Page 53 of Monsters in Love

DARKHEART

VIVIENNE HART

Annie

Ifling open the living room’s ratty velvet drapes, trying to get enough light to see what I’m working with. Unfortunately, the action unleashes a tsunami of dust that immediately attacks, sending me into a coughing and sneezing fit. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a spider the size of a tealight scuttling away from the commotion and into a dark corner, where it will undoubtedly lurk, biding its time until it has a chance to murder me in my sleep.

I run a hand over my face and sigh.

What in Wicca has Aunt Celeste gotten me into?

With another cough, I make my way across the room and open the curtains on the other picture window, letting in a weak stream of light that reveals a billion dust motes fluttering in the air and window panes too filthy to comprehend.

I add to the mental shopping list I’ve been making since I got here: food, all the cleaning supplies, maybe an industrial dumpster. Or a bulldozer. For a split second, I consider enchanting the supplies I do have to tackle the work for me, à la The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, but I discard the idea almost immediately. For one thing, it wouldn’t be a good use of magic, and for another, I’m vaguely horrified at the idea—however unlikely—of being overrun by an army of militant mops.

Instead, I brush off my hands and head back outside to collect my bleach, my cats, and my suitcases. I have my work cut out for me.

Before I go to my car, I wander back to the enormous iron gates that guard the driveway and try to assess the outside of the home. It doesn’t look any better than the brief peek I got of the interior. My house, the thing that’s brought me back to this town after seven years away, is a hideous eyesore. Admittedly, until today I hadn’t been inside since I was a kid, but it definitely didn’t used to look like this from the outside. At least, I don’t think it did. I remember it looking sort of spooky and elegant, not dilapidated.

Standing here, hands on hips, all I can see of my new inheritance is disaster. It’s quite the welcome to Mabon Manor: my family’s ancestral home, and as of two weeks ago, my new property. Great-aunt Celeste lived here when she was younger, but in the last ten years that Mom and I visited Haven’s Hollow—before I banished myself from it—Celeste lived in town, in a sort of assisted-living, studio-apartment-complex for senior citizens. I always knew the house on the bluff belonged to her, but it was never really on my radar. Mom always rented one of the lakeside cottages for us when we came to town, and because no one actually lived in the manor, we stopped bothering to visit it when I was about nine.

It’s clear to me now, though, that Celeste wasn’t paying any attention to it either. It’s foreboding and run down, a neo-gothic haunted house if ever there was one. There are turrets and roof pitches, with gargoyles and grotesques tucked in the various nooks along the eaves. Ivy is making a valiant effort to cover every wall, the rose beds are more thorn than flower, and from what I can see from here, the hedge maze in the back is a giant, overgrown nightmare.

Oof.

The winding driveway is as shabby as everything else, but at least there’s still enough pavement left that I was able to park close to the house, so I can unload all the stuff I brought. With another sigh, I go to the car and drag in all my belongings, including three suitcases, various brooms and buckets, and two cranky Ragdoll kitties.

I open the carriers as soon as I’m finished bringing things inside, and the cats react just as I expect. Mr. Biscuit leaps on the old settee in the parlor, sending up more plumes of dust, and immediately gets to work kneading the ancient damask fabric. Purrsnickety, his much-grumpier twin sister, yowls and hides under an end table, glaring at me as only an irritated feline can.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I know you aren’t happy about spending several hours in the car, but I have a can of ocean whitefish with your name on it for dinner. To atone.”

She just blinks at me and flicks her tail, which is about as close to forgiveness as she gets.

My watch beeps, reminding me that it’s already 3:00PM. I need to head into town and at least pick up some food, and I want to do that before it gets too late. I quickly set up a litter box and put out water and kibble for their highnesses, then grab my keys and head down the winding drive from the bluff into the town proper.

Annie

Haven’s Hollow.

A place almost as familiar to me as my mother’s ancient Airstream. Maybe more, in some ways. I take a deep breath, enjoying the unusual crackle of the air as it wafts in the open window. This town is special, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I returned.

Driving here brings back a flood of memories. Most of them good, though the bad ones are really bad, which is why I stayed away for so long. With a shake of my head, I banish the negative thoughts. Chad Alder doesn’t deserve to occupy any space in my mind. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I pay attention to the view, trying to track the changes to Haven’s Hollow.

It looks pretty much like I remember, though with some obvious updates. A quaint town tucked along a lake in the dip of the mountains, with cute shops and cobblestone alleys. Fun for tourists, pleasant for residents. A good place to take a vacation or raise a family. It’s pretty, and the magic that naturally infuses the place feeds the witchy part of my soul.

I note the business names as I search for a parking place: Fur and Purr Veterinary Clinic—good to know—Silver Serpent Metaphysical Treasures, Outdoor Outfitters, McCray's Realty. I spy a small grocery market called Haven’s Pantry on the corner and manage to find a parking place relatively close to it.

I lock the car and stroll down the sidewalk, planning to reacquaint myself with old businesses and learn the new ones before grabbing groceries, when a shout catches my attention.

“Annie? Annie Winslow?”

I glance up to see a tall figure with poker-straight posture barreling down on me. Moments later, I’m engulfed in a hug that smells like apple blossoms.

“Haven?” I say, voice muffled against her shoulder. “Is that you?”

She takes a step back, hands still on my shoulders, towering over six feet in her heels. “Annie! I haven’t seen you in years. What are you doing back in Haven’s Hollow? And why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

---