Page 57 of Feral Possession

Fog rolled across the manicured grounds. Bushes shaped to resemble stampeding horses galloped through the mist. Stone walls stood like formidable guards, protecting the secrets within.

“This was where you grew up?” Dove squeaked, then cleared her throat. It was impossible to envision a child living here.

“Home sweet home,” Marcus said, his tone flat and emotionless.

Without conscious thought, she clasped his hand and squeezed tight. As expected, he flinched and shot her a sharp look. Despite his reaction, she held on, braced for him to shake free. Instead, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. She wasn’t the only one on edge.

For good measure, she impulsively grabbed Bishop’s broad hand as well. Like his employer, he flinched, casting her a dark glance. Just as she expected him to withdraw, he squeezed her fingers, offering his silent support.

As a unit, they headed up the stone walkway to the porch. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Before them was a mammoth-sized double door. Knockers shaped like lions’ heads glared back at them, rings clenched in their snarling maws.

“Should we knock?” Dove whispered.

“Got it,” Bishop said, his voice a roar in the stagnant night air.

Boom. Boom. Boom. He heaved the sturdy ring with more fitness than she could have mustered. The sound echoed through the desolate building, growing louder with each percussion.

Two heartbeats later, hinges screamed, the heavy portal swinging inward. Dove curled her toes against her sandals, her imagination running wild. Any second now, that door would open and a funny little man with a handle-bar mustache dressed in green would answer, asking, “Who rang that bell?”

At that point, flying monkeys would attack her, clawing at her hair, and she would head for the hills.

Instead, a spry fellow cracked open the door. One look at them and his bushy eyebrows slid up his wrinkled forehead, his diminutive stature rising to all of five-foot-three. “Lord, Steele. ’Tis an honor you’ve bestowed on this humble groundskeeper. Please come in.” He shoved the heavy door wide, grunting louder than the rusted hinges, using a considerable amount of strength. “No need to knock at your own house. No, sir. No, sir.” He wiped his brow with the bandana he pulled from his pants pocket, then used it to flag them forward. “Come in. Come in.”

As though sensing her reluctance, Marcus set his hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside. Bishop followed close behind them. Unsure of what she’d find, Dove lingered in the entryway, curious eyes scanning the space.

Over their heads, a massive crystal chandelier glimmered, the ceiling soaring high above them. On either side of the cavernous room was a sweeping stairway. At the center, a large fireplace flanked by two stiff-backed settees. Sheets covered many of the furnishings, their ghostly shapes lurking around the room.

While the penthouse lacked any personal connection to Marcus, his childhood home was worse. Nothing about the space would inspire a little boy to build a pillow fort unless he was looking for a place to hide. Adorable pictures of Marcus as a child were missing. The decorations looked expensive, purchased for their value and not sentiment. Dracula’s coffin was homier.

One item stood out above the rest. It was a beautiful piece. Above the cold fireplace was a portrait of a woman in a gauzy dress. She stood in what appeared to be a rose garden, a soft smile on her porcelain-doll face. On the frame was a brass plate with ‘Josephine Steele’ printed in an elegant script. Was this Marcus’s mother?

Dove turned to him, question on her lips, and froze. His cursed hood was back in place. Darkness shrouded his features, his frame rigid. He turned his attention to the nervous groundskeeper, who twisted his cap in his weathered hands.

“Archibald Higgins, this is my Chosen, Dove Laurent.” Marcus did the introductions, his voice strained.

Apparently, this wouldn’t be a happy homecoming. Dove forced a smile for the poor man’s sake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Higgins.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. You as well. You as well. No need for the mister. Name’s Archibald, but you can call me Archie.” He turned to his employer, bobbing his head, his discomfort palpable. “Apologies, Lord Steele, for the state of the place. No one’s stayed here in quite a while.”

Bishop lingered by the door. “I’ll take the car around to the garage, then check the grounds.”

Marcus nodded, turning back to Archie while Bishop slipped outside. “It’s fine, Archibald. I gave you little notice.”

Sturdy heels clacked along the marble floor, headed in their direction. Dove’s heart soared. She’d know the sound of those clunky heels anywhere. From the hallway appeared a familiar figure. Sleek hair twisted in a tight bun, apron tied neatly around her stout waist, Ida flitted her hand at the elderly man. “Don’t keep them standing there, Mr. Higgins.”

“Ida!” Dove rushed across the room, meeting her halfway. “Boy, am I glad to see you.” She slung her arms around the stunned woman’s shoulders, hugging her as if she feared being swept up in a tornado.

“Goodness, child.” The housekeeper patted her shoulder. “It’s good to see you, too.”

When Dove released her, the housekeeper drew a deep breath as though she’d been deprived of oxygen.

“You didn’t mention Ida would be here,” Dove said to Marcus, accusation in her tone.

He stared back at her, showing little reaction. “I thought you’d be more comfortable with another woman in the house.”

Dove studied him in confusion. While bringing Ida was thoughtful, he grew colder by the minute. “What would you like to do first? A tour, perhaps?” Not that she was excited about seeing more of this creepy place. Still, it was Marcus’s childhood home. Seeing more of the mansion could give her a better understanding of her benefactor.

“Mr. Higgins can show you around. I have work to do. Mrs. Stoneworthy, is my office ready?”

---