Page 1 of Wedding the Werepanther

CHAPTER ONE

Kayla

Magic tingles against my fingers as they curl around the gilt picture frame, and I rear backward, bracing a foot against the wall’s ornate baseboard for extra push. The picture refuses to budge, and the happy couple’s smiles look triumphant. I grab the next photo, featuring another couple in full wedded bliss, but it’s also stuck in place as if superglued to the wall. “Oh, comeon,” I mutter, giving another tug. “I need to do this before they get here.”

There I go, talking to the house as if it can understand me. A soft huff of laughter escapes me. It’s nothing new. Growing up, I spent every summer in Ferndale Falls with my grandparents, and this old purple Victorian always felt like a friend, one I could talk to far more easily than the kids at school. Five-year-old me named it Victoria.

Hell, I even wrote a series of video games about living in a sentient house. Psychologists would probably say something about an emotionally isolated child creating an imaginary friend for comfort, combined with the fact that I’ve always had a super vivid imagination, etc, etc. But ever since I inherited the house and moved in a year ago, it’s felt… almost alive.

“Focus, Kayla. Today isnotthe day to get caught up in wild imaginings.” As much as I love this house, it’s flipping huge. If I don’t get at least two roommates, I’ll have to sell, and that’s the last thing I want to do to the only place that’s ever felt like home.

I glare at photos covering almost every square inch of wall space in the entryway. This isn’t even all of them—they spill down the hallway, too—each picture a testament to the decades the house spent as a wedding chapel. “The wedding photoshaveto go. People think it’s weird, and I’m already weird enough. I don’t need any help.”

The purple hair, the video games, the overall Olympic-level of geekiness that is me. And the fact that I’m a witch, too. I’m one big ball of weird. Hell, I’ll be lucky to find one person willing to live with me, let alone two.

I reach for another photo, and a pulse of magic tingles across my skin. The pictures in front of me slide and jostle, baring a clear area of antique flocked wallpaper until I can clearly see the design for the first time in my life: filigreed burgundy velvet flowers on cream. The framed photos settle into new positions that spell out the word:“No.”

Shock shivers through me, and I whisper, “Grandma? Is that you? Did you…” I swallow. “Did you not cross over?”

Now that magic’s returned to Earth, my small town has pixies serving pizza, walking tulips, and dragons flying through the sky. Is a ghost such a stretch? And my grandmother was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. If I’m going to be haunted, I’d pick her any day.

The pictures slide again.“No,me. The house.”Another flurry of motion.“Victoria.”

“Victoria? But…” I sputter to a stop. But what? My palm catches against the wall as I sway forward. Magic surges within my chest and pours down my arm to sink into the house, which shivers around me. A feeling of joy suffuses the air, and the sound of opening and closing kitchen-cabinet doors echoes down the hallway like applause.

“Oh, god. It’s been me all along,” I whisper. “The walking tulips, the rolling pumpkins, the flying paper hearts—all of it me.” I really am a witch, and my power makes things come alive, or more alive, like the tulips, who pull their little root feet from their flower beds each morning and race around the town green, as playful and curious as puppies.

Wonder and awe fill me.

“Yes,”Victoria spells out.“You woke me.”

Living here for the past year, pouring my magic into the house day after day…

“Hello, old friend.” My fingertips bump over the raised velvet of one of the flowers. Then and there, I decide the wallpaper stays, no matter what anyone thinks. But the pictures… “Can we talk about the photos? They’re kinda a bit much, and I’m trying to update things so other people will want to live here. You liked what I did with the kitchen, right?”

Sometime in the 1980s, the kitchen got refurbished to look stark and “modern,” losing all its Victorian charm. I refinished all the old cupboards and painted them a rich cream, with the island done in the same burgundy as this wallpaper, and replaced all the fixtures with antique brass.

More applause sounds come from the kitchen, but when the pictures move, they spell out:“Photos stay.”

“Why?” I gesture down the hallway. “All of these people are strangers. They got married here, and maybe some of them spent their wedding nights, but they’re still strangers.”

“Not to me.”Wistfulness tinges the air.

“I didn’t realize.” How long has the house been aware? Victoria spent almost a century as a wedding chapel and bed-and-breakfast, run first by my great-grandparents and then my grandparents. When I stayed here during the summers, there were at least two or three weddings each week. That’s a shit ton of weddings.

My phone chimes, warning that I only have five minutes until my potential new roommate arrives to take a look at the place.

“Okay, so… you know I love you.”

A feeling of smugness surrounds me.“Yes.”

“But I can’t afford you—not on my own.” I wince. It’s hard to admit that, even to a house. I love the thought of being independent and able to take care of myself. But a massive Victorian that needs work iswaymore than I can swing on my own. Last winter’s heating bill was one helluva shocker. I make decent money as a freelance video game designer, but not as much as I would if I’d stayed at one of the big gaming companies in Seattle. “I have to find a roommate, hopefully two. So please put the pictures back and don’t move anything while they’re here, okay?”

“Everyone will love me.”

“No, they’ll think you’re haunted.” I give the wall one last pat. “And they won’t get the chance to fall in love with you if you scare them away.”

Sulkiness weighs down the air, but the photos spell out“Fine”before sliding back into their original positions.