“What does that do?” Mr. Fernsby asked. “Commune with the wall?”
“Communion only works with flora and fauna, Mr. Fernsby.” It was the eighth school of magic. “This tool is noetic—imbued with psychometry. Also generally reserved for the living, but enchanted houses do meet one or two of the qualifications.”
Indeed, she could almost make out a heartbeat. Stowing the stethoscope away, Hulda strode past him, moving into the reception hall and then the living room.
Whimbrel House insisted on keeping its shadows and creaks, but this time it added cobwebs.
“The furniture was melting yesterday.” Merritt prodded a settee quickly and jerked back, as though it might attack him as the kitchen stool had.
Hulda hoisted her light.
“I am more concerned about the color scheme.” She clucked her tongue, taking in the space. Everything was in deep hues of red and green, like a sad Christmas. If the client’s budget allowed it, she would see some of this updated. In her peripheral vision, she caught the slight tic of a grin from Mr. Fernsby and ignored it.
She started for the next door, then paused when something dropped from the ceiling.
A rope, made of cobwebs. Or more specifically—
“A noose,” Merritt croaked. Then, in false humor, he added, “At least there isn’t anyone in it.”
“Yet,” Hulda said, and couldn’t help but smile at Mr. Fernsby’s widening eyes. Internally, she chided herself. Dark jocularity would not help her, nor would it reflect well on BIKER.
The rope was made of cobwebs, so it disintegrated when she swiped her hand through it. “I have never heard of a house killing a man, if that settles you,” she offered.
“How about maiming him?” he countered.
She marched for the next door, listening for any new surprises. Mr. Fernsby said, “The sunroom is through there.”
The door was locked.
“I didn’t lock it,” he added.
Hulda sighed. “Do you have a key?”
He felt at his stomach, perhaps forgetting he wasn’t wearing a vest, then his slacks, pulling out a simple key ring from the right pocket. Approaching the door, he put in a small key.
The lock spit it out.
“Come now,” Hulda chided the house.
Mr. Fernsby tried again. This time, he couldn’t even fit in the tip of the key. The house was changing the lock.
Hulda rapped at the door. “Will we need to do this all day?”
The house didn’t respond.
Rolling her eyes, though she ought not to, Hulda fished around in her pack and pulled out a crowbar.
“And what spell does that have on it?” Mr. Fernsby nearly sounded entertained.
“It is a crowbar, Mr. Fernsby. Simple as that.” She wedged the claw between the door and its jamb and, with a solid thump from her hip, forced the door open. The space beyond was well lit—the house hadn’t darkened the windows—and narrow, filled with dead and overgrown plants. Hulda waited for something to happen, then breathed easily when nothing did.
“The plants aren’t attacking, which is a good sign,” she offered.
“Oh good. I wouldn’t want to fall asleep fearing I’ll be strangled by daffodils.” He mussed his hair again. “I don’t want to worry about it at all, Miss—Mrs.—Larkin. But the place won’t let me leave . . .”
Stepping back into the living room, Hulda waited until his eyes met hers. “There has never been a house I haven’t gotten into working order. I guarantee this place will be worth your investment.”
He sighed, looking genuinely hopeless, and Hulda wondered what his story was. “Can you, though?”
“I can.” She shifted her bag to her other arm. “Let’s see the upstairs—”
Her mind registered the splintering of wood and the thumping of something soft before she thought to use her light to inspect it. She did so, and a shiver coursed up her spine. Mr. Fernsby gagged.
The house had dropped dead rats on the floor.
The back of her mind connected patterns between the corpses, and Hulda shuddered as her own small magic took over. Augury did that from time to time, divining without her wishing it to. Behind her eyes, she saw the shadow of a great animal, as though lit by moonlight. A dog, maybe a wolf.
Perhaps thinking her faint, Mr. Fernsby grasped her elbow and pulled her from the dead rats. They seemed relatively fresh. Like the house had been collecting them for this very moment.
Her stomach tightened at the thought. Collections. Bodies.
Now was not the time to reflect on that horror. For goodness’s sake, she would stroll through dead rats every day if it meant forgetting that . . .