“I don’t need details.” She pretended to heave. “Really, I don’t.”
I took the plate she offered me then poured us both mugs of coffee and carried it all to the bar.
“What brings you by so early?” I took a bite of garden omelet and groaned. “Not that I mind if you want to do this for me every night.”
“You only think it tastes good because you’ve been living on oatmeal. Trust me, no one else will eat my cooking. You leave a few eggshells in one time, and suddenly you’ve earned a spot on Worst Cooks in America.” She tucked into her meal. “I wanted to make sure after everything that’s happened you’re still okay with taking my shifts tonight.”
“I gotcha covered.” I waved away her concern. “Did you find out where you’re going yet?”
“Nope.” She glared at her fork. “I asked my folks again, and they fed me more super-secret Pritchard family gobbledygook.”
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable. Amelie noticed and pounced.
“What’s got you so twitchy?” Her nose wrinkled. “Unless my brother is the reason you can’t sit still on a hard surface. That you can take to your grave.”
Glowering at her, I resisted the urge to defend my honor and stabbed a tomato instead. “I heard the Society is about to name a new Grande Dame.”
“Boaz told me about the invitation.” Amelie shoved her plate of half-eaten food away. I couldn’t tell if she didn’t like her own cooking or if the topic had turned her stomach. Either way, I was making eyes at her omelet. “She’s got balls to issue you an invitation. I hope they turn blue waiting on you to show up to her soiree.”
“Will your family attend?” Her mother, Annabeth Pritchard, served as matron of their family. The voices of Low Society members might not be heard as clearly as those of the High Society, but the swearing-in of a new Grande Dame was meant to bridge the gap between classes. “You can take notes and report back to me.”
“I doubt I’ll go.” She shrugged. “I’ll ask my folks for the highlights.”
“What about Boaz?” He looked good in a penguin suit, even if he hated acting grown-up long enough to tie his patent leather shoes.
“None of us want him set free in a room full of people who turned the other cheek while you were sentenced.” She wrapped her hands around her warm mug. “He’s spent five years learning how to kill, and our parents want to keep his itchy trigger finger scratched in other ways.”
Her comment swept chills down my arms. “What exactly does Boaz do for the army?”
“That’s classified,” he growled from the doorway. “Amelie, it’s time to go.”
“Really, Woolly?” I kicked the back of the bar with the ball of my foot. “Do I even get a say in who comes in my house?”
The lights flickered and died until the only sound left in the kitchen was the hum of major appliances.
“You forget, she is the house.” Boaz crossed to me, his eyesight keen in the dark, and tugged on the sleeve of my shirt before grazing my flannel-covered thigh with his fingertips. “This is a good look for you, but the idea was to wear only what I left you.”
“All I saw was the T-shirt.”
Leaning close, he breathed me in, and his breath tickled the shell of my ear. “Exactly.”
“Ugh.” Amelie carried her dishes to the sink then fed her omelet to the disposal. “I’m out.”
A horn honked loud enough to convince me Boaz had left the front door open. “Have they given you the scoop?”
“Nope.” He rolled his eyes. “They won’t even share the location, so we’re all riding together.”
“The family that conducts dark rites together stays together?” I shoveled in another mouthful of omelet. “Don’t sacrifice too many virgins. Your parents probably had to special order them from out of town now that you’re back.”
“There’s only one virgin I’m interested in sacrificing,” he purred.
The skin on my face ignited like the surface of the sun, and I was grateful for the darkness. The jerk might see my expression, but he couldn’t pick out the red splotches rouging my cheeks.
“You are not sheathing your ceremonial dagger in my—” I finished lamely “—sheath.”
“You’re so cute.” His teeth closed over my pulse. “I could eat you up.”
“I’m a virgin, not an idiot. I grasp double entendres just fine.”
“I bet you do.”
Spinning the fork on my palm, I jabbed him in the abs, and he jumped back while I cackled. “Shoo fly, don’t bother me.”
“You’re a cruel woman, Grier Woolworth.” He clutched his gut like I’d disemboweled him instead of checking him for doneness. “You’re lucky I like claws. The more you scratch me, the worse the itch gets.”
Short blasts from a car horn had him cursing under his breath.
“Maybe you should consult a dermatologist.” I smiled as sweet as you please. “Or maybe a vet since you’ve developed some odd cat fetish? Or would that require a psychiatrist?”
“We’ll finish this later.” He darted in and ruffled my hair. “Later, Squirt.”
I bared my teeth and hissed at him just to hear him laugh his way out the door.
Sadly, my antics didn’t amuse Woolly. She remained stubbornly silent while I rinsed the dishes. Mourning the loss of Amelie’s omelet, I put away the supplies littered across the counter. I reserved a few slivers of tomato and carried those into the living room. Keet, diurnal by nature, was snoozing on his perch when I popped in to check on him and left him with his treat.
The skin at my nape prickled when I stepped out onto the front porch, and Woolly didn’t rouse herself to protest against my exit. Usually I got a slamming door or flickering porchlight—some outward indication she was in a tizzy over me leaving.
The absolute stillness disturbed me enough I reached for the wards on instinct. A skull-rattling pain sliced through my scalp, and I gasped through the resonations that almost sent me crashing to my knees. The normally radiant song of her consciousness had quieted until I had to strain to make out even a note, and still she hadn’t cried out in those final moments. Maybe because she couldn’t.
An oily blackness clung to the back door, seeping underneath and spilling across the hardwood planks.
This was no temper tantrum. The wards had been breached. Woolly was… She was… Silent.
I took a running start and jumped off the porch into the yard, keeping a mental eye on the intruder. I shoved into the carriage house, retrieved the key and battled with the smallest trunk to retrieve Maud’s bag. This time the trunk behaved, so I set the bag on its lid and opened the ink to dip the brush for the sigil required to deepen my perception. Not waiting for it to dry, I pocketed the ink and the brush then charged back into the house.
The greasy taint stained the door leading down into the basement, but a quick check of its knob assured me the wards sealing off Maud’s private laboratory remained secure. She had refreshed the wards protecting her sanctuary each night with blood straight from the vein. I doubted anything could crack the magic seal—I couldn’t—but it made me uneasy that this thing had tried.
Glimmers of spent magic sparkled out of the corner of my eye. Under the sigil’s influence, the intruder left a shimmering slug trail of dark energy. I painted a few sigils for safety on my arm, but that was all the protection my weakened powers offered.
A panicked chirrup caused my heartbeat to skip, and I bolted into the living room to face the intruder.
Or not face him. He didn’t have one. A mass of undulating robes whipped in an unfelt breeze. The wraith sensed me and whirled, its hood as empty as eternity. In his fist, he clutched Keet. Droppings oozed through his spectral fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“Release him,” I ordered, advancing on the wraith. “Let him go, and I won’t banish you.”