Page 7 of Vying Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #2)

Nic

I fisted my hands as Dad slammed the car door.

I heard the beep of it locking, more times than it usually does.

No need to ask why. I looked up and down the empty street, unsure which house is theirs.

They were all stuck together, with lots of doors and windows, each house a mere sliver.

Like that lady who lived in a shoe. Except, these houses weren’t as remotely appealing.

None had gardens, just weeds growing up through the concrete.

Dad joined me on the pavement, flashing me a smile I didn’t return.

He held out an arm. ‘This way.’

I didn’t go that way. I waited for him. I didn’t want to be here at all; I wasn’t going to go in first.

Turned out, it wasn’t any of the houses on this road. We had to go down an alley, that’s why we couldn’t park the car down there. It had cobbles, lots of uneven ones. This was where they kept their bins; cardboard was everywhere. Wind sent empty beer cans clattering over the cobblestones.

Red brick walls flanked us on both sides, green with lichen and leafless vines. Dad stopped at a recess in one, using his weight to shoulder open the gate.

My skin prickled as soon as we entered the garden. It was wild, overgrown. A cat jumped out of a bramble bush, shooting over the wall.

‘They’ve got blackberries,’ Dad said cheerfully.

I stared at him balefully. Was he really lowering himself to this?

Then I stopped thinking about him, because in the doorway to that sliver of a house stood a woman.

Dad walked past me, straight towards her. She leaned up her face to his, but Dad took her hand instead, squeezing it as he turned to me.

‘This is Nicole.’

The woman smiled at me, a little thinly.

Good.

She didn’t want me here either. That was better.

We went into the tiny kitchen that smelled of hob gas and old tea bags. The wallpaper was horrible—textured and cream and peeling at the edges. A proper granny house.

Dad didn’t seem to care. Suppose he’d been here before. Instead, he was peering round like he was looking for something.

‘In the garden,’ the woman supplied. To me, she said, ‘Go find her if you want.’

I looked at Dad, too polite to refuse but hoping he would see how much I didn’t want to go and find her.

But Dad had no time to reply before the woman—I knew her name, just didn’t want to think it—stormed past us to throw open the door.

‘Tilda!’ she bellowed.

She turned to gesture me through. I backed up a step, but there was Dad, hands on my shoulders to encourage me on. I wouldn’t make a scene. This was this lady’s house. Dad was counting on me to behave.

On the back step, the door shut behind me. I heard the woman’s low laugh and knew they’d be kissing now. I thudded down the narrow steps, in that slouchy, shuffling way Dad hated. Didn’t matter then; he wasn’t watching.

A tree in the garden next door hissed in the wind, little brown leaves hurtling over the wall. The blackberry bush moved. I waited for another cat to jump out, maybe a rat, but nothing did.

There was definitely something in that bush though.

It wasn’t a big garden, took about four steps to get there. A slight opening, crisscrossed with two rotting planks. Nope, definitely wasn’t a cat or a rat. It was a girl. Small, dark-haired. A bin bag cape wrapped around her neck. Like a stray animal, she stared up at me from the bramble thicket.

I looked behind her dubiously. ‘Is it a den?’

‘No.’ She scowled. ‘This is my hovel.’

‘What?’

‘My hut. My witch’s hut.’

‘Is it cursed?’

‘Yeah, so butt out.’

I looked back at the house, seeing no one in the door now. ‘My dad and your mum told me to come out.’

She looked at me differently then, though she must have known who I was. ‘Your dad wants us to live with you. Because our house is too small. We’d have to share a room.’

‘You don’t sleep in your den?’

‘Hut. And obviously not. It gets wet at night.’

I felt the wind in my hair. Wasn’t raining yet but probably would be soon. I took hold of a thorny branch, devoid of berries. She must have eaten all the good ones already. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Dunno,’ she taunted darkly, ‘are you a witch? You’ll shrivel into nothing if you’re not. That’s the curse I put on it.’

‘Witches aren’t even real,’ I said, purposefully trying to be mean. Pissed me off that she might have done something to keep me out.

‘So are.’ Her eyes gleamed in the dim. ‘I wished for a sister.’

Something passed between us then. It was like a silent pact, an understanding, a spell. My chest warmed, my heart budding for the first time. It was the strangest feeling.

‘I might be a witch,’ I said, suddenly excited.

I didn’t care that we were playing little kid games, that Dad had already made me toss my dolls, that, just two seconds ago, I wanted to be anywhere other than here.

I needed to be a witch so badly. In that second, I wanted to be whatever she wanted me to be.

‘Prove it,’ she challenged.

Eagerly, I lifted my top, just enough to unfasten the button on my white jeans. Then I yanked them down, doing a little shimmy in my haste.

‘What are you doing?!’ she shrieked.

Ignoring her, I got them down to my knees before turning to the side. My own gaze snagged on the birthmark on my thigh. It wasn’t huge but brown and dark against my pale skin.

I wasn’t thinking of all the windows overlooking the garden, nor Dad who’d likely tell me off for flashing my knickers to all and sundry. I was focused on the girl in the brambles, the one whose face was screwing up the more she looked at me.

Then she made such a loud sound of disgust, I almost kicked her. My whole body flushed. Fuck her and her witchy rules. I was going to march back inside their tiny, stinky house and tell Dad to bin the both of them.

But then she reached out, heedless of the soil soaking into her leggings, and trailed her fingers over the mark.

I held still, legs goosebumping in the cold, knees trying not to knock.

‘Devil’s mark,’ she said sagely.

I kept my eyes on the garden gate. ‘Good or bad?’

Matilda Kingston looked up at me and smiled. ‘Good.’