Page 2 of Toadstools and Vampire Kisses

This is going to call for extra chocolate.

ChapterTwo

FRAN

Shouldering the tote carrying Beast, I slow as I approach the turn-of-the-century house looming in front of me. Even in the low light just after sunset it is impressive. Built by a great-great seven generations ago, a Durmont witch has always lived here. I was supposed to live here too, as my mother’s only heir, but despite its incredible beauty it was always so much “bigger,” with a legacy I wanted more than anything to escape by the time I came of age.

Deep down, I know that one house shouldn’t inspire so much anxiety, especially not one that has been home to generations of my family, but it coils up venomously from my belly like a viper ready to strike. It’s not the house, not really. It’s me and my failure to be what is expected of a Durmont witch.

Balking on the front steps outside the door, I fidget in place, wondering who has already arrived. No doubt my cousin Elenore would already be present and helping to prepare everything. She is the model young witch of the family and has been since we were both twelve years old. With her flawless incantations and elegant spellweaving, her performance as a witch and natural inherent grace was a far cry from… well, me.

There have been rumors for years among the family and coven that she’s in line to take over from my mother, though nothing verified. Not that I would be surprised if that happened. Truthfully, she would be easy to hate if she weren’t so genuinely nice. It just makes it hard to come home and not measure up.

Beast whines up at me, and my eyes drop to his adoring gaze from where his little head has popped up over the top of the bag tucked under my arm.

“It’s okay, Beast. Just working up my nerve here,” I assure him. Or maybe more myself.

I grimace at the steps leading up to the door. There’s no escaping the fact that I’m not ready for the parade of people and the bustle of festivities. It was all so much simpler when I was a child, when I had little expected of me other than to behave in the most mischievous manner to keep the fae and the wandering dead far from our door. We ran riot around the ballroom, ducking between adults in their finery. Following my sixteenth birthday, all of that changed as my mother prepared to groom me for my role in the family as I mingled among kin and allies. I know the moment I enter I will be scooped back up into that stifling cage.

“I just need to get this over with,” I mumbled back down to Beast. “It’s not like I can just stand here forever.”

“That could be debatable, depending on your own longevity. While you and your navel are deciding your next course of action, I would ask that I’m allowed first to pass,” a masculine voice cuts in behind me. “Iamrunning late, after all.”

I freeze, heat rushing to my cheeks as I turn my head and glance behind me. The man standing a few feet behind me is stupidly good-looking. His brow creases with confusion, making me very aware that I am standing outside of my family estate in a floral maxi skirt that has seen better days, a green button-down sweater, and a pair of thick combat boots. I can’t do much for my reading glasses dangling from the beaded chain against my breast that complete the look of a deranged librarian, but I’ll live with a fashion disaster just to have my reading glasses on hand.

I’m under no illusions of how my style is viewed by others who don’t have to travel for miles in a truck to get to the nearest town or spend hours at a time working outside. It holds up well to suit my lifestyle, and I like the bright splashes of cheerful color, however “inelegant” it may be.

His nose wrinkles with what is likely fashion offense as his eyes skim over me. I shrink away, mortification filling me at his close appraisal. He clearly has no idea who I am or why I am blocking the stairs leading to the house I grew up in. The more he struggles with trying to place me rather than even so much as greet me as a coven member, the more I wish I could just disappear into the topiary.

“Sorry,” I stammer, turning so to make as much room as possible as I step off the stair, my cheeks flaming further.

I don’t even see it coming when the toe of my boot catches against the side of my other foot and I make the most classic Fran move ever Franned. I trip over my own feet and go spinning, toppling with a shriek and a pint-sized yelp from Beast at my side.

He hurries forward at the exact moment I begin to teeter, his hands coming up as if to catch my fall. I twist all the way around in my fumbling at the exact moment he reaches me. I barely have time to wonder at how fast he is—supernaturally fast as only a vampire could be--when I notice a firm pressure on my chest. His mouth gapes, and I follow his line of sight down between us to stare at his hands palming my breasts where they are braced. The intense heat of his hands sear through my dress, surprising me. I had assumed that vampires had a lower body temperature, like a corpse. I never would have guessed that they run hotter than us.

“Oh,” I mumble in shock.

He whips his hands away so fast that I nearly topple but I thankfully catch my balance just in time to shoot him a reproachful look.

He clears his throat and politely casts his gaze over my right shoulder. “Apologies. I certainly had not intended to touch you.” I gape slightly, and his lips immediately thin in an expression of what might be chagrin or annoyance.

“That is to say, it was not my intention to, ah…” His words trail off as his gaze narrows on my face. “Do you know you have dirt on your face?” He taps the side of his own nose, and I swallow the frustrated groan that nearly escapes me and scrub at my face with my sleeve.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

He shoves a small linen handkerchief in my direction, dangling it from his fingertips as if to avoid all contact with me.

“Again, my apologies, Miss…”

“Durmont,” I say as I accept the handkerchief. I consider spitting on my sleeve to get at it but immediately reject the idea as my audience of one continues to silently stare at me.

The dark slashes of his eyebrows arch as he once again looks me over, this time with what I suspect is an expression of disbelief. “Of the Durmont witches?”

“That would be the one,” I reply dryly as I hand the handkerchief back to him and give my clothes a pat to make sure everything is in order.

“I see.”

I smile up at him. “No, I really don’t think you do.”

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