Page 72 of Cosy & Chill
Roisin forced herself to stay motionless. She kept her head bent over her portfolio, and her breathing nice and even. She was unknown in the Inns of Court, but showing the triumph that fizzed through her was tempting fate.
She’d known that Leo kept secrets out of shame.
Judging by the solicitor’s warning, Leo’s father kept secrets for other reasons.
Roisin rose from the bench and straightened her long black coat. Her high heels clicked on the paving as she passed through the gate that separated Lincoln’s Inn from Chancery Lane. She was a fae and fae weren’t squeamish. She’d wield those secrets like a weapon until Leo received every penny of his inheritance even when he shied away from a fight.
Low-level emergency lights, set into the skirting boards at intervals, made it easy for Roisin to navigate the dark corridors of the offices of Griffin & Heilbronn. Guards patrolled the courtyards of Gray’s Inn and watched the gates, but they didn’t venture into the office buildings or a law firm’s chambers. Which was a stroke of luck, since the stairs in the old buildings creaked loud enough to wake the dead, even under Roisin’s insignificant weight.
Mr Griffin, as the head of the firm, occupied the corner office on the first floor. It was a pleasant enough room, though Roisin would’ve changed the colour scheme in a twinkle if she could have.
“Files. I need the files,” she whispered, drifting along the walls clad with bookcases. “Where do you keep the files?”
Mr Griffin’s office held rows upon rows of law books Roisin had no interest in, and his PA’s space was equally devoid of client files. Roisin opened every door and inspected every office, until she found what she’d been looking for on the second floor: an archive room filled with box files on long wooden shelves, some so ancient they wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum. Only two of the files bore the name Wetherall, and Roisin carried them out of the room and into the nearest office with a window.
She could read by moonlight.
When she left Gray’s Inn an hour later, the staccato beat of her heels betrayed her rage.
Leo’s wish for distance from his family had hinted at mistreatment as much as the scars on his back. Roisin had thought herself prepared but imagining something wasn’t the same as having visual proof. The Wetherall file had held photographs of Leo at various ages, his body marred by deep scratches, long welts, cuts, and burn marks. These weren’t the kind of accidents a clumsy child might suffer. These hurts had been inflicted with deliberation, placed carefully where they wouldn’t be discovered by accident. And where Leo would struggle to tend them.
Roisin was more likely to indulge children than discipline them. Children were rare amongst the near immortal fae, a blessing to be cherished. No fae would ever hurt a child, but Roisin had spent enough time with humans to know that they didn’t care as much. The knowledge didn’t temper her outrage.
The photographs, horrific as they’d been, had shed light on Leo’s past.
Within days of finding them, Leo’s grandmother had used them to ‘persuade’ her son to allow Leo to live with her. Then she’d lodged them with her solicitor for safekeeping and changed her will. It made Roisin like the unknown old lady a whole lot.
The only surprise in the tale was the fact that Leo’s parents had never lifted a finger to protect Leo from his sister’s attacks.
The Wetheralls’ home occupied a spacious plot in a cul-de-sac. Boasting double garages, driveways roomy enough for several cars, and large gardens, these homes weren’t cheap. Add easy commuting into London, and Roisin could picture the humans who lived here. They prized convenience and value for money, and that philosophy extended to the homes’ locks and security systems.
Roisin blurred her form and muffled the sound of her footsteps while she passed through an area that saw little pedestrian traffic even during the daytime. The security system gave her no trouble, and she soon found herself inside the silent house.
Roisin peeked into each of the downstairs rooms and found them expensively but blandly decorated. Leo’s love for handsomely carved oak and purple velvet hadn’t come from this place.
Four bedrooms led off the first-floor landing and Roisin blinked at what she found.
It wasn’t typical for young women of Miriam Wetherall’s age to still live at home. If they did, it wasn’tat allusual for them to occupy the master bedroom with en-suite bathroom, while her parents slept in the smaller room along the corridor.
The anomaly was telling.
Miriam Wetherall was asleep. The room was warm, and she’d pushed the quilt down, exposing a shape more generously curved than Roisin’s. Her golden-blonde hair was braided for the night, and not a single blemish marred her face. Roisin thought of Leo’s scarred back and her rage—held at a simmer while driving across London—boiled higher. The sight of Miriam’s nails, carefully shaped into crimson talons the better to inflict pain, pushed her over the edge.
She slapped Miriam across the face with all the fury of a mama bear.
“What—” Miriam surged upwards, and Roisin landed a punch in her stomach that doubled her over. She aimed a blow at Miriam’s other cheek, gleeful to see her fingers leave marks. She wanted to give the malicious cow a taste of her own medicine. Wanted to make her relive the tortures she’d inflicted on her younger brother.
Miriam started screaming.
Her parents burst into the room a moment later. “Miriam, darling. What’s the matter? Did you have a nightmare?”
Roisin realised that she was still glamoured. To the Wetheralls, their daughter sat in bed, screaming her head off for no reason. It could have been funny.
“Shut yer gob, ye stupid cow.” Roisin wrapped her hands around Miriam’s throat and dragged her from the bed. She was shorter than the human woman, but her rage gave her all the height and strength she needed.
Miriam’s scream dwindled to a gurgle, and the two older Wetheralls froze where they stood when Roisin dropped her glamour.
Better.
