Bookish and the Beast (Once Upon a Con #3)(9)

I can see the headlines now—LIBRARIAN’S DAUGHTER KILLED WHILE TRYING TO RESCUE GHOST DOGGO.

How mortifying.

Gravel crunches behind me, and I whirl around—

There, standing at the edge of my car by the rear bumper, is the same large brown-and-black dog. Her tongue flops out as she wags her tail.

“Oh, hey there, girl,” I croon, clicking my tongue to the roof of my mouth to get her to come closer.

It’s super effective!

The dog bounces up to me and begins to give me kisses on the face. I laugh, about to tip over from the very force of her, and scratch her behind the ears. “What’re you doing around here? Are you lost? Where’s your owner?”

The dog doesn’t answer, and there’s no one on this road. She must’ve escaped from someone’s backyard, because she has a pretty pink collar with a dog tag. But when I try to get a closer look at it, the dog shies backward. I can’t grab hold of her quickly enough before she darts across the street and down a dirt road.

“Hey—no, wait!” I cry, and follow her, aiming my key behind me to lock my car. The horn beeps, lights flash, and I tell myself that this is not how I’m going to die, being led down a dirt road after a runaway canine. Besides, most terrible horror movies don’t have nice dogs that lead you out into the middle of nowhere—but that would be a good beginning to one of those Saw movies.

…Don’t think about that.

“Hey—slow down! I’m not going to hurt you!”

The dog doesn’t seem to care. She darts across the street and into the lawn of…

I come to a stop at the edge of the driveway.

Oh.

It’s the old abandoned castle-house. It’s not really a castle—it’s too small—but whoever built it made it look like one. It’s kinda notorious in our town; the castle-house is tall, at least three stories—maybe four with an attic—with two turrets that may or may not be just for show and stained glass around the large wooden front door. There’s a moat that cuts in front of the house, fed from a small stream in the woods, and a drawbridge to the front steps. The house is a weird blend of medieval and modern. There are even lions on the cement posts at the end of the driveway.

When I was little, Mom used to tell me that the house was built by fairies for a very special prince. His parents sent him to live there, hoping to hide him away from the rest of the world and protect him.

“But doesn’t he get lonely?” I had asked her when she first told me the story. “In that house all alone? Why would his parents send him there?”

She wrapped me in her arms and said, “Because the world is big and terrible sometimes, and parents want to protect their children.”

“Then I’d visit the prince! I’d make sure he wasn’t lonely!”

My mom laughed. It was a silly, stupid story, but somehow it stuck with me. Even though there are no such thing as princes.

And fairy tales are a bunch of bullshit.

If they weren’t, then my Dead Mom plot twist would’ve given me the ability to speak with animals. Or something else suitably Disney-esque.

The truth is, the house was built by some eccentric millionaire back in the mid-’90s, who moved away because they probably realized nothing changed in this small town, with one road in and one road out. They probably got sick of being in the middle of nowhere and left to have grand adventures in the great wide somewhere.

It’s been rented out over the years, but I’ve never met anyone who lived there, and as far as I know, it’s vacant now, too.

“Dog!” I hiss, quickly following the shadow of the mutt down the driveway, but then I lose her in the dark of the house. Cursing, I quietly make my way up to the front door. It’s ajar, so I push it the rest of the way open and sneak in.

Strange. Why is the door unlocked if the house is empty?

I should leave. My common sense is telling me not only to leave, but to hurry back to my car and go home and just break the news to my dad. At least then I won’t be murdered.

But…for some reason I can’t get Mom’s story out of my head. About the prince alone in the castle. It’s not real—he’s not real.

But…

I’ve never been in this house before. And it doesn’t look like there’s anyone home.

As a precaution, I pull out my phone, turn the flashlight on because the sun is beginning to set, lengthening the shadows in the house, and press record. If I die here, at least there might be physical evidence.

“Dog?” I call again, and my voice echoes through the house.

There are dozens of cardboard boxes piled everywhere. It looks like one of those houses perpetually between one renter and another, constantly changing, never quite a home for anyone. I know that kind of look. Since Mom died, Dad and I moved from one place to another, hopping to where rent was cheapest.

Dad always reminded me that it was never the house that mattered, because home is never really a physical place.

But jeez, someone could at least move into this place and gussy it up a little. The interior is beautiful, with exposed stonework and steepled wooden roof beams. I don’t know half of the architectural jargon, but it’s pretty, and at least—unlike most of the houses around here—it doesn’t use antlers in all of the decorating.

I step into the foyer and ease the door shut behind me.