie ignored the sarcasm, scrambling to his feet. “Hold on, I’ll go get it.”

He left his pasta untouched, racing from the kitchen with a shocking amount of enthusiasm. I stared mournfully at the abandoned bowl. Still steaming. Smelling like garlic and butter and everything I’d forgotten about being alive.

Brad held his fork out at me like he’d stab me with it if I tried.

I hissed at him.

“Piss off, you mangy—”

Charlie burst back in, slamming a book down on the table with dramatic flair.

The Grim History of Grimthorne.

I groaned. Well, attempted to. It came out as more of a strangled mewl.

Bloody hell. It had been a while, but I did know that book. Hadn’t read it—only heard of it when, years ago, the author had somehow breached the perimeter to come to the door, begging to be allowed entry to take photos. The owners at the time had slammed the door in his face. I’d watched from the library window, amused by his persistence as he argued through the letterbox.

Charlie dropped back into his seat, vibrating with excitement. “The priest I spoke to mentioned this guy. Alan Cromwell. Apparently he wrote all about ‘The Witch of Grimthorne.’”

Brad tilted his head, actually looking interested for once. “Huh.” He shovelled down another spoonful of pasta. “Nice one, Chaz. This could definitely be the work of a witch.”

I tried to roll my eyes but found I couldn’t. Bloody cat physiology. There was no “Witch of Grimthorne” haunting this manor, unless Alan was counting Lady G, and she’d hex him into next week for the suggestion.

But for some inexplicable reason, Charlie beamed with pride.

My tail lashed. I almost bit him to remind him that Brad was a twat and we didn’t care about his opinion. My poor, lovely Charlie, clearly so starved for approval he’d lap up even the tiniest crumb from this homophobic rugby has-been.

But fuck, now that I knew Charlie enjoyed being praised, I couldn’t stop the thoughts from flooding my mind. Oh, what I would do to tell him how good he looked on his knees for me, watch him go pink and needy from nothing but my voice. What I would do to play him like an instrument, to work him up so slowly, praising every whimper and moan until he fell apart for me.

My fantasy was interrupted by something terrible happening.

Brad slid his bowl next to Charlie’s and moved to sit next to him.

For a horrible moment, their arms brushed.

Brad lurched his arm away like Charlie had the plague.

I couldn’t help it. A hiss tore from my throat before I could stop it.

“Shh,” Charlie soothed, petting my head. His fingers stroked behind my ears, and I melted despite myself. “You’re all right.”

The two of them started poring over the book, heads bent close together. Too close. I didn’t like it. Didn’t like Brad’s thick fingers turning pages that Charlie should’ve been reading alone. Didn’t like the way Charlie leaned in, eager and attentive.

I couldn’t get a good enough view to read it, even when I climbed onto Charlie’s lap, kneading his thighs.

Luckily, Brad enjoyed narrating.

“We know all this. Grimthorne Manor was built in seventeen forty-seven by Lord Reginald Grimthorne.” Brad’s finger traced the text. “Classic Georgian architecture, blah blah blah. Oh, here we go. ‘Local legend speaks of a witch who cursed the Grimthorne line after Lord Reginald’s son refused to marry her.’”

“Scandalous!” said Charlie. “Though I’m sure there was more to the tale than that.”

Brad turned the page. “Says here she lived on the outskirts of the village. Margery Darke.” He snorted. “Great name for a witch. ‘Villagers reported missing livestock and pets in the months following the rejection. Children fell ill with mysterious fevers. Crops failed.’”

Charlie leaned closer, squinting at the text. “That all sounds a bit… I mean, what exactly are Alan Cromwell’s sources for all this?”

“It gets better,” Brad said, grin spreading across his face. “Listen to this. ‘Margery was known to lure men to her cottage with promises of ale and comfort, only to bewitch them into her bed. Many a husband returned home in the early morning hours, unable to recall the night’s events, smelling of herbs and sin.’”