This was all sorts of fucked up. But at least the hard part was behind me. Caitlyn had asked, and I’d answered. She knew I had feelings for someone else—and she’d given me the space to work through it.
That had to count for something.
She deserved more than half-truths and tangled loyalties. She deserved me to really try.
“What about that tour of the house you promised me?”
Caitlyn eyed me suspiciously at the abrupt change in subject but didn’t press it. “I’ll show you whichever parts Creep will let me,” she said, rising to her feet and gesturing for me to follow.
Our first stop was the utility room, which led into a small downstairs washroom. It contained everything one might need to wash clothes reasonably well a hundred years ago—a tiny tub, a washboard, and a bar of laundry soap that had clearly seen better days. Thankfully, Caitlyn had also installed a modern washing machine and a dryer, each bearing knee-high gouges as if Creep had violently objected to their presence before begrudgingly allowing them to stay.
A deep ceramic sink held half a dozen cauldrons, all coated in a hardened mosaic of colorful residue and long-dead suds.
Caitlyn glanced up at me sheepishly. “Oops. I meant to wash those before I left.”
She quickly ushered me back into the kitchen. We didn’t have far to go—the next stop was the pantry.
The door swung open to reveal an entire wall dedicated to food, everything neatly stored in the same mason jars as the spider-mallows. The opposite wall was lined with cauldrons, unidentifiable drying herbs, and gently fizzing potions. I was fairly certain the two categories shouldn’t coexist in such close proximity.
I was just about to ask whether it was truly safe to eat cereal stored opposite a skull-marked vial that appeared to be hovering slightly above its own shelf when Caitlyn’s gaze snapped downward, toward the very corner of the pantry.
She dropped to her knees without warning, plunging her arms elbow-deep beneath the lowest shelf. A moment later, she resurfaced triumphantly, clutching a grimy mason jar filled with what looked like greening rat tails and mold.
“Ah-ha!” she squealed.
Her victory was short-lived.
A sharpcrackfilled the small space, and the jar vanished from her grasp. From the kitchen beyond came the unmistakablepitter-patterof small feet retreating at speed.
Caitlyn didn’t hesitate. “You can’t hide them forever, Creep!” she shouted.
Then she turned back to me, smiling sheepishly. “When Creep’s in a particularly foul mood, she likes to hide a rat tail in my food.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Creep really doesn’t seem to be a fan of you.”
Caitlyn just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She was the one who bonded to me.” She raised her voice, clearly for Creep’s benefit.“And once it’s done, it’s done. No take-backs. Hear that, Creep? You and me forever. Ride or die, baby!”
I choked back a laugh. Caitlyn was a lot of things, and I was pleased to discover that a touch of manic was one of them.
She shrugged as she got to her feet. “Fate is a funny thing,” she said. “You can either go against it or trust that it ultimately knows what it’s doing.” Her eyes met mine, and she flushed. “I mean—with the house,” she added quickly, shoving a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I choose to believe there’s a reason Creep and I were meant to bond.”
Flustered, she slipped past me and headed for the hallway.
Is that what I had to do?Trust that there was a reason Fate had made me fall for my best friend—only to tear me away from him and almost immediately place the woman I was meant to spend my life with in front of me? Was Ambrose a test? An ordeal crafted specifically to prove my devotion to my mate?
I pinched my thigh. I was going to need a spray bottle or something to stop my thoughts from constantly drifting back to Ambrose.
Caitlyn stopped so abruptly that I nearly walked into her. We stood in front of a faintly glowing green door. It took me a moment to realize the door itself was glass—the green coming from a thick coating of algae and creeping vines.
The door gave an almighty creak as Caitlyn shouldered it open.
Plants of every variety and color spilled from every surface of the two-story greenhouse. A white, cast-iron spiral staircase, cracked with rust and twisted with vines, led up to a balconied first floor, more greenery tumbling over its railings and tendrilling toward the ground below.
Caitlyn stepped inside. I moved to follow, but she stuck out an arm to stop me.
“How’s your magical plant identification?” she asked.
“Not very good,” I admitted.
