sharp ears detected the faint sound of footsteps gliding over the creaking
floorboards. I sensed Jaxson tense, but before I could speak, the door flew
open.
A middle-aged woman in a bathrobe stood in the frame. Her face was
done up, but her wispy, red-dyed curls shot wildly around her head. “I told
you, Molly, I’m not— oh!” she said in surprise as she locked eyes with me,
then Jaxson. “You’re not Molly.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously and
slowly stepped behind the door. “If you’re selling something, I’m not
interested.”
I’d conjured all sorts of terrifying images of S.L. Delamont, and the
woman standing before me was not one of them. Perhaps we’d gotten the
address wrong, or maybe the person we were looking for had moved.
I plastered on my best waitress’s smile. “Hi, we’re looking for S.L.
Delamont. And we’re not selling anything.”
The woman peered at me curiously, then took in Jaxson’s full form.
“Well, that’s me. Who are you, and what do you want?”
I opened my mouth, but Jaxson went straight to the point. “Jaxson
Laurent, Dockside alpha, and this is Savannah Caine. We want to ask you a
few questions about The Grimoire of Nightmares. We know you’re the
author.”
She scrutinized us and pursed her lips. “The grimoire. How odd. I haven’t
thought about that thing for years. Do you have it?”
“Unfortunately, no. That’s why we’re here. We’re hoping you can help.”
After a long pause, she gestured for us to enter. My skin prickled, but my
instincts told me her intentions were sincere, so I stepped inside.
Flowery wallpaper covered the space, and the furniture was so quaint and
homey, I nearly burst out laughing. This was definitely not what I’d
imagined.
The woman crossed the living room and glanced over her shoulder. “Can
I get you two some lemonade?”