“But how is that any different from every day of my life,” Bowen finished dryly, and Declan laughed, another rush of cold air settling on Bowen’s skin.
“Pretty much,” he confirmed. “Although you’ll probably like Tywyll House. Creepy as fook, full of all sorts of old magical shit. Think of it as a working vacation.”
There was something about that name—Tywyll House—that rang a faint bell in the back of Bowen’s mind. Something that seemed important.
Something he should know.
But then there was another gust of wind howling down the chimney, the fire flaring briefly, and the thought—and Declan—vanished.
Chapter 4
Tamsyn was no stranger to creepy places.
Occupational hazard, really, and one she’d encountered more and more frequently since she started working for Bowen. She’d been in old dungeons and more gloomy basements than she could count, and on one memorable occasion, she’d ended up stuck in something called an “oubliette” for a couple of hours, so yeah, when it came to The Spooky, she was a seasoned pro.
But as she stared up at the iron gates of Tywyll House, Tamsyn had to admit this was a new level of creepy.
“Advanced Creepy,” she muttered to herself, ducking down to peer at the top of the gates through her fogged-up windshield. “Graduate Level Eerie.”
It had taken her ages just to find the place, the map of the area she’d acquired being a good sixty years out of date. But then from her research, it was no surprise that the Merediths had made their ancestral manse this hard to find.
If Tamsyn had thought Bowen’s family history was complicated, it was nothing compared with these witches’, and she’d had a long flight to London plus a train ride to North Wales to do her homework.
She knew that the Merediths had been in Wales since there was a Wales, basically, and that they had a tendency to get killed in a variety of horrifying ways. She knew that the current head of the family, Madoc Meredith, had one child, a daughter named Carys, and that his wife, Amelia, had fucked off to Italy a few years ago.
She knew that Tywyll House had started its life as a kind of fortress in the fourteenth century before gradually being added on to over the next five hundred years, so it was less a house, more a hodgepodge of styles with at least twenty-five bedrooms and who knew how many other rooms.
She even knew that there were, according to legend, at least three ghosts haunting the castle, one of whom was apparently missing a head.
What she didn’t know was where the brooch she’d been sent to acquire was.
Or what it did.
Or why someone would pay over a million dollars to get it.
“Details,” Tamsyn said out loud to herself now, as she tugged on the ends of the blond wig she was wearing.
Did the job technically require a disguise?
Probably not.
Had she missed this part of things, playing a role, getting a costume, committing to the bit?
She really, really had.
“You’re stalling, Bligh,” she said, still looking up at the gates. They were open, the word “Tywyll” curling through the iron, rusted in parts, and a strong gust of wind sent one listing drunkenly to the right.
Taking a deep breath, Tamsyn gently pressed on the gas and steered her rental car through the opening.
In the spring, the long winding drive up to the house was probably charming. The trees would be bursting with leaves, their branches creating a fragrant green tunnel that would reveal the occasional glimpse of bright blue sky. There would be birds singing and . . . and bees buzzing, probably, and maybe the gentle babble of a brook nearby.
That was the image Tamsyn kept firmly in mind as she drove, because otherwise, she would have to acknowledge that she appeared to be driving directly into an old horror movie.
No blue sky today, just a turbulent gray that suggested rain later this evening. No leaves, either, just row after row of wet black branches reaching skeletal fingers up to the clouds, and as another gust of wind buffeted the car, Tamsyn clutched the wheel more tightly and gritted her teeth.
“A million dollars,” she reminded herself, once again checking her reflection in the rearview mirror.
She’d pulled out an old identity for this gig, one she hadn’t used in at least five years, but Anna Ripley felt right for this particular crowd. Asymmetrical platinum bob, oversize glasses with red acrylic frames, statement jewelry. A little eccentric, but artsy. Anna Ripley was a gallery owner, after all, an acquaintance of Carys’s mother—they’d met at that charming little studio in Venice, just off the Campo Sant’Angelo, remember?
Her mysterious employer had gotten her the invitation, but this—the story, the disguise, the persuasive power of her charm—this was Tamsyn’s gift.
It was honestly kind of shocking how quickly people went along with something as long as you were casual and confident and had done your homework.
Tamsyn had initially thought of pretending to be a college friend of Carys’s, but then she homed in on Amelia instead. Flighty, always seeking out new people, new experiences. Tons of pictures of her in various society columns flitting all around the world, always surrounded by a sea of faces, always a glass of champagne near at hand. She wouldn’t remember meeting “Anna Ripley,” but she wouldn’t be able to say for sure that she hadn’t, and her upper-crust manners would prevent her from doing anything as awkward as demanding proof, especially when Tamsyn would be coming with invitation in hand.
“Because I’m the fucking best,” Tamsyn reminded herself, smiling a little even as the road got a little darker, the trees closer together.
It was fun, getting to stretch this particular muscle again, and if she felt just the tiniest bit guilty about it . . .
Her eyes briefly flicked from the road to her bag.
Bowen had texted the other day. Not with a job, just a terse message about not being able to meet on Christmas Eve after all and that he’d talk to her in the new year.
Stupid to feel disappointed about it, especially since she’d been about to cancel on him thanks to this job, but when it came to Bowen Penhallow, Tamsyn was beginning to think she’d always be a little stupid.
Maybe that’s why she’d wanted to do this job: a reminder of who she was, of what she could do, that had nothing to do with Bowen. That she’d be fine once he inevitably didn’t need her anymore and moved on to some new magical fixation up there in his weird little hut.
The road twisted and turned along with Tamsyn’s thoughts, and she winced as she drove over a root big enough to scrape the rental’s undercarriage. She’d driven long enough that she was beginning to wonder if the house was even there when she took another turn, and it was suddenly rising up before her.
