that could change at any moment though.”
I tear my attention away from the tic in his jaw and the sheen of pain that wells up in his clover-hued eyes. We both fall silent for a moment as the weight of his words settles all around us. “How much longer until we get to wherever it is that we’re going?” he asks impatiently, and I suddenly feel like there’s some hourglass of doom looming over us, each grain of sand counting down the milliseconds until everything shatters. I have no idea how I’m going to help him, but I know I have to, and I sure as hell know I need the grimoire if I hope to have any chance of doing it.
My SUV threatens to tip as I take a sharp left and force it to charge over a steep hill. “We’re almost there.”
I turn down a ridiculously long driveway that’s lined with tall majestic trees that are just on the cusp of shedding all their green for a myriad of oranges, plums and yellows. I hate my aunt, but the beauty of her property can’t be denied. What can be denied, however, is her claim to own all of it. These eighteen acres originally belonged to the family in its entirety, but somehow through sketchy wheeling and dealing, they ended up in just one sister’s name several generations ago, the Harridans. The property was then passed down to only her line instead of belonging to all the Osseous clan like it was originally intended to be.
The whole situation is fuel for feuds. Some of the family has given up on trying to change things, but it doesn’t keep the rest of us from giving them the stink eye and cursing their every move. While I was growing up, Grammy Ruby tried to pull the tattered branches of the family tree back together, but now that she’s gone—and with the stunt Magda and Gwen Harridan just pulled—there will no longer be any hope of that happening.
The dense line of trees thins as I speed down the lane. Up ahead, the driveway loops around a gaudy and ostentatious fountain spewing water from various statues’ orifices. There’s a mansion that was built on top of the skeletons of old colonial style homes that our ancestors built, and the monstrosity that now sits before me can’t make up its mind between being some kind of English-inspired castle or a Craftsman on steroids.
We screech to a halt in front of the large entrance, and I turn in my seat. “Hoot, I want you to go in there and pee on anything and everything you can find, do you hear me, buddy? Now’s your chance to say fuck the patriarchy, I’ll go where I want to go!”
With that, I shove my door open, the hinges squealing in outrage, and jump out of the car. Rogan meets me as I come around the side and speed walk to the front doors. I’m not sure if they know that I’m here. I didn’t go through the front gate where a guard would have called them to ask if I was authorized, but they probably have cameras somewhere that alert them to what’s happening on the property.
I reach for the brass knob, and the door opens without the slightest hint of objection. “Of course the stupid elitist pricks didn’t lock the door,” I grumble as I let myself in.
Surprisingly, no one comes running to intercept me. I call out hello a couple of times and give it a minute, but nothing happens. Well, that’s anticlimactic. Even if Magda and Gwen are somehow not here, they usually have a whole staff of maids and cooks running about. I look around, not sure what to do. As much as I’d love to tear through this entire house to find the grimoire, Rogan’s made it clear that we don’t have a ton of time. If only I were a Sanderson sister and could call the book with an enticing sing-song voice. Shit would be a hell of a lot easier if it would come floating out to me from wherever they’ve decided to hide it.
A round mahogany and glass table sits in the center of the foyer. I stroll over to it and grab the large vase of flowers from its middle. I double-check that Rogan still has Hoot in his arms, and then I chuck what is probably a Ming vase—that costs more than everything I own combined—at a gargantuan