Page 4 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Four

My shoulders nearly meet my ears as fear spikes my pulse, but I force myself to breathe, relax and look around. Apart from the door slamming, nothing has changed.

The moment that thought crosses my mind, a stack of paperwork and a pen appear on the mahogany sideboard.

I stare at them.

Creeping closer, the words ‘rental agreement’ are written in fancy lettering at the top of the enchanted parchment, with both my name and Baylor’s already written in.

My hand trembles as I pick it up. It’s a standard form, much like the one I signed with Derek four months ago—though Derek’s document wasn’t magic. If it had been, I wouldn’t be homeless.

Magical documents are notoriously complex, but one thing’s certain: you can’t hide anything in them. That’s why people hire paper mages—some of the scariest individuals you will ever encounter.

What they can do with a single sheet of paper is mind-boggling.

In the business world, they are infamously ruthless—sign and fail to uphold it, and you are doomed.

If it’s your document and you cheat, the penalties are worse.

Seeing this paperwork actually reassures me that the house isn’t out to steal my soul. Everything seems in order.

The rent is higher than I was paying, but it includes utility bills, food for me and Baylor’s pricey dog food. A good deal indeed. Now that I’ve recovered from my initial terror, I feel strangely… safe.

I have not felt safe for a very long time.

I’m still worried about living close to the Vampire Sector, but this place is powerful.

The ward keeps the garden in bloom, untouched by wind and rain.

If it can control the weather within its boundaries, it can ward off any rogue vampire who might fancy a Winifred-and-Baylor snack.

I’m safer here than anywhere else in the country.

Relief hits so hard that for a second, I sway and have to close my eyes.

I haven’t even seen the room. I need to calm down… but I can move in straightaway, all I need to do is sign. I pick up the pen and do it before the wizard’s house can change its mind.

The rent is due now and then on the first of each month. I just place the money here, on the sideboard, and the house will handle the rest.

I count out the rent in cash, stacking the notes neatly. Both the money and the rental agreement vanish.

“May I choose a bedroom?” I ask the house, feeling slightly foolish but wanting to be polite.

The magic doesn’t shove me outside, so I take that as a sign everything is all right.

Not wishing to drip water everywhere, I hang my damp coat on the rack and slip off my shoes.

I’ve decided to treat this house as though it’s a person because, in a way, it is.

If I were stuck as a building, I’d want its occupants to be polite and kind. It must be a lonely existence.

Perhaps when the wizard first connected their soul the house was home to a family—their family. Then time passed, the family died, and the soul was left alone. Maybe that’s why it wants to rent a room.

“I know how you feel,” I whisper. And if speaking to a house also makes me feel less alone—much like chatting to Baylor—then so be it.

The stairs don’t creak as I climb. The wooden bannister is warm under my fingers. At the landing, I find four open doors. A bathroom and three bedrooms. Two are the same size, the third is a smaller box room.

The bathroom is wonderful. A large, clawfoot tub sits prominently beneath the frosted window, while a spacious rainfall shower beckons me to wash the remains of this day away.

I don’t know how the house updates itself; it certainly didn’t have these modern amenities when it was built.

I might research it later to learn more.

The main bedroom faces the front garden. It’s old-fashioned but lovely. The walls are covered in dainty, floral-patterned wallpaper adorned with small frames holding intricate, hand-drawn portraits of people time may have forgotten. I wonder if they are someone’s loved ones. Memories .

Floral wallpaper and matching bedding… Normally I’d hate so many patterns, but I rather like them here.

In the corner stands a wooden wardrobe, its dark wood polished to a shine, beside a small dressing table with an oval mirror.

“It’s so pretty,” I say, deciding the front bedroom is my best option. “If it’s all right with you, this room will be perfect.”

I move to the window, push the curtains aside and peer out. Dusk is closing in; I need to hurry. I let the curtain drop.

“I need to fetch Baylor and bring my things inside.”

I hurry downstairs, pull on my coat and shoes and dash to the car.

A white paw scrabbles at the window. I grimace. Behind the glass, Baylor’s howls are sorrowful, and his blue eyes roll as though he’s suffered hours alone—it hasn’t even been twenty minutes.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I say, grabbing his lead from my pocket, which I’d found earlier among my scattered belongings. I have a sinking feeling he will spring out of the car and flatten me. I take a deep breath, keeping the door closed on his grinning face.

He whines in protest.

“Wait. Sit.” Tail wag. Bum wiggle. Baylor does not sit. “Sit,” I repeat, firmer. He whines louder but eventually obeys. I don’t quite fist-pump—it’s a small accomplishment—but I’m proud of the progress.

I crack the door and clip the lead to his collar. “Staaaay.” He stays. I open wider. “Staaaaay.” He stays. I open a little more, and then I’m bowled over by a fluffy Husky launching at me.

I almost lose my footing but grab the door before we both hit the ground. He bounces, tugs, nudges; tug-tug again. The lead burns across my palm.

I shut the car, abandon the rest for now and let Baylor drag me towards our new home.

“You need to be good and respect this house,” I warn. “No shenanigans, Baylor. I mean it, best behaviour.” The gate swings open and Baylor hauls me to the front door, which opens for us.

“Thank you.”

Inside, he bounds around sniffing everything. I keep an eye on his back end, praying he doesn’t lift a leg against the furniture.

I cringe at what the house might think if he pees. “Please don’t pee, Baylor.” He’s normally good indoors, but who knows how magic might affect him? Emotional peeing is a thing, I’m sure.

“Can we… um, use the back garden?” Another door creaks open, so I follow it, Baylor towing me into the kitchen.

The room is spacious, with high ceilings and large windows pouring in light.

The chequered tile continues from the hall.

A faint scent of wood and herbs lingers.

Wooden cabinets painted soft cream line the walls, their oak grain still visible, with brass handles that catch the light.

A porcelain sink with old-fashioned brass taps takes pride of place beneath a window overlooking the garden.

We reach the back door—it swings open—and step into a neat courtyard enclosed by brick walls .

I scan the cottage-style garden for anything Baylor might destroy. No plastic chairs, no wooden fencing, just solid brick he can’t chew. The ward has kept the rain off here, too; the flagstones are dry. Baylor can play without getting filthy. I sigh with relief.

The flower borders are suspiciously bare: nothing but dark soil where green shoots should be. I narrow my eyes and mutter, “Did you strip the garden before we came out?”

A ripple of magic in the air feels like an answer.

Baylor watches me, ears pricked, tail wagging. “Be a good boy.” I unclip his lead and he rockets away, still brimming with energy despite his earlier walk. He darts to a far corner, sniffing intently. He’ll be there a while. “If he digs, I’ll grab a shovel and fill it in.”

Near the back door stands a metal bowl of water—courtesy of the house, apparently. I glance at it, then at the walls, gobsmacked. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

I hurry back through the kitchen, down the hall, and out to the car. It will take time to unpack, and I’m not keen on everything getting more soaked.

When I reach the car, I roll up the windows and freeze—the passenger seat and footwell are empty.

“Someone stole everything,” I mutter, scanning the road. Then I see the boot is empty too. Did the house…? “That can’t be possible. Right?” My eyes take in the silent road, landing on a new feature. Apparently, it might be possible. I shake my head, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

In the time it took to settle Baylor in the garden, the house has somehow sprouted a driveway. And a garage .

Compared with that, unpacking the vehicle is nothing.

I move the car onto the new drive, lock it and head inside, feeling dazed. Shrugging off my coat and shoes, I hurry upstairs to find, sure enough, the house has taken everything from the car and put it away.

It has put everything away exactly how I like it.

All my clothes are clean, dry and arranged in colour order, largest to smallest, and sorted by season. It’s my odd little system.

The wizard’s house has also replaced my makeup and hairdryer. I stare, speechless. My bottom lip wobbles. I’m not crying—I’m definitely not crying. I grab a tissue from the dresser, dab my eyes, then blow my nose.

“Thank you. That’s really kind.” I pat the wall. “Thank you so much.”

I check the bathroom. Sure enough, everything is in place, hair products, soap, just as I like them.

“I’d better check on Baylor.”

I head for the back garden, so hurried I forget my shoes, but the thoughtful magic stirs again, and a moment later they are waiting by the door. The kindness stuns me. An unfamiliar sensation. “Thank you again.”

Baylor is still exploring. His tail wags when he spots me, and he flashes a big doggy grin.

I rest my head against the doorframe as the pressure in my chest finally eases. It has been a long time since either of us had something to smile about.

“You love the house and garden, buddy? I do too.”