4
The barren landscape is never-ending, and there’s something uneasy about it, like it’s an abandoned place, not peaceful or remote. Abandoned.
The horizon is warping in the heat, not a home in sight, and I wonder if I should expect a mirage to come along and break up the monotony of this eternal drive.
But all I see are the occasional tumbleweeds rolling over dust.
The town and road are long behind us now, and the small hatchback rattles over the uneven terrain—not a drive this car was built for. For this type of drive, we should’ve bought a Range Rover or something like it.
Serena sits up, her spine suddenly straight. “Here.”
Her quartz eyes reflect with the sunrays cascading through the window.
And her gaze is pinned ahead, to the side.
I trace her stare all the way to—a log.
No, not a log. The tyres roll over dirt, and we get closer to the random, out-of-place sprouting of a tree trunk.
Just one.
And, even more strange, the stump is rich with healthy, green moss growing over it.
A derisive, tired smile snakes over my lips. “She lives in the stump?”
Serena rolls her eyes back for a moment. “We drive around it once—and when we do, we say ‘refuge’, ok?”
Apparently a little humour isn’t welcome.
My tongue lolls around the insides of my cheeks. I don’t answer, but when we do drive around the stump, I say it with her.
We come back to the tyre tracks and look ahead as a mirage starts to glimmer on the horizon.
But this mirage turns out to be very real when it takes the shape of a wooden house—and Serena starts driving towards it.
The house is poorly made. The wood is pale, it’s three stories tall, and I worry about it collapsing just by looking at it.
More love went into the creation of the fenced-off gardens circling the house than the actual house.
I keep that thought to myself. Serena’s been a right pain so far, and I don’t think criticising the property is going to thaw her.
I bite down on my tongue—even as I spot her, the witch standing at the front of the house.
Isabella’s cousin?
She could pass as her sister.
That long dark hair sits over her shoulder in a frazzled plait that should be messy but is actually charming, especially with the smile that beams at us from her pretty, angular face.
And like Isabella, she has those curves. The kind of silhouette that snatched Desmond, an aristos bachelor from the Coven of Europe, with one hell of a print, when he should have married better.
But the difference between Sofía and Isabella is more than a husband. It’s vibes, too.
Sofía’s smile is warmer. Truer. Even if it makes me think of a Cheshire cat.
In slacks and a top, a linen set, and barefoot, Sofía stands a mirror of Isabella if Isabella was more in touch with the earth and less in touch with Dior.
That smile alone should welcome me—or at least make me feel more comfortable.
But there’s a weight spreading in my gut, like liquid metal, and I feel pinned to the seat as the car stops at the front porch.
Serena rams the stick into park, then gets out of the car.
With the metallic dread ribboning through me, I move slower, but I force myself to follow her lead.
The air has that dry heat I suffer whenever we visit Dubai, that stagnant heat with no relief, and it’s hard to breathe.
It’s a desert here, too.
My sneakers flatten on the earth, and it’s so dehydrated that cracks are splintering off in every direction.
Sofía flattens her hand above her eyes like a visor. “Come on in, before we cook out here.”
On the other side of the car, Serena moves for the door to the backseats, then tugs out the bags.
I don’t take a step, not until Serena does, then I’m quick to follow at her heels—maybe too close. So close she can probably feel my breaths rustling her hair.
She might think I’m nervous, and that’s why she doesn’t push me out of her personal space, and she would be sort of right—but also, I’m not going to lead the way into the shield witch’s home. If anything happens, at least it’ll happen to Serena and not me.
We approach Sofía, the visor of her hand casting shadows down her face, and I find that her eyes are on me.
That look glints with recognition.
Her grin is faded, and in its wake is a small smirk.
I force a smile back, but mine most certainly looks more like a grimace of nerves and uneasiness.
I could break the ice, ask her, ‘So what made you abandon the Videralli and want to spend the rest of your life in hiding?’
But then she could throw that question right back at me.
And, as I walk over the creaking porch for the open front door, I have trouble remembering my answer.
Still, she is staring at me—waiting for my greeting, for any acknowledgement to come from me.
So I settle for awe. “You can conceal an entire house? That’s impressive.”
“I can hide just about anything.” There’s a bragging silk to her voice. “This way,” she adds, gesturing Serena to lead the way down to the corner of the house—not up the porch steps.
That liquid dread returns to sway and sway in my gut as I follow them to the small, fenced garden stuck to the side of the building, then in through a door that’s almost hidden by overgrowth and vines, so concealed that it feels like a forgotten or secret door.
It takes us into darkness. No windows or lights to illuminate the way.
Serena takes my hand, and hers might just be as clammy as mine. Could be the heat outside that’s done it, or the nerves as we follow Sofía through the darkness—
Until I hear the clatter of a doorhandle and light floods into the thin corridor.
Fingers unclasping, Serena and I chase the light into the new room, and immediately I’m suffocated by perfume and chaos.
I don’t know what sort of room this is supposed to be, whether a kitchen, a lounge, a parlour, or even a bathroom, because it’s impossible to tell through the sheer clutter.
Clutter might be too gentle a word.
Shelves take up the bulk of the room, standing at odd angles, and are stacked with figurines and tiny phials and long-neck bottles.
Strings of dried herbs and flowers hang from the ceiling—like a dense garden is just dangling above my head and flooding my nose with too much perfume.
Crystals glimmer from the shelves, bones too, and photographs, and letters, and books and candles and feathers.
It’s so overwhelming that my legs move of their own accord, taking me into the corner of the room, as if to hide from it all.
Serena tosses the bags to the floor.
They land at the toes of my sneakers. I just glance down at the bags when Serena mutters, “Wait here.”
Then she and Sofía squeeze through the mess, duck under hanging chimes and leaves, then weave around a massive scratched table that’s littered with loose papers.
They make their way through the tangled maze of mess, to a door with glass panes that glimmer with sunlight.
They go through the door, maybe to a sunroom, and leave me in here.
Trapped in a hoarding hell, while they have their privacy.
What they can’t say in front of me, I don’t know. I’m as much a part of this as Serena.
But then, I haven’t exactly been enthused about the whole thing. So maybe Serena decides to leave me out of the greater plans.
Guess she doesn’t trust me with all the information at once. It’s what she’s been doing since the start of all this. Breadcrumbing me.
The annoyance of it sags me against the wall.
I cross my arms over my chest. My sweatshirt pulls with the gesture, stretching and tugging, and I can’t wait to get it off of my body.
After being in the car for so long, sleeping in it, sweating in it, I feel unclean.
I stare at the glass paned door, as though if I look hard enough at the shadows flickering beyond it, I can will them back—and Sofía will become a semi-decent host and lead me to the bathroom, where I can at least shower.
But she is gentry, after all, like her cousin.
I’ve heard nothing about a rogue in Isabella’s family through the gossip vine. So it must have been buried deep to preserve the reputation of Desmond’s wife, and thus, the Vasiles.
All pointless, now that Serena is a rogue herself now… and me.
My heart sinks to the dread in my gut.
A rogue in the Craven family.
Shame heats my cheeks, and I drop my head, as though Mother and Father are standing opposite me now, their disapproving, devastated stares fixed on me.
But all that stands opposite me is a sort of bookcase. Only, it houses jars of pickled and preserved things. Tiny animals, like foetuses, maps unfurling over shelves, dreamcatchers and charms and animal skulls.
For a shield witch, Sofía collects a lot of ritualistic items. She might be part of a coven of rogues, or one of those witches that risks the dangers of stepping outside of her print, trying to expand her power.
But that would be crazy—and just as I think it, the door opens.
Steps thud on the creaky floorboards. But only Sofía comes inside a few steps.
“This way,” she says, and gestures me over with a wave. “I’ll show you to your room.”
My Spanish is rusty—and her dialect is off. But I understand and scoop the bags up from the floor.
Over Sofía’s shoulder, Serena gives me a tight smile, one that doesn’t make me feel wholly welcome, but not entirely unwelcome either. Like it’s a chore to tend to me now.
I bite down on the edge of my tongue, and start making my way through the clutter.
The escape can’t come soon enough.
It stinks in here, reeks of smoke and dust and incense and lavender and tea, and something spicy, and something sweet, and something menthol.
This room would trigger one of Oliver’s migraines, no question.
I reach the door, but Sofía doesn’t step aside.
“Let’s settle my fee first,” Sofía smiles around her words, and it’s slimy. “Get it out of the way.”
She turns that smile over her shoulder to Serena in the doorway, whose face is harder than stone.
Sofía says, “Fifty thousand euros, thank you.”
That’s too much, way too much compared to the cash we have.
“Fifty thousand?” I echo, and my voice hitches.
Sofía blinks softly at me. “Family rates.”
I throw her a slack look.
“And of course, the monthly stipend,” she adds, all warmth to mask her rotten greed, “but that is to be agreed upon later—once your time here is over.”
Rogues, I decide, are just another gang of snakes.