Magical Midlife Madness (Leveling Up #1)(7)

I took a deep breath as adrenaline coursed through me.

“You rang.”

“Oh!” I jumped and spun around, clutching my purse to my chest like some old biddy at an unexpected peep show.

A tall, gangly man with more wrinkles than hair stood in front of me, his eyes a deep midnight, his scowl possibly etched into his face from years of use, and his height topping mine by at least a foot, putting him somewhere in between six and seven feet tall. A moth-bitten suit clung to his bony shoulders and a tattered cape dusted the back of his thighs, fluttering in a breeze I couldn’t feel.

I didn’t know where he’d come from, but he’d snuck up behind me silently.

“Ha-ha,” I laughed warily. “Good one. From the Addams Family, right? Lurch?”

I pointed at him for no reason, kind of just needing something to do with my hands. His stare was unnerving.

Silence stretched between us. I lifted my eyebrows, hoping he’d pick up the conversational baton and run with it. When he didn’t, I cleared my throat.

“I’m Jess. Jacinta.” I shrugged. “Jessie. Usually.”

“Are you usually the one person or do you switch between all three?” the ancient butler said with no hint of humor.

I smiled unconvincingly and half-chuckled anyway. The guy was weird.

“So…I’m the new caretaker,” I said, trying not to sound awkward. And failing miserably. “Are you Great Uncle Earl?”

“I am not your great uncle anything, but my name is Earl, yes. You may call me Tom.”

“Tom,” I said, searching his face for a joke. If it was there, it was hidden behind the scowl.

“Mr. Tom,” he said.

I was pretty sure my eyebrows had gotten lost in my hairline. “Mr. Tom.” I squinted at him. “Are you kidding, or… I can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

“I am a butler. I never kid.”

“Right. Of course.”

“Mr. Tom.”

“Yes. Right. Mr. Tom, then.” I cleared my throat for the second time. “Mr. Tom, should I just…” I jerked my head at the door.

He stared at me. He didn’t even blink.

“Should I just…go in?” I jerked my head again, pointing at the door for emphasis this time.

“To whom am I speaking?” he asked.

Oh good, his memory didn’t work. We’d get along just fine. We could have the same conversation for days and be none the wiser.

“Jessie,” I answered, now pointing at my chest.

“Jessie, you need to report to Ms. Murphy’s house. She’s a God-awful old woman from a dreary land, but she is the holder of The Key. Visiting her cannot be helped, I’m afraid. Don’t ask me to go with you, I simply cannot stomach it.”

“Oh. Sure. Ms. Murphy—”

“Yes, Ms. Murphy’s house. She is just…” He turned in a crisp movement that spoke of agelessness and pointed at the first house on the left. This was the neighbor I’d been told to visit if no one answered the door at Ivy House.

“Great.” I glanced at the car, debating, then shifted my gaze to the deserted street. “What’s the crime rate around here? Probably pretty quiet, huh?”

“Only if we’re not raided. Or hunted. The uncrowned alpha has been all the protection we need, though I fear we are adrift. Someday he won’t be enough, and then where will we be? Dead, that’s where. Dismembered, flayed, burned alive, what have you.”

Was it just me, or was this guy completely bananas?

“Okay. I’ll just take my purse with me.” I edged around him.

“We are only safe because no one is interested in our lowly residents. But mark my words…” He let the silence stretch as his crisp gaze beat into me. I inched backward, wearing a polite smile usually reserved for the drug-addled homeless asking weird questions in the check-out line at the grocery store. “You will not want to take the sandwich. You might take the tea—she’ll force it on you—but refrain from the sandwich. It’ll keep you there all day.”

I stopped dead for a moment, really unclear on what was happening right now. How could I possibly share a roof with this nutter? He’d be unpredictable at best and might end up burying me in the yard at worst.

This might’ve been a terrible, awful idea. Worse than staying with my parents.





Four





I made my way up to the stoop of the neighbor’s door. Two rocking chairs sat on the porch—one heavily used with a neat pile of rocks beside it, the other brand new in appearance.

The polished door knocker on this door was a lovely horse head with a bump on the forehead, like a budding unicorn or something. I used the doorbell instead. Pounding a door knocker seemed more intrusive, somehow. It reminded me of the way police entered a crack house. Not that I would really know.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” The voice was muffled through the door.

I stepped back, giving the owner some space.

The door swung open and a pleasing floral aroma wafted out. An older woman stood in the doorframe, her hair short and white, her back slightly hunched, and her pale blue eyes lined with crow’s feet. Her thin lips curled up at the corners, as though she were smiling about a secret, and her lily-white skin looked baby soft.