Darker London

“Dammit,” Daria hissed, as several shards of shell from the egg she’d cracked fell into the bowl with the egg. She took a moment to suck in air through her nose but this did nothing to calm her, and she dug into the eggy slime with a frustrated finger, trying to hook the shell back up the lip of the bowl.

“I can do this,” Yolande said cheerfully, reaching to take the bowl away from Daria.

“I can make my own daughter’s birthday cake!” Daria snapped, gripping the bowl close to her. “Fucks sake.”

( ... )

Sometimes Klara wished she wasn't a Courtlandt, wasn't her father's daughter, wasn't a wolf born of two wolves. Because if she hadn't managed all these things then she wouldn't be dragged across Europe by different groups of werewolves to settle all their bullshit as some sort of infallible mediator. Klara was so far from infallible that it might have been hilarious were it not so frustratingly stressful.

Not stressful was the idea of dinner with Con. It was, on a low level, complicated but that wasn't stressful. Her feelings for Con still remained and she couldn't exactly say they'd gotten less over time, especially since the night they'd almost had sex last year. But she didn't see her old friend nearly as much as she wished she did, especially considering how easy he was to worry about.

Klara pulled up in front of the Home of Unhealthiness with a sigh, and wished once again that Con would find somewhere else and get out of this mausoleum to Patrick Ravensdale.

She had wine in hand and inside the front door she called out Con's name into the echoy house.

There were no staff left at St John's Lodge; there hadn't been for a long time. Obviously, Con thought this was probably for the best. Mona didn't seem to agree, or was it just that she really opposed the idea of him living here by himself?

Con could understand why Mona thought that way, but that's because empty haunted hallways didn't suit Mona. Australia suited Mona; the long days of bright sun, the warm nights near the ocean, her dogs, even her friendship with Cathal. Life suited Mona.

As the empty haunted hallways of St John's Lodge suited Con.

It wasn't all grim, not all the time. When the weather wasn't utterly bleak, Con spent the days out in the garden tearing up weeds, digging them right out at their roots. He planted a few things too, and they struggled along. He'd never had much interest in the garden before, but he was drawn to it now. He wasn't very good at getting things to grow, and yet as spring turned into summer, patches of flowers started to spring up around the grounds. It was never as nice as their hired gardeners could make it, but it wasn't so bad.

He didn't grow food. Eating things that had grown in the soil of St John's Lodge just seemed like a bad idea.

But flowers; surely there was no harm to be found in flowers.

Heathrow Airport was fine, but Mona knew that from here on out things were going to get messier. London, in general, was messy. It wasn't like back in Australia, where her life had developed soft but clearly defined lines. London was home. London was...

Mona stood at the automatic doors of the airport and watched them open and close and open and close and open and close

and open

and close

and then she turned her back on them and went to get airport coffee. She sat at the table overlooking taxiing jets and wondered if this had been a mistake, but even if it was a mistake maybe it was one she'd needed to make anyway?

Klara had said Con was still living in St John's Lodge. That he remained there all alone. No, Mona sighed, not actually alone. That house was full of ghosts and one ghost reigned supreme. He'd earned that title fair and square. He'd earned the overwhelming weight he still placed on their hearts.

I don't want to be back here was what Mona kept thinking, even as she walked outside to a taxi. She counted her breathes slow and steadily and then called Con's number.