“I want you to watch him, please. If he tries to approach the house, tell me. If he does anything hinky, tell me.”
“Hinky? What is this the 1930s?”
“People use the word.”
“Sure. In the 1930s.” He stopped pacing, then drifted closer to me and folded his arms over his chest. “What about the wards? They’ll trigger if he gets too close to the house, right?”
“No. Card’s...he’s...different. The wards might let him pass.” I met Val’s gaze and waited. I’m not sure what he saw in my expression, but he nodded.
“Card, huh? Okay. I’ll watch him and tell you if he gets hinky.” His eyes flashed red, then he and his wolf winked out of existence.
I pressed both hands, one warm and dry, one wet and cold, against my face and took a deep breath.
“You’re bringing trouble to my doorstep, aren’t you, Card?” I mumbled into my palms. “Of course you are. You always bring trouble. Almost always.”
The tattoos on my arms and across my chest and belly warmed and stretched, like soft wings spreading toward the summer sun.
The magic of the Crossroads poured through those tattoos, and I calmed, knowing the magic had my back.
“I won’t let you drag me into your problems,” I said. “I won’t let you screw up my life. I owe you, but I don’t owe you that.”
I pulled my hands away and bounced on my feet like a boxer to shake off the last of the shock. Then I added extra grounds to the coffee, filled the tank with water, and hit the go button.
I turned on the old radio, and rock from the 1950s poured out. Elvis was in love and shook up about it. I bopped my head along with the beat and dragged my fingers over each wall in the kitchen.
Glyphs—carved, painted, and burned into the layers of wood, stain, paper, and plaster—came alive under my touch, moving with me, almost like a dance, flowing with the power in the house.
“Trouble is headed our way,” I told the walls, as I pulled out a pan. “What can you tell me about Fate?”
The Crossroads was already searching through stacks of books and scrolls, sorting pages and parchment. Spells rustled, tokens clattered, and other supernatural scribblings muttered and grumbled in distant rooms and closets.
The soft scent of clover and grass and summer washed through the house as I pulled out eggs and butter. An image of Card, from years ago, flickered in my mind.
The house was asking if I needed any information about Cardamom Oak.
“No. I’m hoping he’ll go away, and I won’t have to deal with him.”
The scent of summer dissipated. The house stretched and rustled, returning info on dryad-wizards with stupid names back under old carpets, storing it near leaky windows, and probably, stuffing it down the sewer pipes.
I chuckled and sent soothing emotions through the house. “Don’t destroy the info. It might be useful to throw in his face some day.”
The house seemed content, and its attention shifted to looking up things about Fate.
“Just because you’re here,” I said, “doesn’t mean I have to pay attention to you, Card.”
I popped bread in the toaster. “As a matter of fact, I think that’s the best plan. I’m ignoring you. As if you don’t exist. As if you never have.”
I was debating cheese or jam to go with my eggs and toast when there was a knock on the door.
“Val?” I called out, but the ghost didn’t appear.
Someone knocked again.
Normally, people never got to my porch without me knowing they were coming.
Normally, I’d be out on that porch, leaning on the pillar that acted as a lightning rod for all the power the Crossroads contained before they even got to the bottom of the steps.
Normally, I’d have the upper hand.
