Page 1 of The Goblin in the Sink Drain
one
Faint snoring tuggedme out of a hazy dream with jagged edges that cut when I thought about them too hard. I drifted for a moment, clinging to the hope I could slip under again, try to remember more details. I almost had it until a sharp elbow smashed into my windpipe, jolting me upright in bed with a loud gasp.
Hand to my throat, I erupted into a coughing fit and rolled left to escape my attacker only to hit the floor. The oxygen I just finished gulping down whooshed out of me, my hip bleating where it struck hardwood, and I gave up on life. Curled into the fetal position, I waited for the end to come.
The end, when it came, was much shorter than I expected, but it brought breakfast with it.
“Ana?” A girl of around eight or nine stood in the doorway to the guest bedroom I crashed in last night. She wore a white button-down shirt and crisp black slacks with gleaming patent leather Mary Janes. Hair braided snug to her scalp, she reminded me of a miniature waitress down to the gleaming silver tray she balanced on one thin shoulder. And if the reek of fresh spray paint from the aforementioned tray overpowered thearomas of steaming coffee and piping-hot baked goods, I was too charmed to mention it. “What are you doing down there?”
“A ninja attacked me in my sleep,” I croaked, pointing to a lump under the covers.
With a firm nod, she set the tray on a low dresser then summoned a flame into her palm. “I’ll handle it.”
“Wait.” I leapt to my feet with a wobble. “I was kidding.” I launched myself between her and the snoring mass, sailing through the air to land on the bed with a thump. “It’s Sloane.”
“Yeah, I know.” A snort blasted out of her adorable button nose. “I’m a kid, not an idiot.”
“But the fire…?” I indicated the orange and red burst on her palm. “And you said…”
From the tray, she chose a metal skewer and threaded it with marshmallows the size of her fist that she then toasted over the open flame until the sugary treats burnt black before blowing them out. Ignoring the bitter smoke curling the air, she slid the gooey lumps into a mug with a milkier appearance than the others.
“Fire?” The cover erupted in a cotton geyser, blasting upright in undulating waves, revealing a ghostlike figure in the center of the mattress that thrashed and moaned, trapped in its mortal coil. Or, you know, a sheet. “Where?”
“See?” Goldie grinned as Sloane battled her way free. “Told you I’d handle it.”
“There’s no fire.” I hooked my arm behind me and grabbed her ankle before she stomped on me. The second I touched her, she kicked out, striking my spine and tumbling me off the foot of the bed. I landed on my other hip and decided I’d had the right idea the first time. I curled into a ball and waited to die. “Oww.”
“Ana?” Sloane’s head popped over the footboard. “What are you doing down there?”
That was the question du jour, so I paired it with an answer of similar vintage. “I was attacked by a ninja.”
“Oh no.” She mashed her face into the comforter, muffling her voice. “I’msosorry.”
“You warned me.” I reached up and patted her head. “I chose to take my life in my own hands.”
Sloane, who was fully bonded to the Sartori pack, was experiencing mild withdrawal symptoms. Magical interference from the barrier caging us in Brentwood had cut her off from the others, but she was doing okay. Better than expected, really. But last night was hard, especially after she fought Mercer to prevent me from being smuggled back to Dad through the tunnel he ordered dug under my freaking house in the most jaw-dropping breach of trust imaginable.
Except, if the Walsh clan was telling me the truth, that betrayal only scratched the surface when it came to the lies my dad, who might not really be my father, had spoon-fed me my entire life.
Anyway. Not thinking about that yet. I had more immediate priorities.
Namely the still vaguely ghostlike moaning pouring out of Sloane as she kicked her feet in misery.
To give her the comfort of pack, I had offered to let her sleep with me.
Had I known she practiced ninjutsu in her sleep, I might have made different life choices.
“Marigold Samantha Walsh,”a deep voice boomed down the hall. “Why do I smell smoke?”
“Um. I think I hear Gran calling me.” Goldie flung open the window above my head and escaped into the front yard, the move too practiced for a first attempt. The kid was clearly a pro. Hands on the sash, she ducked back in to say with a wink, “Remember to tip your server.”
Unable to help myself, I grinned up at the troublemaker before she disappeared from view.
“Uh-oh.” Sloane lifted her head. “Your man is wearing his stomping shoes.”
“Not my man, and what are stomping shoes?”
Pretty sure Rían’s weight and height were to blame for the approaching stampede, not his footwear.
