“She does make a mean cake,” I murmured. “Still, you’ve had your body weight in bacon most mornings since we moved in with the Hawthornes.”
Bo stamped his paws indignantly. “But I have a fast metabolism.” He avoided my narrow-eyed stare and pressed his nose against the window. “You’ve seen me run,” he mumbled. “I’m basically an athlete.”
I sighed. “Running to your food bowl doesn’t count. And don’t repeat what you just said in front of Pearl. That cat will bust a gut laughing.”
Samuel’s lips twitched.
Bo huffed and flopped dramatically across the back seat.
“He’ll get over it,” Samuel reassured when he saw my expression.
The road narrowed and turned into a driveway as we climbed into the hills, the trees pressing close on either side. The Holt mansion finally appeared against the orange-and-pink-tinged sky, its gray limestone walls punctuated by tall, narrow windows that reflected the dying light. Gargoyles crouched along the roofline, their stone faces frozen in silent screams.
Bo’s ears flattened a little as he eyed them. “Those things are still creepy.”
The private drive curved throughmanicured grounds before ending in a circular courtyard. Samuel parked the Bentley and we climbed out into the cool evening air.
A massive iron fountain now stood at the center of the forecourt, water trickling from the mouths of carved serpents with a deceptively joyful sound.
We stared.
“Lauren did mention a new water feature,” I remarked.
Bo pressed against my leg. “My creepometer just maxed out.”
“No one is to mention the unfortunate incident at the ball,” Samuel warned in a low voice as we made for the front door.
Bo looked at him and wagged his tail hesitantly. “Which one? There were several.”
Samuel’s eyes shrank to slits. “You’re not to mentionanyof them.”
“Gotcha. My lips are zipped.”
My wolf’s hackles rose as we approached the mansion—not from any sense of impending danger, but from the sheer power humming beneath our feet. Even dormant, the ley lines made the ground feel alive.
Priscilla Holt answered the doorbell. She wore an elegant charcoal silk pant suit and the ever watchful expression I’d come to expect from a member of the Council of Elders.
Her gaze softened at the sight of us.
“Samuel. Abby.” She looked down at Bo. “And your rather vocal companion.”
“I prefer ‘distinguished canine detective,’” Bo huffed proudly, tail swinging.
Priscilla’s mouth curved fractionally. “It’s good to see you again. Do come in.”
The interior of the property matched the exterior for Gothic grandeur. Dark wood paneling and stylish furnishings decorated the cavernous entry hall we crossed, our footsteps echoing on the marble floors. I noted splashes of vivid color that hadn’t been there before.
“Beatrice is helping me redecorate,” Priscilla said when she caught me staring.
“Oh,” I said awkwardly. “How’s that going?”
“As well as it can be,” Priscilla replied diplomatically. Her mask slipped for a moment. “Change is not easy. I’m so used to running this family. Letting go of the reins is proving more difficult than I’d thought it would be.”
I made a sympathetic noise.
It was a good thing Priscilla had chosen to get decorating advice from the younger Lupton sister. If Lauren had it her way, the Holt mansion would be an ode to goth rock by now.
“Victoria wants to let go of the reins too,” Bo confided cheerfully. “But Abby is too busy humping Sam?—”
