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“So, what was all this about then?” I wave my arms around the garden, which is now a shallow swamp of semi-translucent semen.
“You have my eternal gratitude for relieving me of my burden.”
“I only sucked your cock because I thought you’d hidden Norbert’s body.”
The Boogie Man grimaces because he knows. Knows he obtained a blow job under false pretenses. Knows that he wasted time that could have been spent searching for Norbert. Knows that I’ll get the blame for something else he’s done.
“You lied to me,” I say.
His features fall. “Alienor.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
I wade through the ankle-deep fluid toward the cottage, and pause at the door, my heart pounding hard enough to burst my eardrums.
The Boogie Man hovers several feet away, looking like a lost puppy.
Fuck him.
And his huge dick.
I fling the cottage door open, expecting a deluge of cum to cascade across its stone floor, but the magical barrier keeps the semen at bay.
Thank the goddess for small mercies.
Without a backward glance, I step inside and kick the door shut.
“Shit,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “If the Boogie Man doesn’t have Norbert’s body, then who?”
I pace the room, covering the floor in damp footsteps and splatters of spooge.
It can’t be Grandma. Grandma was the one who found the hollow in the compost heap. If she knew that was where I had buried a body, she sure as hell wouldn’t complain about it in the middle of a public store.
Aggie? I shake my head.
Aggie is so desperate for the return of her broomstick that she wouldn’t hold back such a vital piece of blackmail. Besides, she wasn’t even on the grounds last night.
And it certainly wasn’t me because I was awake the entire night and never returned to the heap.
I run a trembling hand through my hair. “Now, I’m starting to believe the family’s bullshit that I’m a sleepwalker.”
A frantic bark pulls me out of my musings.
The hound has returned.
Is he fighting the Boogie Man?
I jog to the door, ready to defend the hound. When I fling it open, I find the poor creature shivering on my doorstep, his fur glistening with fluid.
“You’re drenched.” I place a hand on his shoulder and guide him into the cottage.
The hound hesitates at the doorstep and makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat. He’s scared and confused and in desperate need of a bath.
“Come on, boy,” I try to keep my voice even.
It’s not the hound’s fault that the Boogie Man continually gets me into trouble. I can’t even blame the creature for not being there to offer me protection from the man who wants me dead by any means.
The hound’s gaze wanders to the kitchen cupboards, where he knows there are lots of preserved meats.
