Death Over the Garden Wall (The Case Files of Henri Davenforth Book 7) by Honor Raconteur & Honor Raconteur

Author:Honor Raconteur & Honor Raconteur [Raconteur, Honor]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: fiction
Publisher: Raconteur House LLC
Published: 2022-01-14T00:00:00+00:00

I don’t know how people who do drugs for fun manage it. Honestly. I had the worst hangover after the jimsonweed wore off. I felt tender, too, like a Mack truck had run over me—and then did it again for giggles. Like, there was no part of me that had any desire whatsoever to repeat this experience.

I napped, riding the low, and woke up grouchy. Seriously, this sucked. And I would have to write a report on what happened, too, which sucked even more. Additional paperwork added insult to injury.

The hotel room was nice, at least. Henri had gotten a fire going, keeping the room nice and toasty. My nightstand had a box of chocolate creams, my Kindle—fully charged—and a tall glass of water. And, of course, curled up on the bed with me were Clint and Tasha; one alert and watching me, the other snoozing away.

I gave Tasha a good scratch under her chin. “Your turn to watch me?”

“Yeah.” She blinked up at me, those golden eyes studying me carefully. “See ghosts still?”

“No, hon, I think I’m off the trip. The world looks normal again. Thank god.” My mouth felt like a war of cotton balls had clashed, with casualties resulting in sticky residue that clung to my tongue. Gag. The water and chocolates looked amazing, and I promptly drained half the glass before selecting a chocolate. Mm, orange filling. Perfect.

My better half really did know how to take care of me. Even when I threw him curve balls like this one.

I may have been high as a kite, but I still remembered Henri’s panic. I really had scared him. Sherard, too. Granted, when things went weird around me, they went really weird, so I didn’t blame them for reacting strongly. Hopefully they wouldn’t hold it against me, though.

Clint woke up from his siesta and regarded me with those big eyes of his. He must have seen I was mostly back to normal because the only thing he said to me was, “Message Henri.”

“Is he still working?”

“No, next door.”

Ah. If he was afraid of contamination, he might well be changing clothes and washing down. I sure would be in his shoes. I pulled the pad closer to me and shot him a message. Hey, I’m up. Wash your hands like you’ve murdered the rightful king at your wife’s urging and you’re now getting rid of the evidence.

Not two seconds later, I kid you not, he was lightly tapping at my door. “Dearest?”

“Yeah, I’m decent, come in.”

Henri slipped through the door, looking concerned—but not relieved—to find me upright and talking. I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted by that or not.

He came straight for me, looking me over carefully, his hand at my forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Back to normal. Ish. Really, I feel like roadkill. The aftermath of that trip is not fun. But I’m not seeing ghosts that aren’t there or feel like the room is contorting, so there’s that.”

He did not look entirely sold. “Your message to me didn’t entirely make sense, though.

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