Page 20 of Mortdale

“Coming!” I shouted, crawling to the door and pulling it open just a little.

The butler’s attention dropped down to the floor. “The lady’s maid will bring a few of late lady Duncan’s dresses for you to wear until you’re fitted for your own.”

I was still cradling by burning eyeballs. “Awesome. I love stuff from dead people.” When he stared emptily at me, I felt obliged to explain myself, so he didn’t think I was weird or anything like that. “I only meant things like shoes, dresses, flat bones—irregular are fine, too—and hyoids are nice if you have some of those. I was sort of building a humble collection back home.” I gave him a big grin. “I’m good with just fingernails and toenails, though. If hyoids are too hard to procure. I know they can be sometimes.”

Sure, most people had good hyoids, but toenails? A good big toenail? Like searching for a hangnail in a fungal nail clippings stack. It was Ethel’s turn to take joy from my hours upon hours of searching through the markets for the perfect variety.

“I’ll see what I can do, my lady.” The butler just stared down at me, not blinking once. “Might I inquire as to why you’re on the floor?”

Stretching a leg back, I gave him a smile. He was much more agreeable than his lordship. Very kind and wrinkled grey eyes, a soft gray moustache that matched his sparse hair. “Light exercise. A witch must stretch or the curse of contracture will befall upon her.”

He nodded. “I’ll bring you an egg for your forehead.”

Ashamed, I ducked back inside and rushed to get into the hot bath, only stopping when I noticed a massive faucet hanging on the wall over a tiled surface. No. This couldn’t be real.

I held a hand to my chest. Frightened. Alone. “I’ve been sentenced to have showers until my death.”

There was no shower curtain. No curtains anywhere at all. And the towels? They were miniscule. About the size of a napkin.

“What in the name of Lady Death is happening here?”

My eyes widened and my mouth dropped wide open. “He’s penniless.”

My face crumpled up in a cringe with every step I took down the incredibly loud main wooden stairs. They creaked even worse when I tried not to make a noise. I’d never been so relieved to touch tiles as I’d been when I stepped into the entry hall towards another open area just across an archway, where Christof was pointing.

I noticed then that the windows were bare and the table was laid without a table cloth, too. All the cutlery and tableware laid against napkins, assaulting the impeccable dark-wooded grain.

My brand-new husband was in a black military uniform with a neat line of awards lining both sides of his chest. His pale blond hair was combed back and away from his face, and it made him even a more devastating sight. When the tip of my ear itched and burned, I wondered if Moira was badmouthing me for stealing some of her luck.

His eyes lifted over the rim of the newspaper he was reading. He gave me a long look, starting at the tip of my green flats and ending at the hair sticking out of the lousy updo I had put together at the last minute in a fruitless attempt to look less of a mess. The dress I’d been given had been clearly made for a shorter woman with ample curves because my ribcage kept rattling against the corset like a penny in an empty can every time I moved. And the hem? My bony ankles were going to poke someone in the eye.

The red-haired, freckled young man next to him dropped the knife he was sharpening to stare at me. “Why’s your witch bleeding?”

Shit.

I tipped my head up, patting a hand all over the dinner table to locate a napkin. But the second I extended my arm, the sleeve ripped under my armpit and the high-stand collar dug into my throat, suffocating me. In a futile attempt to breathe, I inhaled the blood down my windpipe. Now the witch was choking and bleeding at the same time.

The witch was going blind, too, because the sun vanished for a second. A hand slid behind my head, tipping it forward and letting me bleed into the napkin he held. And a shiver travelled down my spine when he brushed his thumb back and forth my scalp. What the Hell?

His gaze had narrowed on me. “You weren’t lying.”

I sniffled until I felt the taste of blood hit the back of my throat again. “Wait until you see what other tricks I have up my sleeve.”

His hand slid from the back of my head, his fingers pulling through my hair, setting loose a few strands as he stepped back.

“I thought you were a mouse,” the young man sitting beside Logan said, leaning back in his chair and giving me a toothy grin with a full view of his fangs. I’d not seen him amongst his patronage. He looked no older than twenty, though his hands were callused enough to know he’d been wielding weapons for a while now despite his young years.

Speaking of rodents.

I glanced under the table. “Thomas?” I whispered.

Where had he disappeared to? I was sure I’d seen him hop onto the carriage before we’d left the coven.

Well, he’d find me eventually. All familiars could track their bonded. I was only hoping no one killed him because considering how clean this house was, he’d have trouble finding a new ratty host—his preferred manner of transportation in this earthly realm.

“Sit and eat,” Logan said, lowering the newspaper to pull out the chair closest to him. “Liam was about to leave.”

“No, I wasn’t.” His friend—I presumed—slowly nodded, still regarding me. “You’re not so bad for a witch.”