Jennifer didn’t hear anything but running water. She swatted at the handle, keeping an eye on the open bathroom door. The water blasted her with cold before she finally managed to turn it off.
Shaking, she stepped out of the shower, still wielding the half-empty bottle. Water dripped from her body onto the floor. It ran from her hair into her eyes.
The washing machine made a clunking noise as it agitated the load. Jennifer tried to listen past it for movement. Slowly, she grabbed a towel and used it to wipe the water from her face.
She hadn’t imagined it. Someone had spoken.
Had she scared them off?
Were they waiting in the hallway?
Her hands shook as she dried herself, still gripping the shampoo bottle. She dropped the towel on the floor and quickly pulled the shirt over her head.
“The cops are coming,” she yelled. “You better be gone.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The portable washer kept spinning.
She crept to the bathroom door and slowly looked out, ready to strike as she glanced in both directions. No one was there.
Jennifer grabbed her clean clothes and held them against her stomach. She took a deep, terrified breath as she rushed toward escape. Gazing into the living room, she half-expected someone to jump out at her. It was empty.
Her shoulder slammed into the front door, but it didn’t open.
She made a weak noise, something between a moan and a scream as she hit it again. It took several attempts before her fingers managed to pull the handle. The door swung open, and she tripped down the stairs.
Air hit her damp, naked lower half as she looked around the area. No one was outside, and the open space gave her comfort. The alley rarely had traffic, and the surrounding houses with their old fences provided a little bit of privacy. She dropped her clothes on the grass-patched dirt that doubled as a yard.
Jennifer fumbled as she tried to quickly dress, pulling on her panties and black slacks for work. She kept glancing around the area to be sure nobody watched her. The door to her trailer home hung open. She pulled her arms inside her shirt and kept it on so that she could thread her arms into her bra while maintaining minimal privacy.
Jennifer stared at the trailer, watching for the curtains to move, for a sign that someone was in there. She found comfort in being dressed as she pulled on her socks and shoes, doing her best to brush the dirt from her feet. Her wet hair dampened her shoulders and back.
She wasn’t crazy. She had heard a voice.
Part of her wanted to run.
Part of her knew she should look inside.
Another part told her to call the police, which was difficult without a phone. Where had she put hers anyway? Probably uncharged in a drawer somewhere. She could rouse a neighbor and ask to borrow one, but then it would become a big ordeal.
“Fuck,” she muttered to herself, picking her apron off the ground. She thought of Rory’s offer to stay at the motel and wished she had taken it.
Jennifer crept toward the open door, still debating on what to do. The steady thump of the washer came from within. Without taking the stairs to go inside, she reached to shut the door. It remained unlocked, but aside from the meager tips sitting on her counter from the night before, there was nothing to steal.
Jennifer tried to peek around the curtains hanging over the bolted double doors to her bedroom. From what little she saw, no one moved inside.
A feeling of dread crept its way along her spine. She couldn’t force herself to go back inside.
Jennifer stepped backward, moving to the path between the two houses that led to the street. Only when the trailer was out of sight did she turn around. She ran to the sidewalk and hurried toward work. Never had she been so thankful for a double shift in all her life.
Chapter Seven
“Aye, we found a bog wench in the forest.” Raibeart’s voice drifted from the dining room.
Rory frowned and paused on his way up the stairs to listen. What was his uncle doing now?
Rory studied his hand against the oak banister. It looked brand-new, even though it had been splintered when their home was invaded by a run of bad luck—fairies, ghosts, demons, and goblins. With sixty-plus rooms in the mansion, the restoration had taken their collective magick to repair all the damage the infestation had done.
“She tried to kill Rory, but I’m not holding that against her,” Raibeart continued. “She wouldn’t be the first lassie to take offense to him, and I daresay she’ll not be the last.”
“Raibeart, what nonsense are ya talking now?” Rory grumbled to himself. He turned to look toward the marble floor below, watching to see who might come out of the dining room. No one did.
There was something very special about this home, unlike the others they’d had in the past. Being inside the walls made him feel powerful. The house was always full. MacGregors were always coming and going. Like Rory, some lived in the home full time, while others—like his cousins Iain, Erik, and Niall—lived close enough to be available but far enough that the rest of them couldn’t monitor them. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Niall and his wife, Charlotte, had an apartment in town but were currently traveling the United States in an RV.
Upstairs were mainly bedrooms and then access to the roof. Downstairs was the main foyer, dining room, and library. Beyond the dining room was the kitchen, offices, and an entire back wing sprawled out with more bedrooms than he cared to count and access to the back gardens.
“I think this one might be the one,” Raibeart said.
“The one what?” his ma’s voice asked.
“The one I ask to marry me,” Raibeart answered.
“A bog witch?” his ma insisted. “Ya want to bring a bog witch into the family?”
Rory sighed and started back
