Page 15 of Warlocks Don't Win
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Winston called.
“Absolutely sure it’s not,” I muttered and then put my hand on the doorframe, feeling the prickle of slivers against my palm. I gripped it hard, letting it taste my blood.
The wind roared and the house crackled like popcorn popping, but then it settled down, leaving me with stinging hand and an almost welcoming vibe.
I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and then stepped over the threshold, looking around at the broad hall with its curved grand staircase and the enormous engagement portrait.
Oddly, it had been slashed to pieces, so I could hardly tell what it was other than my purple hem and the top of his head.
“If you didn’t like it, you could have sent it to me,” Winston said over my shoulder, making me jump while my heart pounded.
I whirled around to hiss, “Why aren’t you still by the truck? I haven’t cleared the house for visitors yet.”
He wrinkled his nose and took my hand, the one that was still oozing. “I smelled your blood.”
“Liar.”
“No, it’s true,” he said with sincere caramel eyes.
“You’re a vampire now who can’t resist the siren call of an open wound?”
“I’m your concerned fake boyfriend.”
I groaned and wanted to shove him through the floor. The house creaked, willing to put some effort into accomplishing my will if there was blood involved. I’d almost forgotten how much it loved a happy psychopath.
I took a deep breath and summoned my brightest smile. “Isn’t it a gorgeous foyer? Have you ever seen such fabulous crown molding? And that chandelier? Hand-crafted crystal from Austria, wired with the most modern technology. This house is going to bridge the past and the future.” I sounded creepily like my mother, but flattery was the quickest way to soothe the monster.
“Er, yes, the crystal is very…”
I elbowed him before he could say how dusty it was, so he oomphed instead.
“Glorious. Absolutely glorious. I’ll have to call the power company and have them turn it on then you’ll really see it shine. You could carry the ladder from the barn so I can polish them.”
“Yes, er, that sounds delightful.” He managed more enthusiasm that time, although he didn’t match my manic delight.
“Come on. Let’s check on the kitchen.”
The rest of the tour was a focused battle between staying positive and falling through the broken floors.
“Real hazelnut wood from Brazil,” I said, dangling through the main floor bathroom while Winston stood outside the door looking at me with strained anxiety he was trying to cover up with politeness.
“All the way from Brazil? Imagine that. And the sink looks like a solid piece of marble. Probably would hold your weight.”
I sighed and grabbed the base of the pedestal sink and hauled myself out of the floor. It flexed and shifted back into place, but I wasn’t using this bathroom any time soon.
An ear-shattering scream and gunshots had me sprinting down the hall to the kitchen. It had come from outside, back where the cemetery had overtaken the garden generations ago until there was only a small kitchen garden surrounded by tombstones and mausoleums.
Winston was close on my heels as I exploded out the kitchen door and leapt over the porch and into the abysmally overgrown kitchen garden. I swatted branches away until another gunshot had me reoriented to my target.
"Shouldn’t we be running away from guns?” Winston asked from directly behind me.
“Yes,” I panted, trying to run faster. “You should be. Stay, sit, slave.”
He huffed a laugh and didn’t stay, sit, or slave. He’d never be able to play the mindless thrall. I leapt over a fallen tree covered in thick ivy and landed awkwardly in the loose earth before I caught my balance and kept running on the narrow trail. It came out into a wider trail and I hit another runner, sending us both sprawling in the loose leaf mulch, rolling down an incline through a number of bushes until we came to a stop against an oak tree. Happily, it was his body that hit the tree, not mine. His gun was next to his body. I scrambled for it, grabbed it and pointed it at him.
The man had a dramatic widow’s peak, pale skin, and heavy makeup on his face. He looked up at me, disheveled, my black sweats and my green and purple-striped hair.
“That wasn’t in my contract,” he said in a shore accent. He slowly sat up and rubbed his head. “I might have a concussion. Do I look like a stuntman?”
