Grim Lovelies (Grim Lovelies 1)

“An owl, I think,” Beau said. “What exactly are you looking for??

?? He too stood back from the pile of fur and feathers as though they made him fearful.

“Luc had a theory.” Cricket ran her hand over the owl’s feathered pelt and then tossed it aside. “That maybe Mada Vittora didn’t use only domesticated animals.”

Anouk looked up sharply. “What else would she have used?” Her teasing with Beau came back to her, that he was half monkey and she three-quarters dust bunny.

Cricket inspected the next pelt. It was the size of a small sweater with angel-soft white fur like cashmere. “This one’s a cat, I think. Anyway, Luc wasn’t certain. It was something he’d overheard Viggo saying to one of the Royals. Viggo was there since the beginning, you know. He was twelve when Luc was made. And then me, and Hunter Black, and the two of you. He saw it all happen. And he said that one of us was a . . .”

She reached the last pelt and stopped.

A different smell permeated the room. More earthy, like the samples of moss in the townhouse’s solarium.

Beau eyed the pelt on the table cautiously.

Cricket slowly reached out a hand and touched it. Anouk stepped forward, her breath coming in odd bursts. This last pelt was different from the others. Not a dog, a mouse, a cat, or an owl. It was much larger, bigger even than the dog’s, and the fur was gray and wiry.

Too thick. Too heavy. Too dark.

“Luc was right,” Cricket breathed. “One of us is a wolf.”

Chapter 9

Anouk’s fingers sank into the thick pelt while the others argued.

“That’s impossible,” Beau said. “Where did Mada Vittora find a wolf in Paris?”

“I don’t know. The zoo? She was a witch. She could have walked through the portal elevator in Castle Ides straight into the Black Forest and trapped one there.”

“So what does it mean that one of us is a wolf?”

“What’s a wolf if not a traitor? You know what Mada Vittora used to say about wolves: Wolves in the wood together are good; wolf on its own, expect blood and bone. It means we can’t trust one of us.”

“Yes, but which one?” Anouk said.

Beau and Cricket looked at her as though they’d almost forgotten she was there.

“Well, it’s Hunter Black, of course,” Cricket said. “Isn’t it obvious?”

But Anouk kept eyeing the different pelts uneasily. It was impossible to tell. None had Beau’s tan skin or Cricket’s curly hair. Any of the pelts could have belonged to any of them.

“I guess so,” Anouk said.

But it didn’t feel right. Hunter Black was decidedly detached, yes—?the very picture of a lone wolf. Except for his fierce devotion to Viggo. Wasn’t that more like a loyal hound clinging to his master’s heels?

Then her eyes fell on the burlap sack on the ground.

“Beau?” Her head started to feel too light. “Where did you get that bag?”

He toed it with his shoe. “It was in the mistress’s closet.”

She approached the sack warily. “On the floor? Or on the shelf?”

“I don’t know. The shelf, I guess. Why? Isn’t it the same one we used to catch the Corpus crows?”

Anouk shook her head. “No. It’s not just any bag.” She crouched down and touched the sack slowly, as though it might bite. She should have recognized its almost imperceptible shimmer when Beau had first grabbed it to carry the pelts. But she’d been unable to think about anything other than Mada Vittora.

The minute her hand grazed the fabric, it changed, and she jerked her fingers back. It shrunk and folded in on itself, burlap darkening and growing glossy and smooth, silver buckles pushing out from the seams, a snaking black leather strap slithering from the opening.