“You’re full of shit.”
The nearby candlelight revealed the sizzle of fire in Clarissa’s eyes. She released the shovel and it clattered to the stone pavers. “Griffin—”
“No, he’s right. But according to Nettie, you’re all liars.” Shoving at her trailing sleeves, Jemma stepped forward. Her hurt, accusing stare sliced between him, Clarissa and Logan. “Why didn’t you tell me I’m her granddaughter?”
It took Griffin several seconds to realize she was referring to Nettie. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re not—”
“Yes, she is.” Clarissa followed up her bombshell announcement with a resigned sigh.
Feeling like he’d been poleaxed, Griffin staggered backward. “What?”
Clarissa rubbed her forehead, her shoulders slumping. “Lillian was…involved…with Philippe Delacroix, Antoinette’s eldest son. She never wanted Rose to know he’d fathered Jemma, so she swore her coven sisters to secrecy.”
Griffin’s fists clenched. “Obviously they didn’t do a damn good job of keeping the secret if Nettie knows who Jemma is.”
A snort bulleted from Logan. “A secret in a house full of women? It’s a miracle the story didn’t end up on the front page of the National Enquirer.” He rubbed his goatee. “Come to think of it, was that rag even around back then? Might explain the lapse.”
Clarissa speared the werewolf with one of her patented ball-shriveling glares. “You are really not helping here.” She shifted her gaze back to Griffin. “I suspect before this afternoon, Nettie didn’t know for certain that Jemma’s her granddaughter. More than likely that’s the real reason she showed up earlier, to get close enough to check out Jemma. It’s likely the zombie attack on you and Logan was merely a decoy.”
Logan grunted. “Sure felt realistic. That big dead fucker who got the drop on Catman? Pretty damn certain he was looking to neuter me.” Grimacing, he cupped his balls.
“Nettie asked me to join her zombie uprising.” Jemma’s pronouncement managed to draw everyone’s attention away from Logan’s groin. She swallowed under the heat of their stares and fidgeted with her sash. “I said no, of course, but she tried to convince me to drink some weird liquid. It’s over there on the…” Her voice trailed off while they all gazed at the bench she was pointing at. Blinking, she stepped closer to the wall, her scrutiny darting between each of the equally vacant benches. “Where did everything go?”
“Back with Nettie, undoubtedly.” Clarissa waved a hand, apparently unconcerned with the logistics. “I’m willing to bet the liquid was a soul catcher. Thank the goddess you didn’t drink it.”
Her eyes widening, Jemma rubbed her arms. “Do I even want to know what a soul catcher is?”
“No. You don’t.” Clarissa nudged the zombie’s head aside with the toe of her combat boot before joining Jemma. “You must resist Nettie at all costs. If you don’t…”
“I know. Zombie uprising. Trust me, I’ve been paying attention.”
The brief flicker of sadness that washed over Clarissa’s face while Jemma had her head lowered sent a twinge of apprehension shooting through Griffin. Clarissa was hiding something. And he had a sick feeling in the pit of his gut that whatever it was boded nothing but trouble for Jemma.
Chapter Eleven
Jemma awoke to a killer headache and a taunting beam of sunlight that seemed bound and determined to strike her blind. Groaning, she flung an arm across her head and rolled over. Well, the good news was Clarissa’s enchantment spell breaker apparently worked—she hadn’t indulged in any more naked trips to the garden—but the downside was a killer hangover-like side effect.
She groped around with her free hand, fully expecting to encounter Griff’s solid warmth. Instead she bumped into a stack of clothing. Lowering her arm, she blinked at the small mountain of shorts, capri pants and tops. There were also several flirty little sundresses and a whole collection of lingerie. She fingered the gossamer-fine texture of the peach silk bra resting on top of the pile. “Clarissa’s certainly been a busy little conjurer.”
Thrilled at the opportunity to wear something other than her jeans and Griff’s old T-shirt, she jumped out of bed. Her aching head immediately protested. Wincing, she massaged her temples until the evil gremlin pick-axing her skull let up. She shimmied into the bra and panties, keeping her motions to a minimum to avoid another explosion inside her head. Once she was decently attired in tan shorts and a navy tank top, she ventured downstairs. The rich aroma of coffee and bacon drifted down the hall. Her stomach didn’t know whether to rejoice or revolt. Thankfully it compromised with a loud growl.
“Sounds like someone needs to be fed.”
She gave a startled jerk and whipped around in Logan’s direction. Pain erupted behind her eyeballs. “Damn it, why do I keep doing that?” Croaking, she clamped her palms on either side of her skull.
“Mistress Clarissa’s spell breakers are a bitch. Come on, sugar, we’ll get ya fixed up.” Slinging an arm around her waist, he escorted her to the kitchen. Gloria glanced up from the enormous bowl she was cracking eggs into, and Logan jutted his chin toward Jemma. “Think you can concoct one of your potions for our girl here?”
Jemma held up a hand when Gloria bustled toward the enormous stainless-steel fridge. “Please don’t. You’re busy enough.”
A pftt noise blew between the spacious gap in Gloria’s front teeth. “This is nothing. Breakfast is usually twice this work when Jade’s home. She may be a tiny squirt, but she eats like a damn hippo with tapeworms.”
Jemma’s stomach made another rebellious roll at that unappetizing visual. Logan—apparently taking pity on her—squeezed her shoulder and led her to the enormous white-washed pine farm table situated beneath a chandelier that was fashioned to resemble a giant broomstick. He caught her gaping at the light fixture and chuckled. “Your grandma Rose had an interestin’ sense of humor.”
She perched on one of the ladder-backed chairs and traced the intricate cutwork design on the placemat with her fingernail. “I wish I’d known her.” Strangely enough, she meant it. Despite being clueless of the woman’s existence before yesterday—Dear God, had it only been a day?—she couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like being raised in such an eccentric household.
The thought immediately stoked an ember of guilt. Her parents had given her a perfect childhood. One filled with love and laughter and the kind of memories she’d cherish always. She wouldn’t give them up for anything.
Only she might have to. The realization constricted her throat and made her chest tighten. She choked on a sob.
“Ah, sugar, no.” Logan dropped onto the seat beside hers and brushed her tears away with his thumb. “My heart can’t take a woman cryin’.”
She sucked in a sniffle that was far from dainty. Unfortunately she wasn’t one of those women who managed to cry prettily without smudging their eye makeup or looking like a swollen-faced Pillsbury Doughgirl by the time she was finished. “S-sorry. I just hate that I didn’t get to see my parents before I left. Knowing that it might have been the last…” Her voice wobbled and a fresh crop of tears threatened to burst free of their dam.
“Shhh. You’ll see them again. Just think of the happy tears you’ll share then.” Logan tucked her hair away from her face, his golden eyes soft and compelling. Holding her gaze, he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly. Unlike their kiss in the parlor, this one promised nothing but comfort. Her breath escaped in a long shudder, and Logan caressed her nape before breaking the kiss. He coaxed her to rest her head beneath the crook of his chin, and her cheek pillowed against the solidness of his collarbone. The shrill grind of a blender dragged her focus back toward the activity commencing in the kitchen, and she noticed Griff standing in the entry, his unblinking stare riveted on her and Logan, his entire body rigid.