Frog Hollow (Witches of Sanctuary Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 2

AWKWARD INTRUSIONS

Sleep finds me easily, but my mind remains constantly aware. I am, after all, in a foreign environment, so my senses are naturally on high alert. A natural habit formed from too many encounters with ill-intentioned roommates. No one ever liked the weird kid, and I made the weird kids popular.

I wake in approximately thirty-minute intervals, sitting up to inspect the room, only to reluctantly admit nothing has changed. I don’t know what I expect to find, maybe another homeless feline with twelve of his swashbuckling friends, but it makes me feel more secure to check. I groan at the clock on my cell when I realize it has only been two hours instead of six. I resign that it will be a long night and settle back in for another round.

When I wake not ten minutes later, it isn’t due to my regularly scheduled checkup. Something is off, and it causes me to crawl out of bed. The sensation of spiders prickles down the back of my neck as I wander around the room, allowing my eyes time to adjust to the dim glow of the candlelight. Nothing appears different. The room is still empty. The same bare walls stare back at me. I walk over to the window and peek outside.

The window overlooks the back yard, which is overgrown and deserted like everything else. In the distance, just beneath the shadowed light of a paling moon, I can see water reflecting the light. I hadn’t even noticed the lake earlier today, but again, I wasn’t brave enough to explore beyond the front yard yet.

Leaning back inside, I wonder if maybe my paranoia is due to the novelty of trying to sleep with the window open. It isn’t exactly something someone with a sane mind attempts in the city. I convince myself it’s only my imagination. My sugarcoated brain cells having a little fun.

Just to be safe, I make a quick sweep of the hallway, the closet, and the bathroom down the hall before returning to my mattress. I lie there, allowing the silence to sink in. The chirping is just a cricket. That bellow is just a bullfrog from the lake. I close my eyes as I continue to dissect and process each minute sound like a strange lullaby.

Click.

My limbs fly into action. I spring off the mattress like a panther. Scrambling, I grab the nearest weapon I can find, clutching a heavy-duty flashlight to my chest.

That sound isn’t a bug, and I didn’t imagine it. Something, or someone, is on the front porch. I immediately consider the cat I watched slink off into the woods before coming inside, but I’m positive cats can’t shake doorknobs.

Oh, how I wish cats could shake doorknobs.

I hastily reposition the flashlight in my hand, transforming it into a pummeling device. I shuffle over to the door and peek outside, checking the hallway. The coast is clear. I tiptoe James Bond style down the stairs, instantly regretting not having bought a can of pepper spray.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, listening again. When nothing counters the singsong chirping of crickets, I slip my way through the living room and into the kitchen. I poise myself behind the archway to set up surveillance on the front door.

The doorknob jiggles.

I nearly climb the wall as a high-pitched squeal escapes my lips. In that instant, all bravery and confidence abandons me, and I’m left with nothing but a flashlight and shaky knees.

I huff sarcastically to myself. People always talk about crime in the city, but I managed a lifetime there without a single incident. Here I am, in the middle of the mountains for no more than six hours, and I am officially being invaded like a bad episode of
Cops
.

I wonder if I will get the chance to enjoy my new home, or if maybe this burglar has more on his mind than just taking what is left in the shell of my mother’s memories.

Anger fuels me as the door shakes again. This is my house. It’s my history trapped within the walls. I suddenly think of the letter taped to the cabinet, my name written in perfect, spiraling letters. By damn, I will read that letter. I didn’t endure a childhood of neglect and ridicule to end up a statistic. Especially a statistic that didn’t read the stupid letter when she had the chance.

My hand steadies as the door starts to creak open. I expect it to burst into life, the person to barge in ready for attack, but the door moves slowly. I use it to my advantage. Their caution will be their downfall. I ready my flashlight and stampede the door. The intruder steps across the threshold, and I hit him straight on, knocking him off his feet. We slam onto the floor. I waste no time continuing my assault, bringing down the hard metal of the flashlight with a vengeful force straight across the top of his head.

He screams, and the tension breaks. I ignore it, landing another merciless blow, this time to the inside of his chest, in an attempt to knock the breath out of his large frame. It works. He rolls over on his side in obvious pain. “Stop.” He groans, gulping for air. “This is my house!”

His words hit me like a hammer straight to the heart. This isn’t his home; it’s mine, and I will defend it as such. I hit him again, two swift blows to the stomach, doubling him over. I back off then, jumping to my feet, but I keep the light ready for another attack. “No.” I scream it. My vocal cords burn with the intensity of it. “This is my house! If you leave now, maybe I won’t call the police or finish kicking your ass!”

He moans loudly, blood dripping down the contours of his face. A sting of satisfaction bursts through me as my confidence returns. The intruder is a male roughly my own age. He sits up on his elbow to wipe away the blood that trickles down from his forehead. “Call the police, you lunatic. I would love to watch them arrest you for breaking and entering.”

“Me?” I shake the flashlight at him. “You’re the one who broke into my house.”

He crawls to his knees, and I make a quick lunge toward him, but he backs up with his hands in the air. “It’s my house.” He holds out a tiny bronze key for my inspection. “I have a key!”

I’m too far gone to be rational.

“No, it’s my house, and so do I!” I start to search my pockets, only to remember I’m wearing a bikini, and my key is on the kitchen counter.

“Look—” he begins, stumbling up to his feet. He clutches the inside of the doorframe for support. “This house belonged to Fiona Daniels. She left it in my family’s care after her death. So, unless you are a ghost, I think you decided to set up shop in the wrong house.”

The flashlight drops from my hand, clanging loudly against the wooden floor. I stare, dumbfounded, at my intruder, caught off guard by his words.

Her name.

My stomach flips. “Fiona.” My breath shakes, and my heart starts a steady thud in my chest. “Y-y-ou knew her?”

“Of course I knew her.” Feathered bronze hair masks his fiery eyes. “She was like a mother to me.”

I gape at him. This beautiful, insufferable boy knew my mother. All these years I’ve waited, searched for anyone who has even heard a whisper of her name. I bite my lip, recalling all the trips, the countless hours poring through record books and newspaper articles in search of just a kindling of hope. It had all been futile and debilitating. There was never anything for me in California.

He swipes blood from his face again before it can drip across his plush lips. He rubs the excess on the thigh of his ripped jeans. I might be distracted by the gesture. Hell, the four-inch span of thigh is more skin than I’ve seen on a man in over a year. But too many thoughts bombard my mind. Too many questions I’ve waited too long to ask.

“Was she nice?” I blurt it out, my voice loud as if he might not hear me unless I yell it.

“What?” He throws his hands out in frustration, his entire body turning toward me with exaggerated motion. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Was she nice?” I belt out again, ignoring his obvious bad mood. I need something—anything. I crave to hear one small fact, something other than just a name on a court document. I need to know this is real, that I didn’t uproot my life and move across the country for some cruel trick someone wanted to play on the orphan girl. I want this hope swelling inside of me to finally be substantiated.

“You’re mentally unstable. I get that.” His words are slow and steady, but his cheeks are flushed red, or maybe it’s the blood tinting them. Either way, his anger is evident in his cool, clipped tone. “Can we please stay focused? I need you out of this house. Immediately.”

I shake my head, my own frustration clogging my ability to think rationally. All I can focus on is how this boy, who could possibly be the one person I’ve been searching years to find, obviously isn’t listening to
me
.

So I hit him over the head with a flashlight a couple times. What happened to forgive and forget? I’m the one who was abandoned on a street corner. He needs to get over it and listen to what I am asking him now. “I’m Willa,” I try to explain with a softer but still highly annoyed voice.

“Oh, great, the crazy girl has a name.” He rolls his eyes dramatically.

The gesture sends a shock down my spine, as in literal electricity from my shoulders to the tips of my toes. I hate when that happens. I ignore it, though, crossing my arms over my chest. “Willa Daniels,” I add, waiting for his reaction.

It stops him short as he replays my words over again. “Daniels?” He runs a hand through the long front of his hair, causing it to spray out in a hundred different directions. His eyes are visible for the first time—seafoam green, and unnaturally bright. I silently wonder if that is the reason for the hair, to mask the intensity of them from the rest of the world

Attempting to keep focused, I quickly nod to assure him he heard me correctly. I think my explanation has worked, but he quickly blows it off. “Oh, I get it. I said her name was Daniels, and now you want me to think you knew her. Nice try, but Fiona only had one relative.”

I sigh, pinching the space between my eyes. That whack on the head must have been a doozy. “Which was?”

“A daughter. Wilhelmina, but her father took her…” It clicks on his face. His lips part, and his jaw goes slack. “Oh.”

I smile. “Forgive me for not going by my full name. I prefer Willa. Welcome to my house, by the way.”

He ignores my jest and fumbles around on the floor for the flashlight. He clicks it on, shining the light directly at my face. I squint, holding up my hands in an attempt to block it out.

“Hey!” I take a few steps back to escape the direct beam in my eyes.

“Wilhelmina?” He whispers my name, breathless and in disbelief. The light hurriedly scans my face.

I slowly move my hands down to give him a good look, and I swear I hear his breath catch. “It’s you. You’re Wilhelmina.”

I push the light away as I blink warily, trying to regain my vision. “Willa,” I correct, waiting for the white spots to disappear. “And yes, it’s really me, hence why I’m in my house. May I ask who you are, exactly?”

He doesn’t speak at first. He only gapes in my direction, those intense green eyes rounding in shock. I clear my throat. “Reid,” he answers finally, his voice breathy. “Reid Thomas. I’m Seraphina’s son.”

He says this as if it should make perfect sense to me, but unfortunately, it only confuses me more. “Who is that?”

“Your father never told you about her?” This truly shocks him, the anger and confusion briefly fading from his face.

I put my hand on my hip out of habit, sassy at the mention of my good-for-nothing father. “You mean the same father who abandoned me on the busy street in front of a church before I was old enough to talk?”

Reid rubs his head again, this time pulling his hand away to look at the blood on his fingers. “I’m sorry.” A brief sprinkle of sincerity crossing his face. “I didn’t know that.”

He is silent for a moment as he rubs his temple, smearing the remaining blood across his forehead, processing what I’ve said. “Our mothers were best friends. Actually, they grew up like sisters. Your grandparents, Doc and Mary Daniels, took my mom and aunt in as teenagers. Fiona was like a second mother to me.”

My heart aches at his words. “Glad she got to be a mother to somebody,” I mumble under my breath.

I rub my eyes, trying to wipe away the exhaustion. When I look back, his face is annoyed again and his gaze is on the floor. “Why did you come back?” His voice is sour now. “Was it just to claim her things now that she’s gone?”

The words sting, but the accusing tone he uses like he already knows he’s right sends a blood-curdling anger lashing through my system. “No.”

He completely ignores me, turning his entire body toward the exit, as if he can’t manage to look at me while he speaks. “You don’t need to be here,” he says in his same steeled tone, pacing toward the door. “You’re only going to make things worse. Just go back to wherever you’ve been all these years.”

It hurts. A tiny, spiraling crack splits through my heart. My hand absently grabs at my chest in hopes of holding it together. I don’t really understand why. I just met this guy. He’s a stranger like everyone else in my world. My back snaps straight, defensive. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not a helpless victim of circumstance anymore. No one has the right to tell me what to do with my life.