Chapter 1
Chapter One
Indi
I don’t remember Lavish being this travel-brochure perfect town nestled against the gentle slope of a mountain. Somehow, it’s impossible for me to picture myself ever having lived here. I travelled through Mallhaven—Lavish’s sister town—to get here. The towns share sinister-looking black peaks, as if they were split down the middle when those spires rose up out of hell.
When I drove through Mallhaven, the town was already cast in shadow. Lavish, on the other hand, dazzles in the remaining hour of sunlight.
My GPS sends me straight through town, where my path winds up one of the roads leading higher into the mountains. There are tons of pines here; so many that twilight’s shadow falls around me as I stop outside a fanciful wrought-iron gate. I can’t see a house from here. Instead, I’m surrounded by more firs and the dark, distant peaks of the Devil’s Spine.
Getting out of the junker Mom’s insurance company passed off as a rental car, I head over to the gate and grab hold of one of the iron flourishes.
The metal is ice-cold, slightly damp.
There’s an intercom to one side. I press its button, and seconds later a voice warbles out through the speaker.
“Yes?”
“It’s Indi.”
“Excuse me?”
I grind my teeth as I bend at the waist to put my mouth closer to the slotted microphone. “Indigo. Virgo. Your granddaughter?”
“I was expecting you several hours ago.”
I straighten, thinning my lips and hoping to all hell the voice on the other side of the line isn’t expecting a reply. It was a five-hour drive through states and counties I’ve never been. What the hell was she expecting?
Slamming my car door, I rev the engine and tear through the gates as soon as they’re just wide enough for me to pass.
As much as I would have liked to knock those majestic gates off-kilter, the last thing I need is Mom’s insurance company billing me for damage to their car.
It’s super hard to stay angry. I mean, I’m trying , but this place is just so fucking beautiful. The air is fresh and piney. A chill promises a cool night.
Lakeview—which I still insist should have been named Swampview—was always so hot and sticky. Even in winter, the nights were hot. We had air conditioning at our lake house, of course, but I’ve always been the outdoors type. I hated being cooped up in my room. Mom used to?—
The road curves, and I almost don’t make the unexpected turn. My wheels go off the side of the paved road, digging into soft grass and spitting it out behind me before I can steer back onto solid ground.
“Fuck.”
I slow down the car, and then stop. As I wait for my heartbeat to drop back to normal, I peer out my windows to take in the towering pines and the dark, distant peaks.
They’re prettier on this side. Not as sharp, not as jagged.
Hiding their true form.
It takes me a good few minutes to reach my new home.
I was expecting a mansion, but gran’s place is just a big house. Double story, with a loft or attic on top. Big wrap-around porch. Immaculate lawn. No fences either—the lawn ends several yards away from the house.
Right where the now-black forest begins.
There’s a woman standing by the front door. She looks like those old, rich ladies who wear pearls to breakfast and have a butler whose name is undoubtedly James. But contrasted against a house that needs a new coat of paint and some replacement roof tiles, Grandma Marigold looks out of place.
I stop my car in the drive, get out, and wave at her.
She’s wearing a dress-suit and standing tall and proper, with her lips pursed and red as a raspberry. She shifts her shoulders a bit, purse intensifying the closer I get.
It’s been years since I’ve seen her last. Close to two decades, in fact. That was right about the time Mom and I moved to Lakeview.
She’s not anything like I remember, except if what I have in my head are manufactured memories from a toddler. My gran had rosy cheeks, a chubby body perfect for hugs, and a smile that could light up the room.
Just like my mother.
I force a smile. “Hey, Granny?—”
“You shall call me Marigold,” she cuts in. Her eyes rake over me, and don’t I feel every inch of a pile of brittle yellow autumn leaves right now?
“You look just like your mother.” It should have been a compliment—Mom was the epitome of grace and beauty—but in that tone of voice, it becomes an insult.
Eyes the color of flint dismiss me. “And you’re late, just like she always was.”
“Yeah, I do take after her,” I murmur to myself as Marigold pivots on her mules and struts inside.
I glance out at Lavish before following. I’m starting to wish I’d had a flat on the way and had to sleep in my car instead of washing up here.
Not that I have a choice, of course. I still have a few months to go before my eighteenth birthday, which means I’m still a minor.
Someone, apparently, has to take care of me until then.
Somehow, whoever gave Marigold that responsibility, has never met the witch in person.
“Dining room,” Marigold states, flipping a hand in the direction of a glaringly sober teak dining room set sporting silver tableware.
“Living room.” Another flip of her hand points at a room that hasn’t seen any living in a fuck-long time.
She doesn’t even have a television in there.
“Your room is upstairs, first door on the left.”
“Thanks,” I murmur.
Marigold stops, twists to face me, and studies her watch with lifted brows. “Dinner was ready an hour ago.” Her mouth twitches as she lets out a labored sigh. “But I guess I can reheat everything. Wash up and be ready in fifteen minutes.”
With that, she strides away.
I take the stairs two at a time, shaking my head and grinding my fucking teeth. I toss my backpack into my room which—no surprise—looks even less hospitable than the living room, and immediately begin exploring the house my mother grew up in. In fact, I grew up here too. For a year or two, anyway.
Which room was hers?
The next door opens to a second room that looks as much a guest room as mine. I don’t even bother going inside.
There’s a bathroom, a study, and then another bedroom on the other side of the hall.
Another guest room.
And, of course, the last room must belong to Marigold. I don’t bother going to look—I’m pretty sure it’s as devoid of personality as the rest of the place.
My shoulders droop as I thump my way downstairs.
I’d really hoped some trace of Mom remained in this place. A family photo, some toys; heck, even just one of her earlier paintings.
Guess Mom wasn’t kidding when she said she and gran weren’t on good terms. It all had to do with Dad, of course. Mom was a hopeless romantic, and as soon as she met her husband, she turned her back on the Davis family and became a Virgo instead. She lived in Lavish for a year or two after I was born, but then we all moved to Lakeview.
That was the last time I ever saw any of my family from Fool’s Gold county. Honestly, I didn’t miss them. My mom and my dad were the only family I ever needed.
I’m halfway down the stairs before I remember Marigold’s stern instructions. And she’s probably the kind of woman who’ll insist on seeing my fingernails before I can sit at the dinner table.
I wash my hands in the bathroom sink and catch sight of myself in the mirror when I’m looking for the towel.
I look every inch the orphan I am. Shadows under my green eyes, my dark hair is mousy and unkempt, skin sallow.
Dinner is served on white china, with silver cutlery. Mashed potatoes, pale pork bangers, and a heap of pale peas.
I guess if anyone could suck the life from a bunch of peas, it would be Marigold.
And yeah, she does check my nails. I keep them short these days, no polish. I mean, what would be the point?
“I trust your trip was a pleasant one?” she asks, startling me out of the trance I put myself in trying to pin down a slippery pea.
“Huh?”
Her eyes narrow. “I do hope you don’t plan on slouching like that at your new school, young lady .”
Yup, there it is.
Guess gran was expecting a younger version of Mom. All radiant debutant and perfectly honed social skills. I used to love playing dress-up with her elegant cocktail dresses and expensive jewelry.
But ever since the home invasion?—
“Sorry,” I mutter, resuming my pea-chasing adventures in the land of white china and colorless silverware. “I left my ball gown behind in the blackened shell that used to be my house.”
When I look up—because Marigold’s gone all quiet—I regret the comment. Her face is as bone-white as the china. Even her red lips have paled.
“I’ll see myself out,” I mutter, shoving away my plate and storming from the dining room.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Grandma’s reedy voice calls out behind me.
“Out!”
“You can’t drive on these roads after dark. It’s too dangerous.”
“Then I’ll walk!”
“Don’t go far.”
Thankfully, the front door isn’t locked—guess Lavish is one of those awesomely safe small towns where everyone’s so rich, no one has to steal each other’s stuff—so I head straight out and stand in what’s left of twilight.
There’s a buzz in my ears, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s usually the precursor to a binge. Like the one I was on the night my mother was murdered.
I glance behind me at the slightly dilapidated house and picture the prim and proper woman probably still seated at the dining room table, taking one tiny bite of food before putting her knife and fork down again.
Zipping my hoody up to my throat and whipping the hood over my head, I fast-walk straight for the fringe of pine trees suffocating Marigold’s pathetic house.
How long until that bright new day, Mom? ‘Cos all I’m seeing on the horizon are goddamn thunder clouds.