She frowned. “He’s a dick.”
“He’s yours.”
Figured. She’d always been a dick magnet. Exhibit A: her ex-husband, stepfather, and malignant stepbrothers.
“Help him. Help yourself,” the inn said, throwing down the suggestion like a dare.
“Huh.” Glancing toward the ceiling, Ferguson turned the idea over like topsoil, looking for rot underneath. “It’s not a bad plan, you know.”
The inn said nothing.
Setting her elbow on her bent knee, she propped her chin on her fist and stared unseeing at the empty fire grate. “I help him. He leaves me alone. At least long enough for me to figure out how to get rid of him for good.”
Walls creaked as the inn groaned around her.
Busy plotting Kruger’s demise, she ignored the advice. He was trouble, absolute destruction (and hotter than effing hell), but still…
An alliance with him might work.
Two birds, one stone. Hook him, keep him on the line, but at arm’s length while she settled in and learned how to control her new abilities. The White Hare was right: having Kruger, and his dragon pack, at her back while she acclimated to her surroundings wasn’t the worst idea.
Chewing on her fingernail, Ferguson shook her head, hating what the strategy said about her. The entire scheme smacked of deceit, but if her deception saved the inn, well then…
The ends would justify the means.
Kruger was a big boy with a nefarious purpose. He wanted to kill The White Hare. He hadn’t said so, would never admit it to her, but the second he bought the property, the Parkland would die. And so would she, in one way or another. Ferguson wasn’t above playing dirty. She would cheat, beg, borrow, steal, and lie to ensure Kruger never got his hands on her birthright.
She was the innkeeper, and the responsibility to protect the Parkland fell to her, so she’d play his game. Maybe even strike a deal. If her plan worked, she’d do more than just slow him down. She’d uncover the what and the why—uproot his secret, shine a light on the reason he wanted The White Hare, disarm him before he attacked her.
Underhanded in every way, but so was Kruger. He’d live. She’d get what she wanted. A win-win, no matter how you sliced it.
Sensing the inn’s disapproval, Ferguson ignored the silent censure and straightened from her slouch. She rolled her shoulders. Pain prickled through her as she put the problem of Kruger aside. She had a couple of days before he darkened her door again—plenty of time to figure out how best to deal with him. In the meantime…
She refocused on the letter in her hand. Sliding her thumb over the paper, she flicked one of the corners with her nail. The creased sheet flapped in the quiet before she smoothed it all the way open. She frowned at the flawless penmanship.
Beware the Druids.
A warning, succinct and to the point. Just like Mavis.
With all her eccentricities, Ferguson’s godmother had never excelled at subtlety, or did anything in half measures. Mavis had left Ferguson to fend for herself. No training. No transition period. Nary a word of advice about her duties as the new innkeeper. Just a few vague instructions written on thick stationery with a fancy crest of two olive branches that most would say symbolized harmony.
All Ferguson saw was chaos.
Proof positive lay in the other letters. One said: Bathe naked in the Darkwood. Another instructed: Welcome the Haetae. Yet another implored her to: Dip into the midnight cauldron and embrace the moon.
Thirteen letters. A single phrase written on each one. Nothing but nonsense that seemed to signal her godmother’s recent descent into insanity. An upsetting thought, given what Mavis meant to her, and—
The soft snick sounded.
A quiet hiss of a door opening and closing.
The sound of near-silent footsteps tapping across tile.
Her attention snapped toward her bedroom door. Wide open. No protection from the intruder she sensed sneaking in through the back door.
Head tilted, Ferguson stayed still and listened. The quiet creak of floorboards came next. Moving slow and steady, she set the letter on top of the pile and, without making a sound, drew the afghan covering her legs aside. Cool air prickled over skin left bare by her pajama shorts as she shifted toward the edge of the bed.
Gaze riveted to the entrance, she reached for the cricket bat leaning against the bedside table and murmured, “Lights out.”
The White Hare listened and obeyed.
The lone lamp on the nightstand winked out, plunging her room into darkness. Her hand curled around the handle of the heavy bat. Her feet touched down on the soft rug covering the wide-planked floor. Her vision flickered. Infrared blinked on. Night turned to day as abilities she didn’t know she possessed flared, allowing her to see in the dark.
Perception expanded another notch. Echolocation came online. She sent a gentle pulse out, using vibration to locate the intruder.
There. Crossing the living room. Now rounding the end of her couch.
She clenched her teeth. He was good at creeping, intent and stealth on display as he crept under an archway into a hall lined with bookcases.
Cranking an internal dial, she sharpened her focus. Big guy. Solid presence. Intense magical vibe wrapped in power so profound it preceded him out of the center vestibule, slithering into the corridor that led to her room.
Beware the Druids.
Like a well-timed antidote, Mavis’s message invaded her veins.
Her heart picked up a beat. Blood throbbed in her ears. Enemies. She had enemies. Not just Kruger and the dragon pack backing him—others she didn’t yet know about, but perceived in ways that stretched her abilities and weren’t yet part of her repertoire.
Normal girls had normal problems. Abnormal girls ended up with crazy problems. Jethro, Cuthbert, and Luther—along with the host of other ghosts who’d visited over the years—set her firmly in the second category. Ordinary wasn’t part of her make-up, so instead of fighting the flux, she bent the curve, embraced strange and, absorbing the inn’s magic, made it her own.
Calm curled through her. Prickles exploded down her spine.
She heaved the cricket bat. The square tip swung up, preceding her around the end of her bed. Attention aimed at the door, she murmured her wishes. The air stilled. Quiet descended as the inn muffled her movements. Flexing her hands around the taped handle, she tiptoed toward the door.
The floorboards outside creaked.
Shifting right, she pivoted, then drifted backward. Her shoulder blades met the wall. Hidden from view, she listened as her would-be assailant paused in the corridor. Nothing but a whisper of sound and the slight stirring of air. Locked on to the guy, she closed her eyes, counting off the seconds, sensing every movement he made. Whoever he was, he was in for a rude awakening…and crushing defeat.
She might not know who he was, but she knew precisely how to deal with him. No hesitation. No holds barred. No need to consult The White Hare’s battle guidelines or call in Hendrix.
The inn showed her the way as a shadowy figure moved between the jambs. Fury and adrenaline collided. Heat burned through her veins. Magic infused her muscles, lending her strength. With a snarl, she swung the cricket bat. The guy invading her room sucked in a quick breath.
Too little, too late.
She hit him with the broadside of the bat. Wood cracked against bone. A grunt exploded from his lungs, half agony, half curse.