Grim Lovelies (Grim Lovelies 1)

She squeezed her eyes closed.

She wished harder than she had ever wished in her life. She wished to see his smile again, to run her fingers through his hair. But the fur beneath her hand didn’t change to skin. The breath on her face still smelled of dog. She squeezed her eyes shut harder, wishing and wishing and wishing, but when she at last opened her eyes, the dog was still a dog.

The Pretty girl’s coin wasn’t magic. It was just an old coin. Besides, it was past midnight. Even if it had been enchanted, it wouldn’t have been strong enough to combat the unstoppable force of time.

She sank back onto the bricks, pressed her face into her hands.

If only I hadn’t taught him that spell. A wet nose nudged her cheek.

She pulled the dog close and buried her face in its fur, tasting the saltiness of her own tears. She cried because crying was all that was left. But tears could last only so long, even ones as powerful as these.

Finally she sank back on her heels, wiped her sleeve over her face, and did all she could think to do.

“Come on,” she said to the dog. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

It wasn’t until she had climbed the steps of the townhouse and put her hand on the knob that a thought struck Anouk. She stopped moving.

Cricket was the cat.

Luc was the mouse.

Hunter Black was the wolf.

Beau was the dog.

That left only one pelt. The one that wasn’t fur like the others but had long wings and downy feathers over a snow-white body.

The first time they’d seen the pelts, she’d told herself she wasn’t curious to know which was hers. That it didn’t matter. Cat or mouse or whatever, they were all just animals. She hadn’t let herself try to guess the truth in her gestures or reflection in the mirror. But now she knew.

I was an owl.

The truth didn’t hurt like she’d thought it would. There was no hot sting of shame. Rather, she felt the opposite. Warmth spread through her freshly beating heart, filling the place where the dark, cold thing had always been. Maybe it hadn’t been dark at all. Maybe she just hadn’t ever bothered to pull back the curtains and consider it in the right light.

Something rose in her, a sensation beneath her breastbone, like flying.

Maybe that was why she was so drawn to the jacket with the gargoyle embroidery—?because of the wings and the talons. She had recognized a piece of herself in it even before she knew what she was. Its threads had reminded her of the life she’d once led. She wasn’t an owl now, not anymore. But was she really a human?

Maybe not entirely. Maybe she didn’t have to be. She could be something both pretty and ugly. Light and dark.

Human and not.

She pushed open the townhouse door.

The dog nudged its way in beside her, wagging its tail as its nails clickety-clacked on the marble floors. She took her time—?after all, time had ceased to be her enemy—?and listened to the thunk of her shoes on Mada Vittora’s marble floors.

Only it wasn’t Mada Vittora’s house now. It belonged to—?

“Viggo.” She gasped.

She tore up the stairs.

Fears struck her like the tolling of a clock—?that she’d push open the bedroom door to find his eyes closed, his face pale, his body cold. That she’d taken too much blood, and for what? Her plan hadn’t even worked.

The dog padded up the stairs behind her, excited by her hurry without understanding why.

She rested a hand on the bedroom door, hesitating. Afraid Viggo was dead. Afraid he wasn’t, because then she’d have to explain to him what had happened to the others, especially Hunter Black.