‘Who is she?’ I yelled to no one ‘Is it you?’
There was no answer.
When I opened my eyes, it was already morning.
Chapter Forty
One way or another, I would’ve got myself into the Stovells’ Savannah home but it was all the easier when Ashley produced a key, bequeathed to Catherine ‘in case of emergencies’ years ago.
‘What exactly are we looking for?’ my aunt asked as the key turned in the lock without protest and we let ourselves inside.
‘I don’t know exactly,’ I said, speaking in hushed tones. ‘I should probably warn you, there’s a chance it won’t be anything fun.’
‘You mean she’s going to want to give me another lecture on the evils of showing your belly button in public?’
I couldn’t even raise a laugh. The house was dark, literally and figuratively, all the curtains closed in the middle of the day and a strange gloom hovering that made the hair on my arms stand up. It was also eerily quiet, only the hum of an air conditioning system that wasn’t quite up to the task of a Georgia summer breaking the silence.
‘Nice place,’ Ashley commented, peering around the front hallway. ‘Tasteful.’
It was. Nice and tasteful. It was also boiling over with magic.
‘How long have the Stovell family been in Savannah?’ Iasked, pausing by a low upholstered bench and a rack full of shoes, momentarily wondering if I should take off my sandals. A stupid thought, given how badly I wanted to turn around and run away already.
‘A long time, I think. Not as long as us or the Powells. They weren’t witches, if that’s what you’re wondering; Catherine would’ve mentioned it.’
That much was obvious from the way my grandmother treated Ileen when they were younger. I couldn’t believe she’d ever treat another witch or former witch so cruelly. Well, not without what she considered good reason. We were at the door to the parlour when I stopped so suddenly, Ashley almost fell over me.
‘What the hell?’ she hissed as I turned around and went back to the shoe rack. There, right on top, was the exact same pair of sneakers I’d seen at the Stovells’ beach house in Hilton Head. Sweat began to bead on my forehead and my hand closed around the silver and moonstone pin I’d brought in my pocket.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ I said to Ashley. ‘You need to go back to Bell House.’
She picked up a shoe horn, long and elaborately carved out of solid oak with a duck’s head cast in brass for a handle.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, wielding the thing like a baseball bat. ‘We’re doing this together.’
The parlour door was open, every bit as elegant as you’d expect from a historic southern home, but it was in complete disarray. Glasses, plates, bowls all used and dirty, covered the coffee table and credenza, with half-empty coffee cups lining up and down the mantel over the fireplace. There were clothes too, jackets and sweaters mostly, discarded on the armchairs or the floor, and the sofa was covered in blankets with a pillow at one end.
‘This place has to have at least five bedrooms.’ Ashley poked at an abandoned black rainslicker with the end of her shoehorn. ‘Why would someone bother to camp out in the living room?’
‘Best view of the hotel,’ I replied, looking out the window and right at the back entrance of the DeSoto.
Ashley continued sorting through the items scattered around the room, the occasional displeased sound squeaking out of her throat.
‘Most of these clothes don’t look like they’d fit the woman you described,’ she said. ‘Unless she’s going for a super oversized fit.’
‘You mean our lone wolf might not be so lone after all?’
It was a harrowing thought and one that posed more questions than it answered.
Ashley picked up a large black hoodie, a long white tank top, a pair of tube socks.
‘If she went to the pack, told them about you …’
‘Then they have Wyn,’ I murmured. ‘Which means he’s safe.’
‘But you aren’t,’ she said sharply. ‘Em, get it together, this is not good. A lone wolf is bad, a lone wolf working with a vengeful pack hellbent on ripping out your heart is even worse. I need you to focus—’
Ashley cut herself off by clapping a hand over her mouth.
