Demons in the Bedroom - Lidiya Foxglove Page 0,2

and that he must have loved his home. He was isolated out here—no magical community within ten miles, which was a long way when there was no evidence he drove.

A kindred spirit, I thought. Someone who liked being alone, with nothing but plants, creaking stairs, books and their familiar for company.

The garden doors creaked behind me. I stood up straight as a mundane human in a casual business suit walked into the garden. He looked surprised to see me. And I was equally surprised to see him, because he was easily six and half feet tall, with a naturally broad build and presence that commanded attention.

“Are you here for the auction?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“I think you’re wasting your time here. I expect you’ll just tear all this down. The living room is 1970s in the worst way. Lead paint, I expect. Junk. Failing plaster. And there’s only one bathroom in the entire place.”

“What are you doing here, then?” I didn’t like humans rooting around houses like this at all, and I definitely didn’t want them asking me about my own business.

Honestly, I probably would have been more of a jerk except that he was quite handsome, and I wasn’t blind. Sure, he was way too polished and professional for my taste. From the gold watch to the tailored suit and worst of all, short hair slicked back—he practically had the same hairstyle as my dad. I didn’t care for the warlock elite, but throw the human trappings of an iPhone and a diversified investment portfolio and all in all, rich humans were just as jerky and much more boring. Even if he did have amazing golden-brown eyes. Even if he had very masculine hands. And I definitely didn’t care how chiseled his jaw was.

“I’m the seller,” he said, and I must also note that his voice was deep yet silken enough to melt butter. Did that metaphor make any sense? No, Helena, I’m afraid it’s your brain that has melted instead. “This was my grandfather’s house.”

What? This guy was the grandson of a warlock? Impossible. Everything about him screamed ‘normal’.

Well…okay. Not everything. Through all the polish, there was something a bit intriguing about him. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it charm, or was it darkness, or just a streak of mischief? When I couldn’t put my finger on something, I’ll admit, it made me want to keep trying until I pinned it down.

“But he died and left me this house, so…I just need to get rid of it. I’ll give you a tip, if you didn’t hear me the first time. It’s a disaster.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be giving tips to the bidders,” I said. “Or do you say that to all the girls?”

He was checking me out from the crown of braids on my head to my well-worn hiking boots, and the long-sleeved black dress in between, the same way I checked him out. I think he shared the same opinion. He noted that I might be an attractive woman if I was cleaned up a bit. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I didn’t care if I looked old-fashioned and dowdy and was occasionally mistaken for a ghost when I was looking at these houses.

He was dressed to impress, on the other hand. I tried not to look too impressed, although his shoulders were very broad, and he had a good foot of height on me. I bet it felt nice to rest your head against his chest. I quickly jerked my eyes off him. What was I thinking here?

“I have some good memories of this garden,” he said. “My grandfather loved this spot. So I saw you checking it out, and—damn. You’re right. I told myself I wouldn’t get sentimental.” Now he waved a hand. “I don’t really want anything to do with this dump, but I wanted one more look at the garden.”

“Losing a grandparent has a way of doing that,” I said. “It’s okay.”

“Do you make much money doing this? Buying houses at auction? Surely it costs more to fix than the land is even worth. Who the hell would want to live out here?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“It has termites.”

“No.” I frowned. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s got—squishy floorboards.” He pulled some shades out of a pocket to look up at the grand facade of the house, as the morning sun was getting brighter.

“It could be carpenter ants,” I said. “They eat wood that is already rotting. Actually, they don’t eat wood