Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
My heart is pounding from the adrenaline of my epic car push and coasting antics.
I lift my arm and kiss my bicep. I am so She-Ra.
I have the urge to bellow “I have the power” while wildly waving my arms about.
Oh, or was that He-Man? My face scrunches in a frown.
Meh, who cares? I bet few people have pushed a car by themselves.
The car park is dimly lit with ground level lights that highlight the crumbling path up to the hotel. Why didn’t I see the lights from the road? The hedges weren’t that thick. Even though the lights are dim, they should have been visible.
I vigorously rub my forehead. I find this all hard to deal with.
Nothing makes sense. I know something wacky is going on, but I have no idea what, and interpreting this shite is beyond me.
I am almost at my limit. I’ve spent hours driving, frightened half to death that I am going to crash the car, and my whole body aches.
The need for a locked door, a bath, and a good night’s sleep thrums through me.
In the light of day, everything will be better.
Hottie hellhound mentioned my coven will meet me at the safe house, so my mum is at the end of this wonderful drive.
Yeap. I huff. I am not in the mood to deal with her, and I can’t be arsed with her passive aggressive bullshit.
So, if I can leave that confrontation until tomorrow…
now that would be a billy bonus. I can so risk a stay in a creepy hotel to avoid Mum.
Perhaps Dad can come and get me in the morning?
Something inside of me dips and I rub my thigh and pick at some imaginary fluff on my black jogging bottoms. No.
No, he won’t. I will ring the hire car company in the morning and get them to fix the car.
I lean across, and from my yellow jacket hung on the back of the passenger seat, I grab a handful of potions and stuff them into my pockets. I need to be ready for anything.
Typical spaghetti western music bow-wow-bow-wow-wow chimes through my head as I then pull out a plastic blue and orange toy gun and blow on it.
No longer She-Ra, I’m now Clint Eastwood.
Instead of underwear, Forrest left this and a bunch of weapons in the suitcase. With a helpful scrawled note to add a sleep potion to the foam bullets.
Wow, just wow.
The woman is a scary, evil genius.
I am glad I added the potion before I left, so the gun is good to go.
Many creatures carry weapons, but not guns.
Guns are licenced and heavily regulated.
There is also this strange thing of honour between creatures where it’s all blood and blades.
Oh, and not to mention the many spells and nasty potions that will melt your face clean off and turn you inside out. Go witches.
For all our technological advancements, I don’t think we’ve ever made it out of the dark ages.
So, guns are a big no-no. Not that this is a real gun.
My grip tightens on the plastic. I have no idea if a toy gun wielding a sleep potion is illegal.
If caught with it, I might be in a huge amount of trouble.
Like I care. I don’t know how my aim will measure up anyway, but I am willing to try anything if the shit hits the fan.
I’m not a fighter, and I am a crap magic user.
But after meeting the scary elf, I will take whatever I can get.
I slide out of the car, and as soon as I put weight on my right leg, my poor calf throbs.
I glare at the offending car door and slam it closed a little harder than necessary.
Bloody door. I nod, feeling vindicated with the car now suitably chastised.
I hobble around to the passenger side to get Daisy.
Like I’ve seen in films, I stuff the toy gun within easy reach behind my back, tucked into my waistband.
When I take a step, the elastic pings and the gun slides down the back of my trousers and clocks me on the ankle.
I roll my eyes, stand on one leg and jiggle until it pops out of the bottom and clatters to the ground.
I tighten the string on the jogging bottoms and put it in my pocket.
“I have the power,” I grumble as I struggle to lift the small suitcase from the footwell. With a grunt, I drag it out and then tap Daisy’s travel bubble. The magic swirls and it rises from the seat. As I move away from the car, it floats in the air behind me.
I wish I had the same magic for the suitcase, I think as I hobble down the wonky path.
I hobble, smack, hobble, smack. With each stride, the damn thing bounces in the ruts and smacks against my leg.
The sore one. I grit my teeth, lift my eyes, and take in the hotel.
The Sanctuary appears to be a gatehouse to a stately home.
A squat, mini castle. It even has—I’ll have to Google the name—a flat roof with the castle-like square spikes along the pitch. I bet it once had a turret.
Even in the dark, I can see the rundown state of it, which makes me sad.
The place could be incredibly beautiful, but it would take some serious money to restore it and give it the modern twist it needs, while retaining its history.
That might be why someone turned it into a hotel, in an attempt to get it to pay for itself. But the whole place screams money pit.
About twelve feet from the door, the heavens open and I am pelted with freezing cold Scottish rain.
I’m instantly drenched. I can’t feel my face.
With rain dribbling down the back of my neck, I mournfully think of the warm waterproof coat I left in the car as I scurry the final few feet to the door.
With relief, it opens and I hurry inside.
I wrinkle my nose as I am instantly hit by the odour of feet. Nice.
The interior is as sad as the exterior; they have ripped the heart out of this poor old building. I see touches of grandeur peeking out, screaming for restoration. I shake my head and hobble to the wooden reception desk and ring the bell.
As I wait for someone to come, my eyes drift back around the room. What a waste. If I could draw, or had an aptitude for math, I would have loved to have been an architect or a designer. I guess life impedes your passions.
I smile and shake my head. Whenever a new housing development pops up, I can’t help having a nosy at their floor plans.
I can spend hours on the internet going through the drawings and analysing the room shapes, mentally redesigning the layouts or appreciating clever designs.
I know it’s nuts. Looking at building plans is a weird hobby, but I like it.
I once spent an entire month studying a manor house that had been converted into fancy apartments. Wow, they did an incredible job.
Building my own home is definitely on my bucket list. Sometimes to get to sleep when my brain is too busy from work, I build houses in my head.
It’s a quirk. I guess everyone has some strange thing they do.
I haven’t got the skills to build a house, but it doesn’t stop me from mentally doing it anyway.
It comforts me enough to sleep. I drum my fingers on the desk and try to peek through the tucked away staff door.
I’ll give them a few more minutes before I ring the bell again.
There is this one particular building I design over and over again.
I’ve landscaped it into a perfect world.
It has beautiful windows and a lake and mountain views.
I turn and slump against the desk and… funny, I can almost see it being adapted to this hotel.
I rub my face and groan. Look at me in a smelly hotel reception area, dreaming.
A throat clears behind me. I squeak and spin around.
“Hi.” I wave. “I didn’t hear you.” Rainwater drips from the sleeve of my jumper and plops onto the floor. Oops.
“It happens all the time.” The receptionist, or night manager—whatever his job title—smiles.
He could be between thirty and sixty. His age doesn’t show clearly on his face.
That isn’t unusual in this world. As a witch, I will age the same as a human.
Quickly. Witch’s lives are fleeting compared to the creatures that live alongside us.
Shifters and born vampires are practically immortal.
So meeting someone with an unageing face and ancient eyes isn’t far from the norm.
But my wacky magic is screaming at me that something is off about this guy.
That is disconcerting.
I surreptitiously check his ears for the tell-tale point of an elf. But his ears are rounded. He isn’t a shifter and there isn’t the distinctive smell of rot that I associate with turned vampires.
But still, he feels off.
Fae? His dark red hair gleams under the lights and the longer I stand there, staring at him like a proper weirdo, the more his dull green eyes brighten. They sparkle with excitement. This isn’t him putting on a show and being polite to a customer—no, it is genuine.
Joy.
Maybe that’s my problem? I am so used to people not being impressed when they see me. Perhaps his beaming smile is throwing me off completely.
The negative voice in my head that I usually associate with my mum tells me to sleep in the car. But my inner voice, the one that I always stubbornly listen to, purrs with contentment. It’s like I have come home.
What the heck is that all about?
“Hi.” My hand flaps again in a feeble wave. It’s as if my limb has a mind of its own. I pin it to my side and smile sheepishly.
“You’re here. Finally,” he says with poorly veiled glee. He claps his hands. The guy is practically bouncing on the spot. He is positively glowing. “I can’t believe it—”