Page 6 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

I shoved the gate open—pissed off now—it groaned in protest and I took a few steps onto the property, only to trip over a broken paver and almost roll my ankle. Instead, I landed in a tangled heap of luggage, Chester’s carrier, and whatever dignity I had left.

“And gravity remains undefeated. Great.” I stood back up and opted to walk in the grass as I made our way to the front porch.

Chester mewed again, this time it was laced with disdain. I’d become fluent in cat, and it was clear he was embarrassed to have me as his human in that moment.

“You know, I’d prefer if there wasn’t any sass from you today. You’re not on my good list after that flight.”

My luggage, once manageable just an hour ago, was now cumbersome and an anchor weighing me down. I dragged it up the porch steps, the creaky planks whining under each step. I dumped them in a pile.

Still two bags weighing me down though, Chester inside his carrier, and my purse.

I rummaged through my crossbody bag, fingers sifting through my things to find the ring of keys the lawyer sent me.

The silver key with a bit of masking tape wrapped around slid into place with a satisfying click .

As I reached for the knob, I noticed it was decorated with runes. The Algiz rune specifically in the center—just like the one I had tattooed behind my left ear. Protection.

A sudden gust of wind slammed into me—hard. It flung the door open, smashing it against a half-wall dividing the foyer and the sunken kitchen with a deafening bang. One of the stained glass panels shattered on impact, sending colorful shards raining down in a sparkling cascade.

The wind didn’t stop.

It charged through the house like it owned the place. Dry leaves whirled around me, the beams groaned overhead, and every door creaked as the gust barreled toward the back of the house.

Then—CRACK!

The screen door at the rear of the house ripped free, its torn mesh flapped like a busted bat wing in a hurricane.

Jesus!

I stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching the chaos swirl.

“Oh, perfect,” I muttered. “The back door’s been open this whole time. That’s… comforting.” I rubbed my temples. Of course, it was. Why wouldn’t a probably haunted, creaky manor have wide-open doors?

Stepping inside, the scent of cedar, alcohol, and spiced pears—like the ones Mom demanded I ate every Christmas hit me all at once. It was like someone stood there in the darkness, breathing just beside me.

I flicked my phone’s flashlight on and swept it across the foyer, searching for a light switch.

Ah-ha! There! Next to the door.

I flipped it. Nothing.

Huh?

A few more times, like it was going to do anything.

Son of a?—

“The lawyer said the electricity was paid for the entire month.” I shined my light into Chester’s carrier to find him terrified.

His fur puffed out like a Halloween decoration. Eyes wide. Pupils blown.

“It’s okay, bud. We’ll get the lights on. You’ve been through worse than this, remember? The thunderstorm, the time I dropped the toaster, or the time I fell down the stairs—you didn’t even flinch. You’re braver than me.” I squinted into the dark. “Besides, can’t you see in the dark?”

Or maybe that’s what he was afraid of.

Great.

I flicked every switch I passed like I was playing a twisted game of electrical roulette.

Nothing.

Dammit.

Then—

BAM!

The back door slammed shut again, rattling the windows.

I jumped. Chester hissed like he was ready to throw paws.

The lights flickered on—just a dim glow at first, like the house was thinking it over—then flared full glow, warm and golden, like they’d finally decided to cooperate.

Well, thank God . I was about five seconds away from lighting a fire in the living room just for some light in this godforsaken place.

I froze, taking in the space. Dust thick enough to write your name coated every flat surface. Leaves scattered like confetti up and down the hall. And one armchair in the foyer was turned just enough to suggest someone had been sitting there, watching me.

I didn’t say it out loud, but my brain whispered it anyway:

Nope.

“We’re saging everything before sundown, Chester.” I shut the doors and released my little ball of fluff from his mesh prison. “That includes the mailbox.”

I warned, scanning the kitchen that was missing almost every important detail to call it that. “You’d better not get into any trouble, mister.” I yelled over my shoulder.

No counters or cupboards. The range’s oven door had been propped against the wall, under the window facing the porch. The faucet only had one handle—the missing one had a vice grip in its place. And the old enameled fridge rattled like someone threw a loose bolt into the running motor.

Fuck.

I didn’t have extra cash for renovations right now, but a girl’s gotta eat.

My phone buzzed in my hand—jumpstarting my heart, again.

It was Mom.

Ugh. Do I answer? She’d just give me another reason I’d fucked up my life.

Begrudgingly, I accepted her call.

“So you did make it. Good. I was beginning to think you were stranded at the airport,” she said, her voice already laced with the fact she didn’t think I could do anything without fucking it up.

I rolled my eyes, and switched it to speaker—God only knows why, I should’ve just hung up.

“Hi to you too, Mom. Yes. We made it.” I swirled a strand of my amber hair around my finger, inspecting the highlights. “My things won’t be here until next Tuesday?—”

“Next Tuesday?! Maggie, you have got to prepare for these kinds of things. How on earth are you ever going to survive for a week with nothing more than a bag full of underwear and wishful thinking?” The panic in her voice was annoying at minimum.

“A week’s worth of clothes, toothbrush, and a vibrator. I’ll be fine.”

She scoffed, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Magdalen Maxwell! Those were created by the devil!”

“Oh, loosen your grip on your pearls, Mother. You’re the one who named Mary and me after a prostitute.” I smirked.

“Mary Magdalen was not a prostitute—she was a devout disciple of Christ.”

“So you’re saying sex-workers can’t love Jesus? Interesting .”

“Must you twist my words?” Her frustration was palpable. “Did you pray about this move? I knew it would be too much for you when I saw Silas left you the estate.”

“Yeah, Hecate thought it was great idea.” My shoes squeaked on the linoleum as I moved through the kitchen and into the wood-paneled dining room.

Mom sighed. “That’s not what I meant. Your brother never would have put me through this kind of stress.”

There it was. Not even five minutes into the conversation and Old Holy Boy , Jeremiah, made his way in as an example of the perfect obedient child.

I had three siblings. Jeremiah, the oldest, and the one Mom loved most. He did everything she wanted: attended Seminary every morning without complaint when we were kids, went on a two-year mission to Zimbabwe, married his wife in the temple and was now in some level of leadership in the bishopric back home.

If only she knew he used to have his friends over so he and his girlfriend could ‘soak’.

Man, he was so much cooler when his focus was on video games.

Then there was my sister Noel, the baby of the family and young enough to still kowtow to every whim of our mother.

She only did things Mom approved of first. It was like there was a fucking checklist, and if a man, school, or beverage wasn’t on it, she didn’t want them.

I must not have been very high on the list because I haven’t spoken to her in ten years.

I still sent a birthday text every year, but have learned not to expect any reciprocation.

The only sibling I really got along with was my twin, Mary.

We were pretty close as kids—inseparable, really—but something shifted in middle school. She left home at fifteen, a year after the divorce. I don’t think I ever forgave Mom for that. Mary couldn’t stand her even more than I could.

On our birthday, she and her boyfriend crashed the party with an announcement: they were getting married the second she turned sixteen. Mom lost it—screaming, crying, begging her to at least stay with Dad until she was eighteen. Mary agreed, and we were split.

Dad moved to Oregon. I stayed behind with Mom and Noel. Jeremiah was already long gone by then.

Mary and I still exchanged birthday cards, the occasional text, and FaceTimes now and then. But after I really started leaning into my magic, she pulled back even more.

People were scared of things they didn’t understand.

Even your own twin.

“Maybe if you’d actually open the Bible instead of a spell book, dear, you’d advance your life.” Mom’s voice yanked me straight out of the memory, sharp and smug as ever. “I just don’t know where I went wrong with you and Mary. Did you know she claims she’s an atheist now?”

“Mom, stop! You’re always talking down to us—and it sucks!” My voice cracked, hot tears pooling in my eyes. I blinked hard. No way in hell was I letting her hear me cry.

“Oh, there you go again. You’re so sensitive. Always making me the villain.”

It took every shred of willpower not to throw the phone out the window.

Just make it through this call, I told myself. You’ll probably go months without talking again—Christmas, most likely.

“You didn’t tell me Uncle Silas was into magic,” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from me—my failures as a daughter, a woman, and whatever else Mom thought I was botching today.

“He wasn’t,” she said flatly.

I raised an eyebrow. “Then why is the Algiz rune molded into the front doorknob?”

“Maggie, I have no idea what that even is. Probably just a design. What did you call it? Algae rune?”

“ Algiz,” I repeated, slower this time. “It’s a protection symbol.”

“No clue. Last time I was there, it was just an old house.”

I sighed, the weight of her disappointment settling back in. If Mom knew something about Uncle Silas that could tie us together—even just a thread—she wasn’t offering it.