Page 128 of Shroom for Improvement

Sonny would come back. He’d told me as much. Even though he’d said he didn’t know when that would be. Months, probably, or years, or however long it took him to sort things out in Remy—publish his paper, speak with the dean of the university, sublet his apartment, whatever he needed to do.

I could just sit out the front of the house until he returned.

Maybe he might have forgotten something, and he’d have to turn the taxi back around.

Maybe what he’d forgotten was to tell me he loved me. And then I wouldn’t feel so guilty when I’d drop to my knees and beg him to stay. Beg him to stick around for the ritual. To choose me.

He wasn’t my father. He would be back.

There was a distant rumbling of tyres again, and the thing in my gut that told me Sonny would be back perked up. My heart started beating in triple time, my palms began sweating, adrenaline spiking, getting my body ready to run to him.

But the car rolling up the drive was blue.

Sonny had left in a black cab.

I wanted to lie on the ground and wail. It seemed like confirmation he wasn’t coming back. At least not today. But curiosity, and the weird way the wind seemed to silence itself, kept me on my feet.

The newcomer drove a convertible. Top down, even though the weather was mizzly and grey. There were two people in the car. Both men. One—the passenger—was fae, mater fae possibly. It was difficult to tell at a distance. He had long, platinum hair and his black eyebrows were knotted together in the centre. I didn’t recognise him. I did however, recognise the other guy.

The driver wore a navy suit, had green scales escaping from the collar of his jacket, and he was smiling manically. Cameron Greene, of Greene’s Property Management.

“What the fuck does this chump want now?” said John.

I did not have the wherewithal for politeness either.

“Mr Greene, your journey was wasted. I have not changed my mind,” I said, after the estate agent’s car pulled up to a stop six feet from where we stood.

“Good morning... John is it, these days?” the other man said, scowling at John from the passenger seat. If the fae had possessed the ability to throw flaming daggers from his eyes, John would have been toasted ribbons by now.

“Jacques,” John replied with a nod and an indecipherable quirk of his mouth.

The serpent shifter stepped out of the sports car and crossed the space to me. I didn’t extend my hand for him to shake. He didn’t extend his.

“Lord Stinkhorn, I’ve been trying to call you for days.”

“There has been an issue with the phone signal.” Like I was going to bother explaining Jenny’s depletion of power to this man. “My answer remains the same. I will not be selling Stinkhorn Manor, nor renting any part of the main house.”

Mr Greene nodded once, slipped his forked tongue over his top teeth, and gazed up and up at the closest turret. “Mmhmm. That is a shame. For you, I mean.” He tucked his hands into his front trouser pockets so his thumbs pointed towards his dick. “The building looks like a bunch of cocks, by the way. Did you know?”

“I’m acutely aware of that fact,” I said, mostly to myself.

The grand doors creaked open and Oggy peeked her head round. She eased herself through the gap. Willow followed.

“Mr Greene, Mr Rochefort?” Oggy said.

“What’s going on?” Willow said. Their sights flitted between Mr Greene and me, then John and the mysterious Jacques Rochefort.

“It’s okay, Oggy, Willow,” I said, looking at each of them. “These gentlemen were just leaving. I apologise for your wasted journey.”

Mr Greene laughed, hollow and patronising. Everything about him was patronising. His laugh, his expression, the “patient” hands he’d moved behind his back like a police officer. “Oh. Oh, no.” Hetsked. “No, no, that’s not the case. At all.”

“I’m not interested in selling,” I told him, firmer this time.

“That’s truly a pity, but unfortunately, the decision is no longer yours to make.”

“Excuse me?” I said, as Willow said, “You what?” and John said, “Oh, fuck off.”

Mr Greene’s smile split his features open. It slid from one ear to the other, slick and disquieting. I shivered. It was like an icy finger being dragged up my backbone.

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