Page 35 of An Invocation of Monsters

I sniffed the air. I didn’t smell any rotting food that might’ve been shoved in other dark areas, but it just didn’t make sense.

“Offering,” Tater said shortly, climbing to his feet. “To appease…”

He waved his hands around as he spoke, though it didn’t help his case.

An offering to appease what, exactly?

“For whom?” I asked, wanting to peer under the island, but Tater snatched my empty plate from my hands.

“I will handle that.”

He was about to take my wine glass but I clutched it. “Wait, is there more wine?”

Tater clearly wanted me the hell out of his kitchen after witnessing his ‘offering’, because he shoved an entire bottle of Merlot in my hands, along with a bottle opener, and physically turned me towards the door. “Go now. I will clean up.”

“But who was the offering—”

“No. I must clean. Go.”

I stood in the hallway for a long moment after being given the bum’s rush out of the kitchen. And to think I’d had such high hopes for Tater being a normal person.

Oh well. At least he made the most melt-in-my-mouth prime rib I’d ever had.

I locked the door behind me when I got back to my room, absolutely determined not to be interrupted again.

After a brief struggle, I pulled the cork and refilled my glass, flicked on the gas fireplace, and settled on the couch with a woven blanket around my shoulders.

I could get used to this kind of comfort, even if I didn’t particularly like the people living around me.

The photo album still had to be investigated. I picked it up, running a hand over the old velvet cover, and flipped it open.

The first image was a sepia-toned photo of a young girl sitting on stone stairs, no more than twelve, with blonde hair… and a planchette around her neck. The older girl—Marie—sat with her arm around her.

I slid it from the sleeve, flipping it over, and saw the faded ink on the back: Sophie Marsh and Marie Vaughn. Provenance: ??? Possibly Tessa V?

A bomb went off in my head. Marsh.

She was the girl in the picture upstairs—and, if I was guessing correctly, an ancestor of mine.

I dropped the album, scrambling for my camera.

I compared the photos. Even without the planchette, she was obviously the same girl: she had delicate features, and a small mole just under her left eye.

The thing was, I’d never known much about our extended family on my mother’s side.

She was the sister of Josephine, Juno’s mother, and that was as much as I knew about the Marsh line.

My mother had never spoken of her own parents, and I’d never questioned the lack.

She had existed in my head as Gillian Gray, the other half of Benjamin Gray, a solid, reliable duo in a marriage and house as gray as their name. It was like they’d sprung into existence as that very couple, with no history preceding them.

Even when I’d gone through my dead parents’ effects to clear out the house, I hadn’t come across much of anything prior to their marriage. Neither was inclined to sentimental keepsakes or childhood memories.

I zoomed in on the girl even further, cutting out Marie.

Sophie Marsh, with long, ash blonde hair. The sly smile. The polished wooden planchette around her neck, the knowing look in her eyes.

Maybe I was jumping to conclusions again. There were so many Marshes in the world.

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