Page 35 of The Curse of Indy Moore
I strangled the fear coiling in my chest when Carline closed the space between us. As she knelt, her chest rose and fell, but no breath warmed my cheeks.
“You aren’t her daughter,” she whispered, frowning as if it hurt her to hear my whimper.
Then a window appeared, and light flooded the room. Carline vanished, but her words remained. They tore through my mind no differently than my other self tore through the room, leaving her mark. I fell against the wall, cool against my sweat-covered back. My shaking hands clung to the torn blankets. She wasn’t real, but her words bore a smothering weight.
“Indy,” Otis called from a door that hadn’t been in the room moments ago. “Are you awake and… yourself?”
My voice wouldn’t work at first. I swallowed hard. “I am.”
“I have brought the clothes that were set out on your bed and tea,” Otis said when opening the door a smidge to reveal said clothes. My clothes from my room, an unexpected comfort. The familiar patchwork and the coarse fabric against my fingers grounded me, though they couldn’t lessen the fear strangling my heart.
I took the garments and got dressed then met Otis outside, where he presented a cup of steaming tea. I breathed in the scent, letting it warm my nostrils, then my stomach. It was comforting to hold onto a piece of reality after that frightening illusion.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, noticing my shaking hands.
“As well as I can.” I hugged the cup close to my heart. “But where’s Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Sleeping. He likes his beauty rest.”
As expected.
“I need to talk to him. I saw her,” I whispered. “Carline. Yesterday, I saw her reflection in the pond but thought I was imagining her. A moment ago, though, she was in my room, as an apparition, I think.”
Frowning, Otis took to walking toward the kitchen. “That is rare, albeit not unheard of. Demons can be attuned to their victims. They have spoken through dreams before. Even artificers are capable of such a task, although it’s dangerous. We’ll tell Rooke as soon as he wakes. He’ll want to hear of this, and we can double check everything once we’re in town.”
That did nothing to settle my concerns. If Carline was attuned to me, did that mean she could see through my eyes or understood where I was? Did she find us? We could be in danger, but I had to wait for Mr. Beauty Sleep to don his morning robe and sip on fresh coffee or the like. Mr. Hawthorne was far too nonchalant about my potentially deadly curse, and he may regret irritating a woman cursed to maul at night.
Otis led me to the kitchen, where he started breakfast.
“I can help,” I said, to which Otis pointed at the island.
“You will do no such thing. Take a seat, and relax,” he ordered.
“But—”
“Sit, sit, sit,” he demanded, and I did so, mostly because he waved his cane in a way that said he knew how to use it as a weapon of war.
I typically made breakfast while Aunt Agnes handled dinner, since I worked at the tavern in the evenings. It was odd to sit by, twiddling my thumbs while sipping on tea. There had to be something I could do. Sitting around doing nothing made me itch. At the scent of food, my stomach knotted from hunger that diminished slightly at a musky odor. I sneezed, then pinched my nostrils.
“Do you smell that?” I asked.
“I smell breakfast,” he replied, standing over the skillet, cooking sausages.
“I smell that, too, but there’s something else.” Something I couldn’t describe, a foul odor that left a coppery taste in the back of my throat.
A far too smug Miss Beamy hopped onto the open windowsill. She had proudly caught a field mouse, her sweater dirty and torn. She nearly dropped the mouse into the kitchen to present to us as a prize when Otis shouted, “Don’t you dare! What did we tell you about bringing your kills into the kitchen?”
Miss Beamy glared, the mouse clenched between her teeth. She was not exaggerating about being a killer of mice. She grumbled something inaudible, leaning over to drop the mouse again.
“Don’t!” Otis warned. “Take that outside. Indy and I are about to eat.”
Miss Beamy glanced at me. The cat froze, stuck up her tail, then leapt outside.
“She knows better, but Rooke lets her get away with everything.”
I had no doubt about that. A cat that proud meant she had been thoroughly spoiled.
The odor disappeared, overwhelmed by breakfast sizzling in the skillet. The kitchen door flung open. In walked a creature of questionable origins, wrappedtightly in a fluffy robe and feet stuck in feathered slippers. The hood was drawn, revealing little more than a pale chin.
