Chapter 7
Grumps’ words still rang in my ears when I woke up.
He has a point. If Tristan and the others are my friends, then I should tell them the truth. But most importantly, I should tell Sam.
I’ve been trying to call him all morning, but he’s not answering, which isn’t like him.
I’ve also tried Tristan and even Chan, but no one is picking up and messages are left on unread.
Chan alone would have messaged me back straight away.
Needless to say, I’ve developed an uneasy feeling in my stomach.
I’m sure I’m just being silly. Sam did say they were having a drink in Vivienne’s honour, so they’re probably all hungover. This sense of foreboding is more likely tied to the fact that I’m about to tell them who I really am.
I can’t remember ever being this nervous. Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I exit the Tube station at Whitechapel. It’s busy at this time of the morning, so I keep my head down and pull my jacket tighter as I amble along the street.
I keep going over what I’m going to say to them, imagining how they’re going to react, each scenario getting worse until I make myself even more nauseous. Finally, I approach the flats where Tristan and Danny live.
I blame the fact that I don’t immediately realise something is amiss on my current state of anxiety. I’m almost to the door of the building when I stop dead, slowly turn my head to the side, and notice…
An absolutely bloody enormous tank.
I mean, an honest-to-god army tank and it’s…
it’s huge. I’ve never actually seen one up close and certainly never in the middle of a residential area, parked on top of several ornamental buddleia bushes and a Fiat Uno.
It also looks like it managed to hit a streetlight, which tilts at an alarming angle.
My gaze tracks up the street to the line of crushed cars and devastation obviously left in its wake. I close my eyes and sigh.
This has Tristan written all over it.
Ignoring the tank and the bunch of irate onlookers looking at the metal pancakes that I assume used to be their cars, I turn and march straight into the building.
By the time I get off the elevator and head towards Tristan’s flat, I’m less concerned and more annoyed.
I mean really? Is it that difficult to answer a message or return someone’s call, especially with everything that’s going on?
I stop in front of Tristan’s front door and stare at the number, my insecurities suddenly rising to the surface. Maybe we’re not really friends. Maybe they just tolerate me—or worse, feel sorry for me. Perhaps I should just go home and figure this all out on my own.
Suddenly, the door swings open and the two people on the other side jolt in surprise.
“Oh, Harrison, hi!” Aidan, Chan’s cute little teenaged Irish foundling, exclaims.
My gaze falls on the tall boy standing next to him who’s eyeing me curiously. He looks like a miniature version of Tristan’s husband, Danny. Funny, I don’t remember Danny mentioning he had a kid, but there’s no mistaking the genetic resemblance.
“Um, this is Nick,” Aidan says, glancing shyly at him, his cheeks turning pink. “He’s Danny’s nephew.”
Oh, okay. Close.
“Hello.” I give a curt nod.
“Hi.” Nick smiles and all I can see is Danny. He really is the spitting image of his uncle. Danny junior turns to Aidan. “I’ll message you.”
Aidan smiles and nods enthusiastically. It would be cute if my stomach wasn’t back to turning somersaults at the thought of seeing the others.
I stand by silently as Aidan watches Nick head towards the elevators. When the blond-haired boy finally disappears from sight, Aidan turns back to me.
“You coming in, then?”
“I suppose so,” I mutter, and follow him inside.
And into complete and utter chaos.
They look an absolute state. Tristan and Chan are sprawled out on the sofa, incredibly hungover and clutching onto each other like they’ve survived another apocalypse…again. Danny is passed out, mouth hanging open and snoring, on what looks like an extremely tacky throne.
I honestly haven’t seen anything that gaudy since Tristan and Danny’s friend Brandy, who happens to be a drag queen, loaned them some of her furniture after their previous flat was damaged by a storm.
I continue my thorough perusal of the scene of the crime to find a half-dressed Dusty looking like an extra from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Astonishingly, she seems just as hungover as the others, which I wouldn’t have thought possible given that she’s dead and unable to drink. Or so I thought.
When my gaze finally falls on Sam, I blink slowly. He’s wearing a tutu and ballroom dancing shoes, but what’s really striking is the full face of make-up.
I literally have no words right now.
And in the midst of all this…whatever this is, Death is standing tranquilly as he holds a peacock and feeds it raisins.
Another wave of annoyance flushes through my body, heating my face and making me grit my teeth. They’re all adults and entitled to do whatever they please, but I’ve spent all night worrying about telling them incredibly personal information about myself and my family, and they’ve been…on the piss?
Maybe I’m being unfair, but I can’t help the pang of hurt.
I know I declined the invitation to join them, but whenever they manage to get themselves into these types of ridiculous situations, they end up having wild adventures together, cementing them closer as a group.
I’m left standing on the outside looking in, just as I was during the eclipse.
After a great deal of noise and incoherent babbling over each other, I manage to ascertain that Death has this time tried to gift Chan the actual Crown Jewels, a couple of illegally obtained peafowl, and a pair of celebrity wedding thrones.
In addition, if I understand this correctly, they somehow managed to steal an army tank—from where, I have no clue—which they took on a joyride driven by Sam, who managed to flatten several cars, a lamppost, and a buddleia bush (which explains the devastation out the front of the building).
Oh, and apparently, they were also arrested and then rescued by Death, who staged a supernatural jailbreak.
And none of them have any memory of this. Well, except for Death who recounts the details as calmly as if he were reading the weather report.
Maybe it’s best I didn’t join them, after all.
However, by the time Death is done, I have a very bad feeling.
When Chan tells me they only had one glass of alcohol each from a bottle of gin they liberated from Vivienne’s stash, the feeling intensifies.
Picking up the bottle, I feel the unmistakable fingerprints of magic.
It’s a little hard to explain, but it’s like a weird kind of tinkle where my fingers grip the bottle’s neck, a ripple of awareness across my skin.
I unscrew the lid, lean in, and give a tentative sniff, then pull back sharply, my nostrils burning.
Fuck.
I suck in a sharp breath, knowing what I need to do. It’s something I’ve avoided for months, but I can’t put it off any longer. I need answers, which means only one thing.
I have to go to my mother’s bookshop.
Glancing up at the building, I swallow hard. My stomach is a mess, like something is writhing around in there, and I don’t know whether to throw up or take some antacids.
“Prickles, are you coming in?”
My gaze tracks over to the door where Sam waits for me, a hint of curiosity and concern in his eyes.
I’m not sure if I should be grateful that the others tagged along.
I know they’re just as invested in solving this mystery as me, albeit for very different reasons, but I could have done without having an audience the first time I enter what was the home of the Crawshanks family in one way or another for generations.
Unsurprisingly, I hesitate, but the little voice inside me telling me I don’t really have a choice has me taking a reluctant step over the threshold and into the shop.
A wave of dizziness washes over me and a buzzing fills my ears.
I blink, and for the briefest moment, the shop floor disappears.
Instead, I’m standing in a Victorian parlour with crimson-cushioned sofas and a round table covered in a lacy white tablecloth and set with a fine china tea service.
A delicate clock ticks and chimes above the fireplace.
A door slamming loudly behind me makes me jolt, and the image in front of me tatters and fades away, leaving me once more staring at the others standing around in the wreckage of Vivienne’s bookshop.
“What the hell?” I mutter, thankfully not loud enough for the others to hear.
I step further into the shop and feel a strange wave of familiarity.
Not for the shop, for the building itself.
It’s like I have a deeply ingrained memory of every inch of the place.
Even though it looks very different from how it did originally, I know exactly where the foyer was, the parlour, Cornelius’ study.
It’s like the very blueprint is stamped on my brain.
As I reach the middle of the room, I feel the floor ripple beneath my feet and a surge of nausea. My vision greys slightly and I sway, trying to get my balance, but it suddenly feels like the floor has tilted.
“Whoa, steady there,” Sam rumbles against my ear as his arms slip around me.
“Are you okay?” Tristan asks in concern.
“I’m okay, thank you.” I straighten up and push Sam’s arms away, even though all I want him to do is hold on tighter to keep the pieces of me from flying apart. “This place packs quite a punch.”
“It’s been that way since the eclipse,” Tristan mutters, looking around absently.
He may have only been able to sense it since then, but I suspect this place has always been this powerful.
My gaze lands on the bloodstain in the middle of the floor, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
My stomach lurches again. This time, though, it’s not due to the ambient magic in the room but because of the thought that this was the exact place my mother took her last breath.