Balconies jutted out in odd places and were too narrow to be practical and too exposed to be safe. Some had wrought-iron railings that twisted into thorn-like curls; others were simply open platforms that seemed made for dramatic entrances, exits, or falls.
It looked like the kind of place where tragic love stories came to die.
The air around it was thick with old magic. It clung to my skin, slid into my lungs. It smelled faintly of damp stone, old iron, and something sweet underneath—dried roses left too long in a book.
“Of course,” I muttered. “Of course, she lives in the villainous romance novel house.”
A path wound up from where I stood to the front entrance. Once, it had probably been brick. Now it was a long, unevenspine of dark red rectangles, cracked and buckled in places, moss growing in the gaps like stubborn old grudges.
Ancient shadows blew across it in thin, tattered sheets.
Not a breeze.
Shadows themselves, streaming low like ground-hugging fog. As they passed, dirt and leaves skittered aside, clearing the way as thoroughly as any broom. They left the path bare and bone-colored, lined by low, creeping plants with thorny stems and tiny, almost-black flowers that seemed to track my movement.
“Well,” I said to nobody, forcing my boots to move. “Nothing says ‘welcome’ like the house doing its own sweeping.”
As I stepped onto the brick, the shadows parted in front of me, then closed behind, like I’d walked into the throat of something that didn’t intend to let me back out easily.
Gargoyles circled overhead.
They weren’t like Karvey and the others. These were leaner, meaner, and carved in sharper lines. With wings folded, they prowled the roofline in stiff, suspicious patrols. A few crouched on the corners of balconies; others clung to the tower like gargantuan stone bats.
As I walked, their heads tracked me, but they didn’t attack.
Eyes, glowing faintly with dull silver light, followed my every step. Clawed stone paws gripped the ledges as they shifted, repositioning themselves so they always had the best view. One lifted its head and scented the air, lip curling back from stone fangs.
The message was clear. Prey in the yard.
“Hi,” I said awkwardly, trying not to wince as my voice carried oddly in the dense air. “You know Karvey? He says hi.”
Silence.
Then a low grinding rumble escaped the nearest one, its stone chest expanding slightly.
I had no idea if that was a warning, a laugh, or a burp. Shadowick gargoyles were not on my list of electives.
“Noted,” I said. “Sticking to the path.”
The mansion loomed larger with every step.
Details emerged.
The massive front door was made of some dense, dark wood, slashed with bands of black iron. The iron wasn’t smooth; it was etched with more sigils, little hooks and lines that scratched against my senses. A heavy knocker in the shape of a wolf’s head hung in the center, its eyes set with pieces of dull purple stone.
The windows nearest the entrance were taller, their glass warped here and there so the reflections they threw back were slightly… wrong. Distorted. My own faint shape in one pane looked like someone had stretched it on the wrong axis, limbs too long and a blur where my face should be.
“You really are committed to the aesthetic, aren’t you?” I whispered, more to keep my courage from leaking out of my shoes than in hopes the house would answer.
Something… answered anyway.
The closer I got, the more the magic around the place pressed inward, curious and invasive. It brushed against my butterfly mark, pushing, prodding, trying to measure.
I layered my Hedge magic over myself like a shawl, thorns pricking outward.
My grandmother’s magic would feel the edge of the Hedge and either respect it or use it to find my soft spots. There wasn’t much I could do about that except exist and refuse to make it easy.
Halfway up the path, it hit.
