Page 49 of In the Dark

CHAPTER 13

Just as Astix released the aura around her and Morgan, a loud thud on the front door interrupted the conversation. Karsia and Astix both swiveled their heads around at the sound while Morgan stood still, considering their options.

“It could be Elon doubling back. He doesn’t have a key.” Astix rubbed her elbows and sighed. “Dad is still upstairs, so I’ll go let him in.”

Karsia jerked, her teeth bared. “You think I can’t get out of this bind? I can!”

“You just stay there and try.” Astix studied her sister closely and whatever she saw there had her hastening her steps. She wrapped her hand around the massive doorknob and pulled. “Be good.”

The moment Astix left the room, Karsia wiggled her toes and broke the enchantment. It was easy to find the weakness in her sister’s magic and exploit it until the gems turned dark. The taint of her power flared out and filled her senses with the smell of dead things and rotting garbage.

“It was getting a little hard to hold it without laughing.” She plopped down on the couch and cracked her neck with such force it would have broken under different circumstances. Grinning at Morgan, she stretched her cramped muscles. “I let her think it worked,” she told him. “So she feels safe.”

“This is a game to you?” he asked, eyeing the creature in front of him. “I didn’t realize you cared enough about her feelings.”

Karsia shot him a sly smile. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Morgan was already making for the door as he tried to puzzle out her last bit of information. “I should go check on everyone.”

“Oh, stay here. It’s not like I’m playing games with you.” Her grin turned smug. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Right?”

His surprise was there and gone in an instant. “We’re going to fix this,” he told her with an appropriate amount of sympathy and honesty.

“Don’t waste your breath. My hope is gone, and you’re only here to look pretty.”

**

Astix moved down the hallway to the open foyer, the ceiling soaring two stories overhead. A single staircase curved gracefully to the left and connected both floors of the house. She remembered her mother in her glory days, with such fondness for grand entrances, sweeping down those stairs with the poise and grace of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. Always a fan of making a scene, with a fabulous flair for the dramatic.

Would Varvara recover to take up the mantle again?

Everything looked the same. Runners of deep crimson reached down the length of the long center hallway. Numerous cleaning ladies were kept on retainer. The floors, woodwork, and furniture gleamed like stars under the light of the crystal chandelier. The rooms were characteristically neat, except for her father’s study.

Astix wondered if the house would fall into disarray while her mother stayed in a coma, or if Thorvald had the cleaning service on speed dial.

The ambiance was one of means. Years of polish and familiar charm. There had been parties there, more regularly than not, women in expensive dress and garb gliding down those halls in style. Her father’s banking associates gathered in the den and smoking parlor, puffing religiously on cigars and pontificating dryly about market management and fiscal years.

Those days were in the past. Would probably never be again.

Pushing the memories aside, Astix turned the knob, opening the front door to reveal three men on the stoop. They looked like a flock of crows, dressed in matching black suits and shoes and coats. The coats were hung from their shoulders, casually, as if the cold didn’t bother them, leaving the coat sleeves dangling like limp wings.

Her mind flashed back to the three dead crows she’d found on her doorstep. Ice formed in her veins and her back stiffened.

“Cavaldi residence?” the first man asked. A large brimmed hat hid the majority of his face from sight though she caught a flash of pale hair, deep eyes, white teeth.

“Who are you?” Astix refused to budge. Her fingers dug into the wooden molding of the doorjamb.

No one spoke.

“Astix?” Thorvald croaked out from the top of the stairs.

She glanced up at her father, surprised he’d found the strength to move. “Dad.”

He hung over the railing and peered down at them. “Are you folks from the hospital?” His salt-and-pepper hair was stringy from days of negligence, unkempt and straw-like. The hand gripping the banister trembled.

Astix registered the changes, knowing on any given day she would have fired back with a retort that was both insolent and creative. Now those words dried on her tongue and she felt only pity.

“I’m going to assume you’re not from the hospital,” Astix muttered, returning her attention to the strangers. She might not be able to detect magical signatures from them, but her intuition was screaming.

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