Free Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1) by Jen Rasmussen

always done that—talked about me like I was some sort of animal who couldn’t understand what they were saying. If I’d been sixteen, I would have kept my head down, my eyes averted, doggedly pretending not to hear them. But I wasn’t a kid anymore.
    I got my tea and croissant—Wendy wasn’t there—and stopped by their table on my way out. There were three of them, chatting over coffee but not, I noticed, any pastries. Still pretty, still wearing the superior expressions that said they knew it. One of them was heavily pregnant. Another had a baby sleeping in a stroller beside her.
    I felt a small sense of victory, that it took me a few seconds to remember their names.
    “Jessica, Abbie, Emily,” I said, with a scrupulously polite smile. “You all look great. So nice to see you.”
    Jessica, always the leader, smiled back. “You look… lovely… yourself.” She put just enough hesitation around the word lovely to show she didn’t mean it. But I expected nothing less. She was welcome to judge my messy ponytail and cheap sweater to her heart’s content, as long as she didn’t hex my coffee. Or worse.
    “You’ve moved back, then?” Abbie asked. “We wondered if you would.”
    “Yes, I’m here to stay.” I leaned forward a little and whispered, “And you’d best keep your magic to yourselves, ladies. I’ve learned a lot since you saw me last.” I nodded toward the stroller. “And you have little ones to think of now.”
    Did I seriously just threaten babies? Balls, what’s become of me?
    I’d meant to be nothing but disarmingly polite. And they’d given me no reason to get so hostile, no threats to respond to.
    But it had just sort of popped out.
    It was worth it, though, to see their shocked and horrified faces. They didn’t expect me to stand up for myself. I’d taught them too well that I never would.
    Jessica cupped her pregnant belly with one hand. “Verity, don’t tell me you’re still holding grudges from when we were kids?” She forced a laugh. “I assure you, we don’t have time for teenage silliness anymore.”
    “No,” I said, matching her laugh. “I can see that.” I turned and left.
    The next morning, Lance called me before I’d even dried my hair: John Pickwick had come.
    I went up to the owner’s suite—manager’s suite, now that I’d assured the Boyles there would be no need for them to move—and tried not to think of the last time I was there. Before I knocked, I pressed my palm against the door and closed my eyes.
    Red .
    Whatever waited for me in there, there was anger in it. Mine? Or someone else’s?
    I didn’t get a good look at the apartment side as Lance stepped aside to let me in, but at a glance, it seemed to be decorated in a much more homey style than Miss Underwood had preferred. I imagined the walk-in closet had changed a great deal, at least.
    The office was much the same, with a couple of bland, generic landscapes on the beige walls, and not much else to catch the eye. Lance gestured toward the conference table, where Agatha already sat beside a stout man with a comb-over.
    Marjory Smith sat across from them. She gave me a clipped nod, but said nothing.
    “You called her before you even called me?” I asked, aware it sounded petulant. I squared my shoulders and went for a more formal tone. “Frankly, I don’t see why any of the rest of you have the right to discuss Miss Underwood’s estate with her attorney. As far as I’ve been told, it concerns only me.”
    Lance cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should start by introducing you to Mr. Pickwick, before we get on with the bickering?”
    I shot him a glare, but I shook Mr. Pickwick’s hand as the latter rose in greeting.
    “Miss Thane, nice to meet you at last,” Pickwick said. “Heard you had a bit of trouble back home.”
    “A fire in my building,” I said with a nod, and hoped that was all he meant. I’d heard nothing from either the fire department or the police back in Lenox. Had