Page 12 of Never Been Gargoyled
“Oh, that?” She peered around. “Where did I leave my purse? When I remember, I set it on the kitchen counter, but I’m all discombobulated, and I may have put it somewhere else.” Frowning, she tapped her chin. “The parlor?” She spun and trotted down the hall, entering the room off the foyer.
With a huff, I followed, the box for her bedroom still perched on my shoulder.
“There it is,” she crowed, rushing over to the large, floral-printed bag sitting on one of the sofas. Lifting it, she spun to face me. She unzipped it and tugged out a sheaf of papers. “I worried someone might question me.Imagine the police stopping by, thinking someone’s squatting on the property or planning to vandalize it. So I made copies. The original, of course, is in my safe that’s…” Her frown deepened. “Oh, yes, it’s still in my car. Will you be a sweetie and bring it in as well? You can put it in the library. Such a grand room. All those books! I need to go exploring there soon. Dusting, most likely too.” Her breath caught. “Oh, yes, you asked for proof I own the estate.” She thrust out the papers. “Here it is. It’s legal and proper and all that.”
I perused the documents, finding that indeed, Helga had left the property to Dazy.
Which meant…
My role was not to drive her from the estate.
My role was to protecther.
Chapter 7
Dazy
The rag in my hand smelled like lemon-scented ambition when the knock came.
I froze mid-swipe on a window in Helga’s library, a bottle of cleaner dangling from my other hand, the window half-smeared, half-smudged, just like my life. The tick of the old grandfather clock filled the silence around me. I wasn’t expecting anyone. I’d only met Ogram and Dorvak, unless you counted the surly gargoyle who haunted my roof like it was his personal castle.
Oh, wait. It must be the welcome committee. The troll farmer told me someone would stop by with a basket of goodies. Please, let there be eclairs in the basket.
“Coming!” I called, a big smile blooming on my face. I tossed the rag onto the sill and stepped lightly across the hall, my sneakers squeaking on the woodenfloorboards. I passed the coat rack where Helga hung her sunhat I planned to use myself when I tackled the gardens.
When I opened the door, the air smelled of freshly mowed grass, lilacs, and rain-soaked dirt.
The woman on the porch looked like she lived in a house with no natural light. Vampire-pale skin. Mid-fifties. Gray hair tugged back in a bun tight enough to give her a free brow lift.
No basket. And I’d bet my new inheritance she wasn’t bringing me eclairs.
She wore a tailored navy pantsuit pressed within an inch of its life. Her mouth was pressed into a flat line, and her eyes weren’t even curious, just professional and flinty.
“Dazy Osborne?” she asked, her voice clipped and equally precise.
“Uh. Yes?”
She thrust a manila envelope into my hands. “You’ve been served. This pertains to a claim filed against the estate.”
I blinked. “I—I’m sorry, what does that?—?”
She was already turning. My question barely made it past my lips before she lifted one hand like a signal tocease and desistrather than wave goodbye. I stood in the open doorway, envelope in hand, and watched her stride down the path toward her beige sedan. Gravel crunched beneath her heels.
A breeze stirred the ivy climbing the porch rail, but I barely noticed.
She started the vehicle and turned, taking it back onto the main road.
Staring down at the envelope, I shut the door.
The envelope was warm from her hand and slick with humidity. It made a faint crinkle when I adjusted my grip. My legs limp, I wandered into the parlor as if someone had unplugged me. The cleaner bottle thudded when I set it down on the coffee table. My body moved without consulting my brain, taking me to sit on the couch in front of the fireplace, where I balanced the envelope on my knees.
As if he lived here, and I supposed he kind of did, Feydin strode into the room wearing snug jeans that outlined his thick thighs, and a t-shirt that outlined his chest and arm muscles.
Normally, yum.
Right now?
Okay, still yum, but this envelope felt scary. People weren’t “served” letters inviting them to the local church social, only bad news.
