Page 50 of Hexed Up

“Wait here,” I tell him, hopping out of the car and strolling to the box. It’s seen better days: the red paint is faded and peeling in places and there are a few panes of glass missing or cracked. The door creaks as I open it and step inside, finding myself in the entrance to a very smart hotel, a man dressed in a waistcoat waiting behind a broad desk to receive me.

“Checking in?” he asks me.

“Yes, please.”

A big red book flips open on the desk in front of him. “Name please.”

“I’m with the Eccleston family party. It’s Molly Eccleston and …” I swallow, “partner.”

If he notices the way my voice wavers as I say that unfamiliar word, he ignores it. I am going to have to improve my acting skills dramatically in the next few minutes.

“Perfect.” He makes a note in the book. “And you have a vehicle with you?” I nod. The man stands on his toes and peers over my head. I bet they don’t see that many civilian modes of travel at this hotel. “If you’d like to drive through the hedge and follow the driveway up, you’ll find spaces to park right outside the main entrance.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Is anyone else here yet?”

“Let me see …” he runs his finger down the page in his big red book, “everyone but a Miss Tiggie Eccleston.”

I restrain the urge to fist pump the air. I am not the last one here for once.

I return the way I’ve come and climb back into the car.

“I’ve checked us in,” I tell Horatio.

“In there?” he says, pointing to the decrepit phone box which from the outside only looks big enough to fit one person inside, two at a squeeze.

“Yep, we have to drive through the hedge.” I shift around in my seat, searching for a gap in the surrounding hedgerows, but then the bush in front of us starts to move, sliding to one side and revealing a rather grand-looking driveway beyond.

“I take it that’s the way,” Horatio says, switching the engine back on and driving us through the newly created gap, the bush closing again behind us.

The lawns either side of the driveway are much more elegant and pruned than the wild and disorderly countryside on the other side of the hedge; there are even statues situated between finely pruned lime trees. From the corner of my eye, I see Horatio examining them, because they are not the usual busts of Roman beauties or Greek heroes – there’s a werewolf mid-transformation, a vampire shielding themselves from the sun, a witch hovering on a broomstick, and a troll dragging along a club.

“Interesting decor,” he notes.

“I imagine the actual hotel is going to be much worse,” I warn him.

“Do these … creatures actually exist?” he says, pointing to another statue of a juvenile dragon.

“Some,” I say with mischief, loving the way his eyes widen with amazement.

“Dragons? Really?”

I tap my finger against my nose. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Fuck,” he says, shaking his head, then repeats the word as we round a bend and suddenly the hotel is there, right in front of us. A gothic monstrosity of twisting towers, precarious turrets, and piercing spires.

I point out the car-parking spaces in front of the grand hotel entrance – a heavy oak door encased in a stone archway – andHoratio swings us into the space, snatches off the engine, and turns in his seat to face me.

“Am I an idiot, Molly?” he asks me. “Is this fake dating thing all a ruse to get me here and use me as a human sacrifice in your devil-worshipping practices?”

“Don’t be silly,” I say, punching his arm and making him smile. “We only worship the devil on a Wednesday.”

I jump out of the car, McGruff following me, leaving Horatio speechless in his seat.

When he joins me at the boot of the car, still looking a little pale, I tell him,

“You do know I’m joking, right?”

“Shit, Molly, it’s hard to know what to believe.” He chuckles betraying just a little hint of nerves.