my chest. My stomach flipped as I prepared to jump.
How was Niamh going to grab me without hands? Her other form was a freaking flying unicorn. The best she could do was swoop down under me, but if I was spinning around, I’d just glance off her, go careening, and slam into the ground anyway. There was no way I’d have the presence of mind to grab on to her, and even if I did, she didn’t have a saddle. What was I supposed to hold on to?
“Screw it. Grab life by the balls. Now or never—”
2
I lifted a foot to jump, my stomach now in my neck, and a strong gust of wind slapped me. So intense it felt solid, it shoved me back, away from the opening. I unconsciously put out my hands to ward it away, and the steel trapdoor swung from its position and crashed down, bouncing on its frame.
A pulse blasted out from the center of me, reverberating through the house and shocking into the grounds beyond. From there it kept traveling, not losing steam, until it drifted into nothingness.
Mr. Tom looked at me as though waiting for an explanation.
I wasn’t sure if I should ask, “What was that?” or just randomly shout for no reason. Really no losing between those two options.
I chose, instead, to just stare back with what I knew was a dumb look.
The silence felt gooey around us, suffocating the natural creaks of the house. I realized belatedly that I was creating it.
I tore the magic away, accidentally lifting the magical heat keeping me warm. Goosebumps returned along my arms.
“Dang it,” I said softly, trying to balance everything out.
“Well. I guess we’ll see what kind of help you’re looking for.” Mr. Tom straightened up, sniffed, and walked from the room.
I eyed the closed trapdoor. It appeared Ivy House didn’t think I was ready to take that part of life by the balls. Thank God.
“What do you mean, the kind of help I’m looking for?” I followed Mr. Tom out of the room and down the hall toward the stairs. “What did I do?”
“You called for aid, which is well within your rights as the mistress of Ivy House. It seems you don’t think myself, Niamh, and Edgar are enough. That’s fine. You know best, after all.” His nose was lifted when we reached the ground floor. “Tea? Coffee? Something to take the edge off the horrible guilt you’re sure to feel once you’ve come to your senses?”
Edgar and Niamh met us in the kitchen, each wearing a pair of white cotton sweats, Edgar’s rumpled and with a yellowed stain that I didn’t want to think about—fearing it was a blood source of some kind—and Niamh’s with dirt and grass speckled on one side.
Mr. Tom had been in charge of choosing the house sweats when “at work,” a.k.a. changing forms, and it was no surprise his were the only ones that stayed clean.
“What went wrong there?” Niamh asked in her thick Irish brogue as she sauntered into the kitchen, her hair still short and white, her face baby soft but with deep creases of age, and her step light and spry, compliments of Ivy House. “Earl, put on a cuppa tae, would ye? I’m absolutely dyin’ with the thirst.”
Earl was Mr. Tom’s real name. As usual, when she used it, Mr. Tom pretended he couldn’t hear her. It was why I’d buckled early and just resigned myself to calling him by his chosen name.
“Earl, ye insufferable gobshite, I know you heard me,” Niamh said, ruled by her own weirdness. She wasn’t put off by his silent treatment. She was also so ancient that, even though she always retained her accent, she went in and out of various countries’ slang and choice of words. “Is this why that other family you worked fer shoved ye out the door, is it? Couldn’t do a simple thing like—”
“Ah yes, how I missed your soft, dulcet tones these last few days when we trained Jessie in close combat, independently of you,” Mr. Tom said sarcastically, moving to the kettle. “What a treat to have us all together again.”
“You’re no feckin’ picnic yerself, sure yer not,” she muttered, heading to the table. She noticed the dirt and grass clinging to her leg and bent to wipe it off, sprinkling it onto the floor. Mr. Tom’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he held his tongue.
“Did you lose your nerve?” Edgar asked me, his brown eyes soft.