by Kathy Love
“The book says so,” Daisy reminded them.
“But the book is fiction,” Emma said.
“Obviously not,” Madison said. “The spell worked.”
Both Daisy and Emma nodded.
“But we still do need to figure out what to do with him,” Madison said. “My mom does work a lot, but I can’t get away with him staying here.”
“No,” Daisy agreed.
Madison’s mother was often at the hospital, taking extra shifts because she was the sole support of Madison. But the woman was too savvy for them to sneak a rather … noticeable man into her apartment.
Heck, Madison hadn’t even gotten away with the Connor Martin thing. Her mother figured that one out fast and vetoed the date. Because he was a senior and the cutest boy at Cambridge High.
“Well, Poppy won’t let him stay with us,” Daisy said. “As it is, we’re lucky he isn’t in a coma or on his way to prison as we speak.”
Poppy was a great sister. And she’d been wonderful after the deaths of their parents, taking on the role of both mom and dad, but sometimes Daisy wished she wasn’t quite so uptight. Couldn’t she just go with a strange man/demon staying with them? Geesh.
“Well, I would have clocked him too,” Madison said confidently.
Daisy seemed to recall that Madison had screamed right along with her and Emma. Sometimes she was all talk—most of the time, actually.
“What about you, Emma?” Madison asked.
Emma was shaking her head before Madison even finished the question, her blond curls bobbing against her cherub cheeks.
“You know my parents. My mother notices when someone nudges one of the knickknacks on the end tables out of place. And remember when she yelled at my brother for putting his boots away in the front closet with the left one on the right side and the right on the left?”
“She’d totally notice him,” Daisy agreed. He’d be pretty hard to miss, even if her mother was half-blind. And she wasn’t half-blind. If anything, that woman had the second sight.
“Plus your dork brother would so narc,” Madison said.
Emma’s little brother, Harrison, lived to get Emma in trouble, which wasn’t easy, because Emma was darn near perfect. She was actually a lot like her mother—of course, she’d throw a hissy fit if anyone said that. And Daisy would give her the benefit of the doubt—she probably wouldn’t rearrange the shoes to be matched by left and right.
Not that shoes were the point, Daisy reminded herself. The point was, Emma’s place was totally out.
“Well, we have to figure out something,” Daisy said. “Because if all the other stuff in that book is true, he isn’t going anywhere until he fulfills the wish.”
“You know, if I knew he’d really appear, I would never have gone along with your wish,” Madison stated to Daisy. “Not that I don’t like your sister or anything. But wishing for him to find your sister a boyfriend. Really? Can’t she find one for herself? Totally lame.”
“What would you have asked for?” Emma asked.
“To get my mother to let me date Connor Martin,” Madison said as if that were perfectly obvious.
Daisy supposed it was. But wasn’t she wishing for a boyfriend too? Apparently, it was not such a lame wish when applied to herself.
“I’d have wished to pass French Two,” Emma said.
That was obvious too—at least for Emma. But Madison rolled her eyes.
“You think Connor Martin is more important than good grades?”
Now it was Daisy’s turn to roll her eyes. Honestly, didn’t these two know each other?
“We still need to find a place for him to stay,” Daisy said, raising her voice to get them back on track.
The table fell silent.
Then Daisy straightened. “What about Mrs. Maloney’s apartment?”
Madison leaned forward, her eyes glittering with excitement. “That’s perfect.”
The two girls turned to Emma, who didn’t appear nearly as thrilled about the idea. She crossed her arms as if she were cold. Her shoulders hunched. “I don’t know.”
“But it’s perfect,” Daisy said.
Old Mrs. Maloney went to Tampa, Florida, for six weeks every year, and Emma took care of her fat, cranky, one-eyed cat, ridiculously named Sweetness. Which meant she had a key to Mrs. Maloney’s place. And Mrs. Maloney had just left last week. That gave them plenty of time.
“I don’t have the key with me right now,” Emma said, giving them a “see-that-won’t-work” look.
“It’s on the key hook right by the front door in your apartment,” Daisy said.
Emma’s mom was even tidy with keys.
“They’re all asleep.”
“Exactly,” Madison said. “I’ll sneak in with you. If someone wakes up, just tell them you came back for …”
“Your teddy bear,” Daisy said. Emma still slept with a worn bear she’d had since birth.
Emma pulled a face at the mention of it, then reluctantly said, “My mom would never believe that. She knows I never forget Mr. Jellybelly.”
“We’ll think of something.” Madison stood and tugged on the sleeve of Emma’s fleece pajama top. Halfheartedly, Emma allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.
“Be quick,” Daisy said, once they were in the hall. “You know Poppy’s going to be full of questions.”
“So have you been living in the U.S. for long?” Poppy asked the man who sat beside her.
“I—I—no.” The Swedish stranger shook his head, clearly not sure of his answer.
Poppy glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Twenty minutes. Where were the girls? She’d attempted conversation with the man, but all his answers were vague, and she could see flashes of confusion in his amber eyes.
His muddled answers and looks could be due to the hit to his head, but she liked to think it was because he was Swedish and everything was just new to him here in Boston. That way she didn’t feel quite so bad about whacking him so hard.
And to be fair, the girls had been screaming, and Poppy was terrified out of her mind.
“Why were the girls screaming?” she asked suddenly.
“What?” More bewilderment clouded his eyes.
“The girls? They were screaming like crazy. Why would they do that, if they knew you?”
He shook his head, but before he could give Poppy an answer that likely wouldn’t make any sense anyway, the apartment door opened.
Poppy rose to greet the girls, anxious to have this all-around unnerving guy out of her house.
But only Daisy walked into the living room.
“Where are the other girls?” Poppy asked.
“Still at Madison’s.”
Poppy glanced at the man, who, even despite his confusion, managed to lounge on the couch like he owned the place. Then she asked Daisy in a hushed voice, “Is everything okay?”
Daisy nodded. “Madison’s mom is just annoyed that she forgot to leave the key for him. And she also got in trouble for texting—”
“Connor Martin,” they said in unison.
Poppy nodded. That sounded like Madison. That girl could be so boy crazy. Once upon a time, Poppy had been boy crazy too. Such a waste of thoughts and energy. Now she knew there were more important things in life than romance.
Things like her little sister and keeping her safe and fed and healthy—both physically and emotionally.
“Well, I’m glad you are more grounded than Madison,” she told her little sister. “No crazy antics to get the attention of a boy.”
Daisy’s eyes flicked toward Killian, then back to Poppy. She smiled. “No, no crazy antics for me.”
“So is Madison coming to get him?”
“No, I said I’d bring him down.”
Poppy frowned. She still didn’t like the idea of this guy alone with her little sister. Not that he’d shown any signs of anything—well, anything but confusion.
“Maybe I should walk with you,” Poppy said.
Daisy sho
ok her head. “Nah. You know what I would like?”
Poppy tilted her head, still debating going along, but her sister must have taken it as a gesture to continue.
“I know it’s late and all, but I’d love some of your famous hot chocolate.”
Poppy didn’t answer.
“Please. We’ll only be ten minutes, and then the girls will all be back. Hot chocolate would be nice.”
The warm, milky beverage might be just the thing to calm everyone down after a wild night.
Poppy glanced at Killian, who still sat there, although now his eyes were closed, his head leaning back against the couch’s overstuffed cushion.
She was beginning to wonder if this poor guy did need medical attention.
“Okay. But only five minutes. Or else I’m coming to find you with the candlestick holder,” she said loud enough for Killian to hear too.
Daisy smiled. “Promise.” She turned to the man on the couch, then paused as if considering something. Then she said, almost tentatively, “Um, Kill—ian?
The man opened his eyes, looking more confused than before, if that were possible.
“I’m going to take you to where you’ll be staying.”
He frowned, but slowly unfolded himself from the couch. It was like watching a giant stand inside a miniature apartment that was decidedly feminine and delicate.
Poppy thought Daisy looked a little hesitant to leave with him now, and she started to say she would go along after all, but Daisy stopped her. She waved and promised five minutes again.
Poppy watched as tall, broad Killian followed petite, skinny Daisy from the room. A weird feeling tightened her chest, but she didn’t think it was dread. Or fear. It was more the sense that something was amiss.
“Five minutes,” she murmured to herself as she went into the kitchen to make cocoa.
Killian followed the girl in front of him, trying to make sense of what had been going on. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure who he was, or how he got here.
Well, he knew his own name. Or at least he thought he did. When the tiny woman with the disheveled hair and baggy sweatshirt and even baggier flannel pants had asked his name, Killian O’Brien had popped into his head.
That could be from anywhere, though.
And he was Swedish? Now that he had no recollection of at all.
“I’m from Sweden?” he asked the girl.
She paused in her determined trek through the hallways of the building.
“Yeah,” she said, sounding no surer than he felt.
“So why am I here?”
The girl started to open her mouth to speak, then hushed voices from around the corner drew their attention in that direction.
Two more teens came into view.
“Did you get it?” asked the one he thought he’d heard … Poppy call Daisy.
A dark-haired girl dangled something in front of her triumphantly. A key.
“Piece of cake.”
All the girls surrounded a door a few feet away.
“This isn’t going to work,” the curly-headed blonde said.
“It will,” the darker one said, her voice filled with exasperation.
“Just open up,” Daisy said. “Poppy said she’d come look for us in five, and knowing her, she’s actually timing it.”
The dark-haired girl unlocked the door and pushed it open. Then they all looked at him expectantly.
He frowned in response.
“This is where you are going to stay,” Daisy said, gesturing to the open apartment.
His frown deepened as he stepped closer. The place was dark, except for an old-looking lamp creating a dim pool of light around a hall table. The place smelled. He sniffed again. Like old age. Old books and the menthol of arthritis creams and mustiness and cat.
He looked at the kids.
“I’m staying here?”
They all nodded, wide-eyed.
“You have to,” Daisy said.
Killian thought about it, wanting to say “no, I really don’t have to.” But he found himself nodding and stepping inside the apartment.
“Don’t let anyone know you are here,” Daisy said once he was inside.
He was supposed to be staying here, but no one could know. That didn’t sound right. But again, he found himself nodding.
“We’ll check on you tomorrow.”
He nodded again.
They nodded back as if they were silently closing some secret pact—and maybe they were. Then the girls left, enclosing him in the dim light of this strange place. He listened to their footfalls hurrying away, back to Poppy’s apartment and her famous hot chocolate.
Just leave yourself. Surely this wasn’t right.
But his feet remained anchored to the spot.
Eventually, he turned and surveyed the fussy, frilly, floral room.
He was stuck here. What in hell was going on?
CHAPTER 3
W hat the hell?
Killian blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling—a dingy white ceiling. Not the crisp, new white of his ceiling at home. Nor was he in his own bed. This one was decidedly feminine, covered in a ruffled bedspread plastered with pink and red cabbage roses. Nothing like his black silk sheets.
He glanced to the right to see an antique nightstand. On it, in its full flowered and beaded glory, sat a lamp that looked as if it came from a yard sale circa 1959. An Agatha Christie was opened, facedown on the doily-covered surface. Several medication bottles were lined up beside that.
Great, not only was he in a strange bed, but it appeared to be that of an elderly woman.
He glanced to his left, hoping he’d see something that would make sense to him. He definitely needed an explanation for this predicament—and why he didn’t seem to recall how he got here. But instead of some clue, he found someone staring back at him.
It was the ugliest, mangiest cat he’d ever seen. It stared at him with its one good eye. An eerie yellow eye. The other was stuck together into a crusted black line. The cat’s long, white fur—or at least he thought it was white—had a matted, gray tinge as if it had rolled in ashes. Damp ashes.
Maybe Killian was still in Hell. But he suspected that even demons would throw this thing back.
Keeping his movements slow and subtle, Killian levered himself up onto his elbows, concerned that even the slightest move would set the beast into attack mode.
The cat hissed, its back arching and its tail, once broken or maybe just as naturally ugly as the rest of it, shot up like a tattered flag at half-mast. It hissed again, louder, its lips curling back to reveal a splintered fang and some serious tartar buildup.
Killian braced himself for what appeared to be an inevitable fur-flying assault, but instead the feline monster darted over the chair and disappeared under the bed, surprisingly fast for such a massive creature.
“Great,” he said, peering over the edge. Now he felt like he was stuck in some horror movie where the monster under the bed would lunge out and grab him as soon as he set a foot on the floor.
He fell back against the mattress. The scent of musty pillow, masked only slightly by some kind of stale, powdery perfume, billowed up around him.
Where the hell was he?
He lay there, searching his brain, but nothing came back to him. His last memory was getting off work and going home. But he was clearly no longer in Hell. This place was very definitely the dwelling of a human. Humans had a completely different energy from demons.
Had he gone home with some human woman for a little nocturnal fun? Not his usual behavior, but not unheard of either.
He glanced around the room with its flowered walls and damask curtains. A pink housecoat was draped over a rocking chair in the corner.
He cringed at the sight. Not unless he’d suddenly developed a taste for the geriatric set.
“At least let it have been the hot granddaughter,” he said aloud. The monster under the bed hissed in response. Probably not a good sign.
He r
emained there for a moment longer, then decided he couldn’t stay trapped in this sea of frills and flowers indefinitely. He had to figure out where he was—and more important, why.
He sat up, steeling himself for his next move. Then in one swift action, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and gave himself a hard push against the mattress, vaulting a good three feet across the floor.
The dust ruffle quivered, then a paw with claws unsheathed shot out and smacked around, hoping to connect and maim. Finding nothing, it snapped back under the bed’s depths. The bed skirt fluttered, then fell still.
“Ha,” he called out to the animal, feeling smug. Then he just felt silly. He was a demon who’d managed to outsmart a cat. Yeah, that was something to get cocky over. Especially since he was a demon who had somehow managed to forget where the hell he was.
He stepped out of the bedroom into a small hallway. Directly in front of him was a bathroom that revealed more flowers on the shower curtain and on the matching towels hanging on a brass rack. Even the toilet seat cover had a big rose on it.
To his right was another bedroom. A dresser, a nightstand and a brass bed—and, of course, more flowers.
He frowned. Would he really hook up with a human who was this obsessed with floral prints—very bold floral prints? He didn’t think so, but anything seemed possible at this point.
He wandered to a living room with swag draperies and ancient-looking velvet furniture. BenGay, hand lotion, Aleve, a crystal bowl filled with mints and a box of tissues were arranged on another doily-covered table beside a tatty-looking recliner. A crocheted afghan was draped over the back.
“Let there be a granddaughter … let there be a granddaughter,” he muttered, even though he’d seen not a single sign of youth so far.
He crossed the room to a fireplace, looking at the framed photos crowded along the mantel. Only one woman kept reappearing in the pictures and she didn’t look to be a day younger than eighty. But he didn’t recognize her. In fact, none of the people in the pictures jogged his memory.
“Maybe I don’t want to remember,” he said, grimacing down at a picture of a group of elderly women on what appeared to be adult-sized tricycles beside some beach.