Not that she couldn’t muster up the energy if she really wanted to, but she didn’t. Battle was just too much work. Too much running around. Fairly stupid when you thought about it. If there was a problem, talking it out and reaching a compromise got things done much faster and with a lot less funeral flowers. Those things were expensive.
She sighed, taking in the peaceful street. The pleasant night and soft green grass.
She half hoped Ivy House didn’t wake up at all. That it would keep its magic to itself, mostly dormant under that creepy old mausoleum. Because if it did pass its magic along to Jessie, it would draw all manner of masters, packs, clans, and mages. Poor O’Briens would be overrun. And every single one of those incoming strangers would compete for Jessie’s blessing and support. Wanting to choose which throne she’d sit on. Trying to plan her life for her.
Niamh grinned. Fat chance.
That lady was done with letting other people tell her what to do, Niamh had seen it in her eyes. Seen it in the way she’d ended their conversation abruptly and shown herself out. Seen it in her bearing. Jessie Evans had been through the grinder, and she’d made it out the other side tougher. Stronger. Less likely to deal with anyone’s crap. She might need a little convincing of that, but it was there.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t made her way back to Ivy House until midlife. Strength and vitality were lost on the young. They simply didn’t know what to do with it. They charged through doors and stuck people with knives and chased creatures with silver-tipped arrows, and at the end of it all, they didn’t learn a damned thing. Not one thing.
Give all that strength and vitality to someone with intelligence and experience?
Well. Now you had something.
Maybe fate had unfolded this way for a reason.
Niamh rocked slowly, thinking it all through. If the house unleashed its burden, she and Edgar and even that eejit Earl would have to take up their positions as Jessie’s protectors. They’d crush skulls and blast…
See, that was the thing. It had been so long, she couldn’t even remember all the violence she used to enact. What exactly would she blast once she’d dealt with the skulls? They’d be dead, case closed. Anything more would be overkill. Might as well pop a beer and have a victory chat instead.
What a hassle it all sounded like. The fountain of youth was a great idea and all, but she almost wondered if she’d rather just sit out here, rocking in her chair, and throw rocks at any Dicks and Janes that came to check out the old creepy house. It was a pleasant life. She had great aim.
She checked her watch. Half hour to go. Niamh wondered if Jessie would accept her invitation and head into town.
She hoped not. She’d bet Edgar a blood source that Jessie would stay in tonight, as befit someone her age. Janes had all these silly preconceived notions about what they could and could not do at various ages. Dress codes, hair styles, what body parts could and could not be shown. If Niamh lost, she’d have to lure a Dick back, and the older she got, it was becoming increasingly harder to find anyone that desperate for a nightcap. The young, stupid ones all thought they’d break her hip.
She also wondered what Austin Steele would think of the new addition to the town. Of all the people in the know, he was the last person who wanted the house’s magic delivered to its chosen. The very last.
The question was, if he tried to stop it, how would Niamh and the gang block him?
Six
I sat in a lovely velvet antique chair in my new room, the enormous master suite of the house. It had a high ceiling, a large ornate fireplace, and a stately four-poster bed with draping curtains. The table and chairs near the large bay window looked out over the labyrinth hedge maze, created with carefully tended and pruned bushes. Inside, a gorgeous red Persian rug covered part of the polished wood floor.
I was in heaven.
I would have never, in a million years, chosen this room for myself. I was the house’s caretaker, not its mistress. I did not belong in this room, no matter how much Mr. Tom—he refused to answer to Earl—insisted otherwise.
He’d led me into the room, paused, and then nodded. “I absolutely agree. Yes, this is the room. Excellent choice.”
“What?” I’d said, looking around. “I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t possibly—”
“There is no use arguing. The tour is over. You’re on your own. Good luck. I’ll get your things.”
I’d stood in his wake, dumbfounded. It was not easy to out-weird me, but this guy was the grand master of batshit crazy. I still didn’t have a clue who he’d been talking to. The beasties in his head, perhaps? That didn’t bode well for me. Unmarked grave, here I came.
Not to mention my “tour” had consisted of a staircase, and six of the twelve vacant bedrooms. I didn’t even know where the kitchen was.
Which, okay yes, was kind of awesome. I got to go exploring by myself. Looking in the nooks and crannies. Peering in cupboards. Hunting based on dusty memories made thirty years ago. If he wasn’t around, he couldn’t tell me no or warn me away. I was free to investigate my new surroundings without hindrance.
So here I was, in what was clearly Auntie Peggy’s bedroom, too afraid to argue with that nutcase Mr. Tom, and secretly delighted he didn’t expect me to.
The clock on my phone hit 7:53. I pushed away the dinner tray Mr. Tom had delivered to me earlier, every morsel eaten. The meal had been homemade and delicious, even more so because I hadn’t lifted a finger. Matt had always refused to learn to cook, leaving the task solely in my hands. Given that I hated cooking, and really hadn’t wanted to do it this evening, I couldn’t gush enough over Mr. Tom’s thoughtfulness. His oddity had been forgiven for the time being. The unmarked grave forgotten about. Mostly.
“What to do, what to do,” I said into the lofty surroundings.
Excitement swirled through my stomach. I felt like royalty. Or a rich person. This was easily the largest room I’d ever slept in.
I ran my thumb across my phone. I’d already FaceTimed with Jimmy so he could see the new digs, and vice versa. Although I’d helped him move into his dorm just a few weeks ago, it already looked like it had been through a tornado. He sounded excited, though—both for himself and for me—which took a weight off.
So now…I could find a home for my stuff, wander around the house, read, or…
I eyed my phone again. It was late to go out. I was usually heading home by eight o’clock. Matt had always liked to be in bed watching Sports Center by nine. Out of habit, I’d kept to our old schedule.
Why had I, though? I didn’t go to sleep until after ten if the book I was reading was halfway decent, and sometimes I’d stay up much later if I couldn’t put it down. Besides, Niamh was twice my age. If she could head out at eight, why couldn’t I? It’s not like I was tired…
Okay, yes, I was tired.
But it would probably take me a long time to fall asleep in this creaky old house…
Except I felt comfortable here, more comfortable than I ever had in the house I’d lived in with Matt. I felt…calm. Content. The divorce was final, Jimmy was doing well, the house payments were gone…
I felt liberated! It finally occurred to me that I could do whatever I wanted—even have ice cream for dinner if I wanted.
Screw it, I wanted to go out.
I would go have a drink with the rock-throwing granny across the street. There were worse ways to spend my time. Like hang out with Mr. Tom and probably get told a new name to call him.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I looked around for my purse. The antique wood furniture, well-made with exquisite carvings, held all manner of interesting figurines and trinkets, but no purse. The coat rack was empty. The little table by the door had a plate holding the enormous key, but no handbag to put it in.
“Are you going out, ma’am?”
I jumped, spun, and held out a hand like a karate chop. I didn’t know karate, but sometimes a good bluff was the ticket.
“Yes,” I answered, dropping the hand within his unimpressed stare. “Where’s my handbag—oh.” I took it from his white gloved hand. For some inexplicable reason, he’d changed from his moth-eaten, tattered suit to a moth-eaten tux. He wasn’t much of a sweats guy, it seemed. His cape still hung down his back.
“You’re really into super heroes, huh?” I asked, pointing at the cape.
“Super heroes were created by miserable Dicks who can live greatness only through the page. I live it through my life.”
Oh super. He was delusional. I’d definitely be buried in the yard before all this was over.
“Okay, well…” I held up my purse for a moment. “Thanks for grabbing my—”
“You’ll want a light jacket, ma’am.” He left the room.
I waited for a moment, wondering if he planned to grab one. He’d grabbed my purse, after all. But since all my clothes were up in my room, and he wasn’t climbing either of the curved stairwells to the landing over the massive archway, it wasn’t likely. Besides, we were inland near the Sierras—the temperature didn’t drop that much or fast. I’d be fine. The alcohol would keep me warm.
I tucked the key into my purse, frowned at the weight, and let myself out. Was changing the locks out of the question? I’d have to wear that key in a holster when I went jogging.