Obsidian Curse by Barbra Annino

at me and suddenly his eyes darkened again and he flicked his gaze away, sinking his lips, his tongue, his teeth into my neck, chest, shoulders, anywhere they could reach. Then we devoured each other as we never had before. Like we were different people, succumbing to a force greater than our own.
    I watched as he drifted off to sleep and I couldn’t help but wonder if I wasn’t the only one who had changed.
    When I woke up the next morning, both Chance and Thor were gone.
    There was a pot of coffee in the kitchen with a note in front of it.
     
Hey, lover, let Thor out to do his business. Would have made breakfast, but I figured it would be cold by the time you got up. I covered the window up with plastic, fix it as soon as I can. Pick you up from the book signing tonight?
     
Love,
Chance
     
    I had no hopes that Thor would be in the yard, but I checked anyway, and I was right, unfortunately. I drank my coffee and waited for the wrath of my cousin.
    When my phone didn’t ring, I did a quick workout, checked the scrying mirror for any messages, showered, and dressed in black leggings, gray boots, a tee shirt, and an oversized tunic sweater that wrapped around the waist with pockets in the front. I slipped my phone inside a pocket, an athame in my boot, and an infinity scarf around my neck. I grabbed a wool cap since it was supposed to be chillier today and headed out the door to the Geraghty House.
    I crunched through the leaves, the wind circling around me, the sun beaming down, and made my way to the back door of the house that led to the kitchen.
    The house was a stunning painted lady, built by my great-grandfather, that looked like a wedding cake glazed with butter-cream frosting and highlighted by purple latticework and red and teal piping, all wrapped up in a wrought-iron fence.
    There were thirteen rooms total, three floors, and three guest suites. The back of the house, kitty-corner to my cottage, was the innkeepers’ quarters, partitioned off from the common areas and the guest rooms.
    As soon as I entered the kitchen, I knew Lolly hadn’t had a drop of liquor in her yet.
    “Good morning, Aunt Lolly.”
    She looked at me, her eyes glassy, and said, “Hello. I’m sorry. There are no vacancies.”
    There was a frying pan on the old-fashioned stove and she was standing in front of it trying to flip a spatula with an egg. Her short copper hair was wrapped up in a bright yellow bow, blue eyeshadow was lacquered on all the way up to her eyebrows, her lipstick was everywhere but on her lips, and she was wearing what looked to be a toga pinned at the shoulder with a rhinestone broach the size of a Frisbee.
    I walked over to the stove, turned the burner off, and liberated the egg from her hand. Upon further inspection, I realized it wasn’t a sheet she had wrapped around her, but a tablecloth with faded sprigs of lavender splashed across it.
    “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll put the coffee on,” I said.
    Lolly nodded and I escorted her to the apothecary table in the center of the room. I pulled up a high-backed chair and she perched on it, settling her hands in her lap, blinking.
    By the time the coffee was brewed, I heard steps on the back stairs that trailed to the kitchen.
    I poured Lolly a healthy dose of Baileys and Folgers, set it in front of her, and turned to see Fiona glide through the doorway like a movie star at a premiere.
    Aunt Fiona was the middle Geraghty sister, who had broken a lot of hearts in her day and could still turn many a head when she walked down the street. She was Marilyn Monroe, Ann-Margret, and Jessica Rabbit all in one. The woman would have given Venus herself a run for her crown. She was unattached now, as were all the Geraghty Girls. It seemed that for the women in my family, love, no matter how strong in the beginning, was ever fleeting. A fact I tried not to dwell on.
    Fiona was wearing a black knit dress that hugged her curves, a gold necklace, a thick belt, and pointy