Page 4 of A Moth to the Flame (Utopia #1)

Chapter

Three

CORDELIA

I’ll be lucky to escape this place with my sanity.

The ticking of the cat clock on the sitting room wall sounds like a prisoner dragging a wooden spoon across their cell bars.

With every second that passes, the walls of my childhood home press in around me.

Even the bird calls from the surrounding woods are mournful.

I shudder as a gust of wind slides several nearby tree branches across the roof. This is true loneliness.

I could get out of Utopia faster if I force myself to organize the mismatched cutlery, dishes, and cups. And the tablecloths, doilies, and more unidentifiable animal skulls that I found hiding in the deepest recesses of a kitchen cupboard in the early morning hours, when I was too jittery to sleep.

I shouldn’t be as unmoored as I feel about the gruesome discovery.

The town rumors about Granny being a witch weren’t unwarranted.

She looked the part—long, silvery, untamable hair.

Eerily green eyes that I inherited. Milky skin paired with red-painted lips and nails.

Even her wardrobe preferences enhanced her ethereal vibe, with long, flowy skirts, peasant blouses, and jewelry that looked more like talismans than pretty crystals.

I never understood why people weren’t afraid of her. Why they never shunned her for being different.

I did my best to fit in, to keep my nose down. I got good grades in school. My worst sin was using books to cope with my loneliness, and the whole damn town ostracized me for it.

I tap my finger against the edge of the book that I’m clutching like a security blanket. I’m not backsliding. I’m not . I think better when I’m holding a story.

Granny can’t have been a real witch. The town would’ve othered her far worse than what they did to me.

But…

Why did she have a collection of animal remains?

How did I live here for years and never see one until now?

A knock at the front door startles me. I frown at the book that I’m not really reading, and then quickly stuff it beneath the seat cushion before rising to answer the door.

On my way, I trip over a random box and stub my toe on the coffee table that lists dangerously to the left.

Granny never threw away perfectly good junk, but she never quite mastered the art of leveling.

Even the overstuffed bookshelf in the corner of the sitting room leans to one side, and not from the weight of all the tomes that are so old that their spines are cracked.

These books aren’t deteriorating from sacrilegious abuse.

They’re falling apart from use, from love.

My vision blurs with a fresh wave of tears. Granny fostered my reading obsession. As I grew and my tastes changed, she always managed to procure a book that she thought I’d enjoy. She was the one who’d first thrust a fantasy book into my powerless hands.

Everyone needs something to hope for , she’d say when I cried about being ignored or about Duke mercilessly making fun of me for reading.

She never judged me for clinging to the romance plots in the middle of the epic fights between good and evil.

You hope for love, Cordie. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Finding real, true love is no less perilous than even the most fantastical adventure.

That little shit isn’t old enough to understand how the world works. Love is the deadliest adventure of all.

I wipe my forearm across my cheek. She was the only one who called me Cordie. And she was the only one who fully supported every single one of my life choices without question. Even my decision to quit reading.

She never said anything, but she knew that I gave up on my own happily ever after. The stories that sustained me through my childhood became painful instead of hopeful.

A second, more urgent, knock sounds at the front door.

“I’m coming,” I croak—right before I stumble over yet another pile of random artifacts from the woods.

Honestly, I’m surprised anyone is here. Bringing food to the mourning house might be a common custom, but Granny’s homestead is a decent walk from town. No one offered to feed me at the bar last night. Not even Savina promised a casserole drop off.

I throw open the door to find Neveah juggling a brown paper bag with grease stains blooming on it and two large cups of what smells like coffee.

“Bless you,” I murmur, sniffling back the last of my mental breakdown. “This is such an unexpected surprise.”

She winces. “My visit isn’t completely altruistic. I need you to hide me.”

I hold the door open wide for her to enter. Undoubtedly, she’s looking to minimize her exposure to more jabs from the townies, eager to question why she’s come crawling home. I don’t blame her in the slightest for using me as an escape.

“You didn’t have to bring me caffeine and sustenance,” I point out. “I would’ve hidden you without bribery.”

She shrugs before carefully placing the offerings on the coffee table. “I have a hangover that makes me feel like the apocalypse is impending. Figured you might, too.”

“Thanks.” I scrunch my brow, but don’t give voice to the hurt that blooms in my chest.

I didn’t drink a drop last night. She clearly didn’t notice .

I’m not about to admit that I fell off a completely different wagon. With a book.

Neveah unwraps a colossal bear claw from the bag, taking a giant bite. She mumbles, “If Duke comes knocking at your door later, feign a moonshine blackout. That might spare you from his wrath.”

I snort, then swipe one of the coffees into my greedy clutches. “Just because I finally snapped doesn’t mean last night wasn’t me holding back. He’s such a corn kernel-addled turd to me that he deserves far worse than what I dished out.”

“That’s a disturbingly specific visual.” Neveah laughs, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe you stole a carton of eggs out of The Flame’s kitchen just to smash them all over his truck in the parking lot.”

“Why else does one steal a carton of eggs?”

She laughs again, only to choke. “Cordelia. What the actual fuck?”

Following the direction of her stare, I realize she’s questioning me about the veterinary graveyard piled up on one of the many side tables cluttering the front room.

“I didn’t have the energy to bury them yet,” I offer, since I really don’t have a better explanation for that grisly sight.

“That’s…” Neveah sputters for a few seconds, “terrifying. Why are they in here?”

“Excellent question that I’m not really sure I want the answer to. Feel free to use this as fodder for your small-town material, though. I’m sure Granny wouldn’t mind.”

Neveah slides her stare toward me with eyes that are still too wide. “I’m a comedienne, not a horror writer. How could I possibly make a joke about this?”

Damn it. I was really hoping there was a funny angle to this mystery that I couldn’t think of.

She glances around the room like she’s trying to figure out if there are any more hidden horrors to prepare herself for.

The best I can do to ease her mind is to change the subject. “Is Duke asking around town about who egged his precious truck? Do you think he knows it was me?”

“Oh, he knows it was you,” she assures me. “He cornered me at Flaky and tried to bribe me into helping him get revenge. ”

Flaky is the only bakery-slash-café in town. Most people brew their own coffee every morning around these parts—no Starbucks addictions around here—but no one can replicate Miss Ada’s perfectly buttery, flaky pastries. It’s like she weaves magic into every bite.

“Just like that man to harass a woman when she’s only trying to get her morning joe. What did he offer you?” I take a sip of the earthy, rich warmth and remind myself to make a trip to the grocery store if I want coffee again tomorrow morning. Which I will.

It’s going to take all my energy to get this cottage in good enough shape to sell. I certainly can’t afford to eat out every day, since I’m not getting paid during my bereavement leave from work. Hopefully, I can tie up loose ends before my firm decides I’m replaceable.

Neveah grins as she lifts her cup to her lips. “He offered me comedy gold.”

“What?” I yelp as I set down my coffee that’s obviously been laced with laxatives.

Or worse. Knowing Duke, he’s probably gunning for my death after I fucked with his truck. It’s so tricked out that it’s obviously a sign of small penis syndrome. No self-respecting mountain man owns a truck that pristine.

“How are random skulls in my grandmother’s home not funny enough for you, but Duke trying to kill me is?”

“He didn’t say anything about murder,” Neveah insists.

I’m so glad I didn’t eat anything out of that bag yet.

It didn’t escape my notice that Neveah had to unwrap her pastry.

Miss Ada never individually wraps orders.

This entire visit is suddenly highly suspect.

So much for a kindred spirit who’s just trying to escape the horrors of being thrust back into our old lives.

“What did he say?” I press.

I’ll have to keep my guard up at all times. Maybe I can just abandon ship and save up until I have enough money to hire someone else to repair and sell the homestead for me.

Yeah. That sounds like an excellent, safe-for-me plan. Way better for my mental health, too.

“He asked me to keep tabs on you and report back to him,” she answers, like his intentions might be completely innocent .

I scoff. “And you agreed? I hate to break it to you, but I don’t plan on doing anything except sorting through Granny’s stuff and then getting the heck out of dodge. I likely won’t even see Duke again while I’m in town.”

I still can’t believe I finally grew the lady balls to have the last word. For the first time in decades, I finished what he started. He thought he could torture me on one of the worst nights of my life? Oh, hell no, mister.