At no point did anyone mention her dearly departed grandparents’ ghosts would be inhabiting it along with us—or that ghosts were even real, for that matter. Poppy’s fraternal grandparents, Tucker (Tuck) and Ellie-Sue Proctor, were hardly dead and gone. They were dead and here.
That was still taking some getting used to on my part.
I’d only just met Ellie-Sue, though I’d heard a lot about her from Poppy over the years. I’d even sent flowers to her funeral some two years back. Cue my struggle with coming to grips with the fact I’d already had several lovely sit-down discussions with her in the last two days.
Hanging with ghosts was becoming a regular occurrence for me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Ellie-Sue didn’t look dead when she was around. She was itty-bitty and tender-hearted. Her Southern accent was nearly as adorable as she was. And her sayings left me biting back a laugh more often than not.
As for Tuck, the other resident spirit in the Proctor House, he’d taken to showing himself to me often since his first apparitional coming-out just over forty-eight hours prior, when an honest-to-God succu-bitch (succubus who was also part witch, yet total bitch) and her evil minions tried to kill me and my best friends.
The skank had some sort of magik va-jay-jay that apparently ensnared men with ease. Part of me was jealous. The other was thankful it wasn’t catching. I didn’t need or want my vag acting like the Pied Piper.
Thanks, but I had enough issues all on my own. I didn’t need that added to it all.
Tuck had a few choice words about Darla (okay, fine, Marla) and how she’d broken up his granddaughter’s marriage, and he’d been vocal in sharing them with me. He, like myself, was torn. On one hand, he was pleased Poppy wasn’t married to Thomas any longer, but on the other, he knew Thomas’s infidelity had hurt Poppy deeply. The succu-bitch had used Thomas as a means to get closer to Poppy in hopes of being able to drain her magik, like she’d done to many others, leaving them dead. But that hadn’t gone as planned with Poppy. Instead, the succu-witch had gotten her ass handed to her and gone poof into a plume of green smoke.
That happened right after Darla the succu-bitch had sent her evil thralled vampire followers after us all. Tuck had shown himself then, revealing that, while he was dead, he was not in fact gone.
His ghostly coming-out had occurred in a dramatic fashion, complete with him wearing a sheet and freaking me out, right before knocking over two bad guys in the fight to end all fights.
Once I got past the fact the guy was dead, yet could appear to be totally not dead, I found I had a lot in common with him. He had a dark wit about him that I related well to. He’d been very helpful in explaining the finer points of the supernatural world to me since I was brand-spanking new to it all.
Turns out not all vampires are evil. At least according to Tuck. And there are so many types of shifters that listing them would be nearly impossible. There were handwritten books that were in the study. He’d shown them to me and, so far, the information within had been nothing short of eye-opening.
I’d been riveted by them, but for as fascinating as I found them to be, they also freaked me out. Had I read them prior to knowing the truth about supernaturals, I’d have still been interested in them, but I wouldn’t have believed a word they said. Knowing they spoke the truth, and that I’d only just scratched the surface of what was out there, was weighing heavily on me.
Everything in my life had flipped upside down forty-eight hours ago, and I felt like I was doing my best to keep my head above water.
Poppy was handling the seemingly nonstop revelations with style and grace. Typical Poppy.
Marcy didn’t seem the least bit fazed by anything that had happened. It was as if she’d known the truth all along. Typical Marcy.
The last thing I wanted to do was alert either of them to the fact I was having a hard time dealing with everything. This was supposed to be a happy, joyous time for us.
The three of us were starting over. Taking life in our forties by the balls and making it our bitch.
Or so had been the plan.
At this point, I wasn’t sure who or what was in charge of the second part of my life, but it certainly didn’t feel like it was me.
I’d had a trial-by-fire introduction to supernaturals and was still doing my best to come to terms with everything.
It was a lot.
A whole lot.
But I was doing my best, and right now my best also included dealing with a small rodent that I’d found in one of my boots—again. “Get out of here, fur-ball.”
It darted behind a stack of cardboard boxes I had yet to unpack and then skittered underneath the empty ones once again. The empty ones toppled and filled the open doorway, looking as if an earthquake had occurred.
I thought that was the end of the squirrel, but the darn thing raced back into my room, making the already fallen boxes topple more. He shot past the full boxes, and I reached out quickly to steady them as I let out a long-annoyed breath. “Marcy, you’re about to be one tree-rat short of a nut-bunch if you don’t get your butt in here and deal with him.”
Marcy strolled into my room, seeming downright bored by my theatrics.
The sun had yet to rise, but she was fully dressed and looked to have been up for some time already.
Wearing clothing that looked as if she might try to dance barefoot around a bonfire right before telling my fortune, she pushed her way through the toppled boxes, looking like the hippie version of Godzilla invading my bedroom.
The heavy scent of jasmine and sage followed her, and I had to wonder what she’d been doing only moments before. If I knew her, she’d been down mixing potions or some other nonsense in what we’d taken to calling the green room, which was just off the kitchen.
It was basically a witch’s wet dream, and Marcy spent most of her time in there, sorting through everything, doing who knows what. She also came out smelling like she could clear a room of negative energy by simply exhaling.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
I held up my running shoe. “I’m planning to use this as a deadly weapon in a minute. I’m undecided if it’s you I’m killing or your pet tree-rat.”
Waving a hand in front of my face in an attempt to get the overwhelming scent of sage away from me, I watched as she scrambled to get the very rodent I’d only just been chasing.
The bracelets she wore on each arm, stopping a few inches from her elbows, clanged loudly. The faster she tried to find the very fast rodent, the more noise the bracelets made. She was like a one-man band. She wore three different necklaces, each one longer than the next. They made as much noise as the bracelets, if not more.
If her goal was ever being stealthy, she’d fail miserably.
I wore a simple silver chain with a matching small cross that had been a gift for my Catholic confirmation from my mother when I was in eighth grade.
That was it.
But not Marcy.
No.
She jingled and jangled with every movement.
I’d heard cowbells make less ruckus than she did.
Finally, she ceased making noise, but that was only because she stopped trying to catch her pet squirrel. She bit at her lower lip, and it was evident she knew she was in deep shit with me. “Sorry. I thought he was sleeping in my room. Are you heading out for a morning run? You always liked those in New York. You’ll love it down here. Fresh air. Scenery. So relaxing and refreshing. You can practice your breathing exercises too—you know, for your temper.”
“Your tree-rat was in my boot—again,” I said, going for my designer pair of black boots and lifting one for her to get the full effect of my annoyance.
The little fur-ball picked then to show itself once more as it poked its head out from under the end of my dresser. For as irritated as I was with the small thing, even I had to admit it looked adorable as it did something close to a tiptoe in Marcy’s direction.
I rethought the whole “using my runn
ing shoe as a weapon” thing.
Marcy bent and put her hand out, holding her head high as if she were truly offended. “Burgess is not a rat, Dana. He’s a Southern fox squirrel, and he doesn’t like it when you say mean things about him and threaten him. He understands that you won’t really harm him and that your frustration with him comes from another place, not one of real anger, but it still hurts his feelings. He wishes you would speak to him from a place of love. Not a place of aggression.”
Aggression?
I’d give the little fur-ball aggression.
“I don’t like it when he climbs in my boots and decides to nest or nap, or whatever it is tree-rats do,” I said, holding up my boot again. “And I wish he’d go live in a tree, where he belongs. There. Said with love.”
The sugary-sweet smile I offered should have been the icing on top. Knowing Marcy, she’d miss the not-so-subtle hint that I wanted to call animal control on her pet.
Just then, Burgess scrambled up her chest and came to a seat on her shoulder, of all places, right by her face.
Horrified, I gasped. “Marcy, that thing could have rabies.”
“Highly unlikely,” she said, turning her head and puckering her lips in its direction.
I stood there, frozen, holding one running shoe, as I watched my friend give a squirrel a quick, chaste kiss.
“Who is a good little boy?” she asked in a high-pitched voice. “That’s right. You are.”
“Ohmygod, you put your lips on it!”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re very dramatic.”
“This from a woman who hugs trees and kisses rodents,” I snapped.
Five
Dana
“Try to be more patient with him,” Marcy implored, her bottom lip jutting out as she reached up and stroked Burgess, who was still on her shoulder. “He’s learning to be a house squirrel. It’s difficult on him. We need to all remember to be kind and to show restraint when dealing with him.”
I inwardly counted to ten, hoping it would help my level of irritation with both the tree-rat and my friend.
It didn’t work.
I clutched my running shoe tighter.
“Here’s the thing, Marcy. He’s not a house squirrel. He’s a wild animal that belongs outside,” I argued. “He can play with all the other tree-rats out there. You know, join in all the fun tree-rat games. Be part of their boys’ club. Whatever. You’d be doing him a favor. Set him free.”
“I’m not holding him here against his will,” she said quickly. “He wants to be here.”
I lifted a brow. “Why? Does he have a thing for Italian leather? It’s the only explanation I have for why he keeps crawling into my boots.”
She drew the squirrel close to her very blessed chest and lowered her lips to the top of its head. “Ignore her. She hasn’t had any coffee yet this morning and she didn’t go for her morning run yet. I, for one, think coffee is poison, but she loves it and is addicted. And without it, she’s barely a house-human. After several very large cups, she is only nearly human. And if she doesn’t run daily, she’s extra cranky. Oh, maybe you could go on her run with her. What a fun bonding experience!”
“Forgetaboutit,” I said, knowing my New Yorker was shining through. To non-New Yorkers, I probably sounded like a gangster. I was totally fine with that. There was no way in hell I was going for a run with that thing.
The squirrel squeaked and clucked at her as if it was part dog toy and part Morse code machine. Whatever it said, Marcy seemed to understand. That, or she did a great job making me think she did, with all the nodding and animated facial expressions. She also had in-depth conversations with trees and just about any kind of flora or fauna one could find. It wasn’t really new for her. She’d always been an odd duck.
When Marcy finally stopped with the theatrics, she looked me dead in the eyes. “Burgess says he’ll stay out of your boots if you’ll let him sleep in your dirty clothes hamper. Seems like a fair trade. What say you?”
I focused on the tree-rat and shocked myself by not lunging for the thing. “Tell him I’ll let him live if he stays out of my room.”
She sighed and stared down at the squirrel that she insisted came with the name Burgess. When we’d arrived in town, she’d met the squirrel in the side yard of the house we were staying in. The two had apparently hit it off well, seeing as how he was now a permanent fixture at the Proctor House and in my boot.
After a few clucks, squeaks, and general weirdness back-and-forth with Burgess, Marcy focused on me. “He says it’s a deal. He would like to compliment your hard-nosed negotiation tactics. He thinks you’re going to make a great attorney here in Grimm Cove, and he’s frankly ecstatic you’re finally here. You, me, and Poppy have been all the buzz around here with the flora and fauna.”
She was so freaking weird.
“Glad to have his stamp of approval. Means the world to me.” I rolled my eyes. “Take him with you when you leave.”
She stroked the animal’s head gently. “He’s my familiar. You need to get along with him, Dana Van Helsing.”
It was serious if she was using my full name to scold me. I bit back a laugh at just how nonintimidating the woman was. I was more scared of Burgess than her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“He’s my familiar,” she stressed, as if speaking slower would suddenly make it clearer to me.
It didn’t. I had no earthly idea what a familiar was, only that she’d mentioned it more than a few times since we’d gotten to Grimm Cove.
“You do know what a familiar is, don’t you?” she asked, surprise lifting her brows.
I shrugged. “Got nothing here, and you repeating it doesn’t equal me understanding it any better.”
“How is it you have a grandmother who is a witch, yet you are so utterly clueless about everything and anything to do with them?” she questioned with nothing but sincerity in her voice.
I stiffened at the mention of my grandmother. “Nonna Wilma isn’t a real witch. I mean, she fancies herself something of one, but she’s not like you and Poppy.”
I’d seen firsthand the actual power my best friends possessed just days prior. We’d locked hands and turned the succu-bitch into nothing more than stinky, sulfur-smelling green smoke. Much to my surprise, I’d gotten past the initial shock of that rather quickly and moved right into stunned-stupid territory.
I’d then proceeded to channel my inner turmoil into something I saw as productive. That was cleaning. I’d spent most of the last twenty-four hours scouring every surface I could find, avoiding talking to anyone about anything of substance as I ran my new reality through my head on a loop.
Everyone had been good about giving me space when they saw I needed it.
Well, everyone except Burgess.
He seemed hell-bent on bunking with me by way of my expensive Italian leather boots.
Marcy stroked his head more, her gaze still locked on me. “We’re going to need to have a long discussion about what you are. About what we all are, Dana.”
I knew as much but wasn’t feeling up for it just yet. “Later?”
She sighed and nodded. “Later works. What are you going to do today after your run? Tell me it involves something that won’t leave your fingers raw.”
I glanced at my red hands. The skin on my knuckles was the worst. It looked as if I’d gone several rounds with a heavy bag when, in reality, I’d merely tackled scrubbing the old wood floors.
“I have a cream that will help them,” she said softly. “If you’re open to trying it.”
“Did you make it by normal means, or did you say some kind of hocus-pocus over it?” I asked. The question was legit.
She snorted. “I cursed three times while making it because I splashed hot oil on myself. Does that count?”
I laughed. “Depends on what curse words you said. I’ve heard your version of cussing, and frankly, I’ve heard eight-year-olds do a better job.”
She stared at me, loo
king to be fighting the urge to outright laugh. “Why am I picturing you at age eight, needing a bar of soap put in your mouth?”
“Probably because you know me well,” I added with a smirk. “Burgess seems content.”
He had fallen asleep in her arms.
She winked at me. “You like him. Admit it.”
“I like him more when he’s not in my boots,” I returned.
She continued to stroke him lovingly as he napped. “When are you going to head over to see your new offices?”
With everything that had happened since we’d gotten to Grimm Cove, I’d not had a chance to really stop and think about the fact I was taking over the firm of a retiring local attorney. He had offices in a building here in town with other lawyers, and I’d not once even considered going to see what it was I’d gotten myself into. I was almost afraid to look, seeing as how everything else had gone sideways since my arrival in town.
It had been at the forefront of my mind on the way to South Carolina, but the second I found myself face-to-face with a bunch of evil assholes with fangs, I kind of forgot about much else.
Hard to focus on things when you get a hefty dose of reality tossed at you.
“It will get easier,” said Marcy.
“What will?” I asked before remembering who I was talking to. The woman was basically a mood ring, wrapped in an oracle, covered in a nice coating of freak-me-out.
“Processing the knowledge there is more to the world than you thought. That there is more to you than you’d thought,” she said, confirming my assessment of her. “You made short work of a number of the vampires who attacked us. You have to know that isn’t something a normal person can do, right?”
I shivered slightly as I thought about how effortlessly I’d killed more than one vampire, and how much I’d taken the death of the succubus-witch-bitch who had tried to kill us in stride.
Marcy nudged me with her elbow. “She had it coming.”
“You read minds now too?” I asked, only partially joking, since I wasn’t sure she didn’t.
Hexing with a Chance of Tornadoes: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Romance Novel (Grimm Cove Book 2) Page 5
