Through the front opening, I squinted at the gold scales shimmering against the fabric of his coat.
“Gods,” I said in a rushed whisper. “Is that a sinrix?”
Sinrix are frightening creatures resembling lizards, but with the ability to detect if a person intends to do harm. Nobody knows exactlyhowtheir powers work, but if they decide you’re up to no good—they attack. They flare their frills, spit some acidic venom, and have razor-sharp claws.
“Sure is.” He chuckled to himself. “Being a carriage driver is dangerous work, and Lolly hasn’t let me down once, have ya, little lady?” He reached out a hand and patted her head.
Lolly glanced back at me with black holes for eyes, save for the golden slit down the middle. A matching little mane brushed down the spine-chilling slithery body.
She stared at me from Old Ashton all the way to my destination.
“Honey Brooke, eh? You ever been?” he shouted over the sound of the horses violently galloping on the roads. The path winded too much for my liking; one more curve at this rate and I’d be puking out of the window.
“Unfortunately!” I strained through the opening. “It’s been a while.” I glanced to check if he’d heard me. Wind slung my hair over my face as my eyes blurred the image of meadows sloped upward and around, full of red and purple wildflowers. Out of city limits, the shaggy grass grew tall because nobody trimmed it, triggering a memory of when Laken high-kneed it across the field to pick an entire bouquet. The path became bordered by short stone walls, and the peaked roofs of the town came into sight. Fast, unwanted emotions came flooding up until my mind blanked at the sight of a wooden sign reading:Honey Brooke.
I was home.
Not half an hour after getting into town, I stumbled out of the carriage with weak knees and a stirred-up gut. I stood in front of the wooden sign my father had carved himself, daring to walk down a path of stepping stones leading to a house that may very well have been haunted.
McCarthen’s Sanctuary for Magical Creatures.
I’d grown up here. When I lived with my parents and grandfather, the house had once erupted with love and sound. My grandfather opened it back in his thirties after finding Indomitus, an injured dragon, on a summer voyage with his friends.The house used to be nothing but a house, until he snuck a dragon into the backyard. One thing led to another, and he started collecting creatures, nursing them, offering them a home. The sanctuary became a town marvel; they admired it (from a safe distance, of course). My grandfather passed, my father took ownership, and once my mother passed, my father never returned to the man he’d been. No hard feelings though; it had made it easier to leave him for Dirty Hoes and Maggie.
The sign rocked back and forth, creaking.
There were several reasons I hadn’t moved an inch in over three minutes. One: within those ivy-covered ash stone walls and behind those towering wooden gates, there were magical creatures who’d be relying on me to keep them alive. Two: if I walked inside, old scars would be reopened. Parts of my childhood I’d patched with memories of Laken. Memories would thrash, emotions would rise, and I’d itch to burn it all down.
Anticipation sucked the air from my lungs, a thief of a much-desired calm. But the longer I stood there, the colder it became as the moon left our part of the world in shadows.
Fuck it, Reece.Opening the small white gate, I crossed the stone steps to the door.Don’t turn around. Don’t run.
I jiggled my rusted key in the keyhole and prayed it still worked. Shoving my shoulder into the top soft spot while kicking the opposite corner—because my father held tight to his cheap ways—I busted in. Within two steps, the scent of our fireplace, old blankets, and burnt toast hit me hard. The scent of home, I thought.
Dim light filled the space, but even in the darkness I knewmy way around. To my left was the same frail, thin, wooden stairwell I’d learned to climb on. A little farther in rested the same old fireplace I’d roasted marshmallows over, along with the same repulsive couch we’d kept since my childhood years. My father’s old rocker, brown cushions darkened with time and worn from where he sat and often slept.
In front of the couch, our moody colored rug sprawled out, a little raggedy, too. Undoubtedly, it needed to be thrown out after the years of chicken feathers, animal droppings, tears, and blood it’d seen. Ancient crocheted blankets and old shoes, basically fossilized, by the door. The back window wall, my father’s cluttered desk covered in journals and parchment, it all remained.
On my right—the kitchen. My mother’s favorite room. I didn’t have an overload of memories with her, but cooking in the kitchen was one of them. Unfortunate how I didn’t inherit her passion for a whisk and batter. She’d made breakfast every morning and kept the house happy and full bellied. Don’t get me wrong: she was a terrible cook. Burnt toast and dry cakes. But we ate it anyway. That was a long time ago.
Plates bordered with blue flowers and gold trim lined the overcrowded shelves stocked with ceramic, speckled handmade cups hanging from their edges. Resting against the sink, I glanced out the window above it, quickly moving to the olive-green cabinets. Untouched and unused spices, bowls, and more cups stocked shelves. Pans, wooden spoons, ladles, pots, and dishes hung wherever my father could fit them—everything appeared as I remembered.
Except the shuffling footsteps behind me. All the creatures slept in homes in the back…
A voice in my head said,What the fuck, Reece, turn around and run.But another louder voice yelled,Rip them to shreds; you got this, you independent woman.And as a stubborn independent woman—I listened to the latter.
I grabbed a knife from a drawer. Moving over the uneven floor, I gathered the trim of my skirt in my hand.
Before I could plan or take a stance, the hair on my neck stood as a warm, crisp voice traveled through the silence. “Reece?”
I dropped the knife.
One thing about me: if it’s between fight or flight, I willalwayschoose fight. And before I even saw who stood behind me, I attacked.
My white-knuckled fist decked straight into the irrationally and irritatingly handsome, annoyingly familiar, loathsome face of none other than Laken Augustus.
CHAPTER FOUR
Once upon a time, what felt like a millennium ago, the young adults of Honey Brooke gathered under the night sky in a pasture with a small horse stable. We didn’t have a crowd; there weren’t many of us to begin with, but enough for a party. Torches and the stars provided soft lighting, barely enough to see around the stables and buckets of ale someone stole from their parents.
