Five rules. Just five. To be enforced by her. The new innkeeper who didn’t have a clue what the hell she was doing. Though remembering the rules no doubt counted as a good start.
A miracle, given her current state of mind. And yet the do-not-do list—along with the other information Hendrix had imparted—stuck to her frontal lobe like plaque, prompting her to keep a running tally of the things she needed to do in the coming days, weeks, and months. Along with all the current goings-on inside the hotel.
Something she was doing…right now. Without effort. Monitoring the situation in each suite and common area. Absorbing every bit of information The White Hare fed her through magical ties. Determining what, if anything, needed to be done to keep a guest in line, or on the flip side, ensure their comfort. All while exhausted and sitting (or hiding) inside her bedroom.
Her gaze strayed back to the vase. An outlet for her exhaustion…and the freakout she sensed on her horizon. She needed some sound and fury. Mess instead of emotional meltdown.
She leaned sideways. Feather down sighed as she grabbed the alarm clock. She yanked. The plug let go of the outlet. The gentle glow of digital numbers disappeared as the cord whipped over the edge of the bedstand. With a low snarl, she hurled the innocent item across the room. Black plastic bounced on the oriental rug, then tumbled, coming to rest between the open French doors.
Resisting the urge to roll out of bed and kick it down the hall, she glared at the unharmed clock, then returned her attention to the letter in her hand. Her stomach clenched. Unease climbed behind her breastbone, making her chest feel tight. The deep ache was more than just a sore spot. It heralded an epiphany, one she wanted to ignore, but was being forced to acknowledge.
Her gaze tracked to the seal. Cream-colored paper between her index and middle fingers, she folded the top of the letter forward. Green wax pressed flat and stuck to the top of the page. Two olive branches crossed like swords stamped into its center. Her name was scrawled on the back of the sheet below the crest.
Proper. Precise. Perfectly formed loops.
Mavis’s handwriting.
A carbon copy of the other letters sitting in a sloppy pile on the coverlet in front of her. Letters she’d already cracked open and read. Thirteen in all, written in the last month, the date in the top righthand corner of each one.
She’d found the bundle of correspondence after Hendrix released her from innkeeper duty, snooping through the built-in hutch in the kitchen. Why she’d looked there first, she didn’t know. But the second the door to her apartment closed behind the gorgon, she’d felt the pull and gone straight to the hutch.
Bottom drawer, buried beneath tablecloths and napkins. Right where she knew Mavis’s messages would be, precisely how her godmother left them.
The White Hare was to blame. At least, she thought it was the inn. Like someone whispering in her ear, the spirit who called the Parkland home told her where to go to get what she needed—a fuller scope and the bigger picture. Information Hendrix had left out.
Omissions by design? Or the inadvertent glossing over of facts?
Both good questions.
She didn’t know Hendrix well yet. Maybe excitement had gotten the better of him. Maybe he’d become so caught up having a new innkeeper to impress, he skipped over important details without realizing it. Maybe he’d simply run out of time before she called it a night.
She should probably give him the benefit of the doubt. With Kruger’s unexpected visit—and annoying demands—and so many other things going on, she understood her major-domo’s hesitation. Hendrix no doubt planned to dole out the bad news in increments. A little here. A dollop there. Tomorrow would be soon enough for the next round…after she’d gotten a good night’s sleep.
Ferguson released a pent-up breath.
Right. Sleep. Was she really back to chewing on that?
No matter how exhausted, she knew getting the recommended amount of Zs was not going to happen tonight. Closing her eyes while listening to soothing music hadn’t worked. Counting sheep was a bust. The glass of warm milk hadn’t helped. And forget about meditation. Her brain was buzzing, far too full to quiet any corner of it. Which left her mind free to wander in dangerous directions. Ones that took her toward the contract and the dragon warrior who’d slammed the idiotic thing down on her desk.
She sighed.
What a shame.
Kruger might be annoying, but that didn’t stop her from noticing he was beautiful. Any woman with a working libido would think so. He was the kind of man who turned heads. Tall. Broad. Intense vibe. Sharp intellect behind angled cheekbones in an arresting face. Some would be fooled by his charm. Ferguson didn’t suffer any delusions. She knew who he was—a predator wrapped in a pretty package.
And yet…
He intrigued her.
Something about him urged her to take a closer look. She sensed the vulnerability behind the façade, read the hesitation in his dark eyes, saw the discomfort in the lines of his body. She pursed her lips. Discomfort wasn’t the right word. Desperation fit better.
Instinct rose on cue, seconding her assessment. Yes. Desperate.
Desperate to win. Desperate to keep his truth hidden. Desperate for a reason, maybe even a life-threatening one. Which meant she’d read him right. Kruger had a secret—a scary one he refused to let loose—and needed The White Hare to keep it under wraps.
Her eyes narrowed as questions circled. The what, the why, and the how. What had him tied in knots? Why couldn’t he come clean? How could she help? Burying problems never worked. She should know: having spent years ignoring the truth about her ex-husband and her own mistreatment, she qualified as an expert. Secrets always killed the keeper, and denial was a tricky beast. She understood the monster, knew its vicious cycle inside and out.
Until now, she’d never truly embraced her power. She’d existed, hiding in plain sight, a stranger in her own home, too afraid to let go and lean into the person she’d been born to become.
“Crap.” Rubbing the sore spot between her eyebrows, Ferguson shook her head. “Crappity-crap-crap-crap.”
She shouldn’t want to help Kruger. His problems were his own. It wasn’t any of her business, except…
That wasn’t quite true.
Solving his problem meant the dissolution of hers. Once he decided owning The White Hare served no purpose, he’d move on, and she’d be free to concentrate on the inn, instead of fighting to keep from losing it.
With her in residence, the inn was no longer dormant. Alive with magic, rooted deep in the earth, the spirit of the Parkland reached out to her. She understood its language and spoke back without words. The relationship seemed to be symbiotic, a gentle give and take. Not painful, just…present, at the ready, cluing her into the shared awakening.
The inn had been in a cold, dark place for a long, long time. But after winter came the spring. New growth. Brilliant colors. Vibrant skies and cleansing rains.
Her abilities sparked inside The White Hare, sending tremors through the Parkland, allowing her to tap into something raw and elemental. Breathing deep, Ferguson opened her senses. Warmth bubbled up, heating her palms, rushing through her veins as ties that bound strengthened and the spirit she couldn’t see but felt all around her hummed, welcoming her home.
Her lips curved.
The inn whispered in her ear, “Help him.”