Page 10 of Poison Ivy
The dingy pub reeks of stale beer and desperation. I nurse my lukewarm pint, feeling every bit of my eighteen years. The fake ID that got me through the door is unnecessary now it’s my birthday, but old habits die hard.
“Another round.” A burly guy at the bar slurs, slamming his empty glass down.
I roll my eyes. It’s barely past noon, and these idiots are already three sheets to the wind. But who am I to judge? I’m here day-drinking, too, albeit for different reasons.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it, knowing it’s Aunt Cathy. The fight we had was rabid, and while I get that she only took me in because her brother and his wife died, a little compassion wouldn’t fucking hurt on days like today. “Moping around,” I mutter her words to me. “Well, excuuuuse me for having feelings, fucking cunt.”
“This seat taken?”
I look up to see a woman sliding onto the barstool next to me. She’s gorgeous in that untouchable way—all sleek lines and sharp edges. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and her piercing green eyes seem to look right through me. She adjusts her black suit jacket and brushes off her matching pants.
“It’s a free country,” I mutter, taking another swig of my beer.
She smirks, signalling the bartender. “Whisky. Neat.”
I raise an eyebrow. She’s going straight for the hard stuff. Respect.
“Rough day?” I drawl, unable to contain my curiosity.
She turns those laser-focus eyes on me. “You could say that. But I think you’re having a rougher one, Ivy Hammond.”
I freeze, my pint halfway to my lips. “How do you know my name?”
Her smirk grows wider. “I know a lot of things about you, Ivy. I know you’re days away from attending Thornfield Academy, and I know you’re looking for answers about what happened to your parents.”
My heart rate kicks up a notch, but I keep my face carefully blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She leans in close. “Cut the crap, Ivy. We both know you’ve been digging into their deaths.”
I jerk away from her, nearly toppling off my stool. “Who the fuck are you? And who is ‘we’?”
“Someone who can give you the answers you’re lookingfor,” she says calmly, taking a sip of her whisky. “And maybe a chance at justice, if you’re interested.”
I narrow my eyes. “And why should I trust you?”
She shrugs. “You shouldn’t. But what have you got to lose?”
She’s right—I have fuck all to lose at this point. My parents are dead, my aunt barely tolerates me and is shipping me off to a prestigious supernatural academy, and I’m drinking away my meagre savings in a shitty pub on a Tuesday afternoon. Rock bottom is starting to look like my new address.
“Fine,” I say, draining the last of my pint. “I’m listening.”
She smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “Not here. Follow me.”
Without waiting for a response, she slides off her stool and heads for the door. I hesitate for a moment, every instinct screaming that this is a bad idea. But curiosity—and the promise of answers—wins out, so I follow her out into the grey afternoon.
She leads me down a series of winding alleys, each one darker and narrower than the last. I keep my guard up, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Finally, we emerge into a small courtyard tucked away behind a row of abandoned shopfronts.
“Well, this isn’t sketchy at all,” I mutter.
The woman ignores my sarcasm, pulling out her phone and tapping out a quick message. A moment later, a section of the brick wall in front of us slides open, revealing a hidden doorway.
“After you,” she says, gesturing towards the opening.
I hesitate. “Yeah, I don’t fucking think so. You first.”
She smirks and steps through. Against my better judgement, I follow.
The door slides shut behind us with an ominous thud, plunging us into darkness. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden lack of light.
