Slayer Witch: A Demon Slayer Urban Fantasy by Katie French

Author:Katie French [French, Katie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-01-09T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

It had to be Frankie’s house. Of course. If her choice in wardrobe were any indication of her taste, the house made total sense.

The shape of the building baffled me. If a house and a beehive made a baby, this place would be it. Plus, it resided on a small island in, what turned out to be, the middle of Lake St. Clair.

In the moonlight, I took it all in.

From the outside, the building bowed and sloped into a pinecone shape. Two or three stories, it had round windows glowing with light, interspersed throughout in no discernable pattern. The shingled siding and rounded hedges only continued the pinecone aesthetic. Beyond the grassy lawn, a little dock led to a boat bobbing gently on the moonlit water. Lazily, a cat regarded me from one of the wooden slats before slinking away.

I wondered if there were more pinecone houses, but this one appeared to be the only building on this island. There wasn’t a road connecting us to the mainland, which stretched to the south. Boat travel must be the only way to get in or out.

That or One-Way Tickets. If someone had magic, living in the middle of a lake wasn’t a problem.

“Winter,” Frankie impatiently said.

“Coming,” I said. Then, to myself, I muttered, “That turtleneck must be cutting off the circulation to her brain.”

I walked up the cobblestone path, the cement steps, and into the house. The front door was open. My eyes widened when I realized it was rounded wood, making me feel like they stole it straight out of Winnie the Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood.

The inside was even weirder. Rounded, domed, and cluttered with so many items, it made it difficult to navigate through the rooms. Books of many shapes and sizes were piled everywhere. Some even hovered off the ground while others snapped at people when they walked by.

Three more cats peeked out from behind piles before scurrying away. I wondered how many more awaited in different rooms. There were also cat pictures on the walls and a few cat photographs on a mantel across from a set of couches that must make up the living room.

To the right, a staircase curved around and up. A long, dark hallway to the left led to what might be a kitchen or dining room, though I couldn’t tell from here.

“Don’t stand in the doorway,” Frankie admonished. “You’ll let the seagulls in.”

“The what?” Seagulls in the house? When I took a step in, Frankie shut and locked the door behind me. No turning back now.

A round, jolly woman who looked exactly like Frankie scurried into the room as she led me through the foyer and into the living room. Frankie’s mom was pleasantly plump with a black beehive hairdo sprayed into submission. It was a style I hadn’t seen in a while—and one no one had likely worn since the 1970s—but it fit her somehow. It was so high and stiff I figured some magic went into maintaining it. Also, did Frankie’s family have a thing for bees? And cats? Turtles, too, for that matter.

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