Iron (The Warding Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

remember. (Was goth even a thing anymore? Was I aging myself even more by saying that?) Those darling quips had fallen flat years ago—probably right around the time I became an awkward teen who realized there was no growth spurt in sight and I that I was getting no curves to speak of—but it was hard to deny, however bad the pun. Aside from having inherited his fair Irish complexion and the inherent inability to tan, I looked nothing like him. Or my mom. Or my curvy, spitting image of mom and dad could-do-no-wrong little sister, Emma.
    There was that dark side again. Good going brain. I splashed my face with another round of cold water, ignoring the sting in my eyes. I could chalk those dark, depressing emotions and the tears they summoned up to the booze I had pounded back all evening, but I wasn’t fooling anyone. Especially myself. I pulled a face at myself in the mirror as I clicked the light off. I stuffed my feet in the worn, plush froggy slippers I kept by the linen closet—the hardwood of the living/dining room was unbearably cold in the morning—and shuffled into the living room. I reached up for the pull-cord of the floor lamp behind my couch and froze as my poor, abused brain wracked itself to make sense of the scene in front of me.
    My couch was not empty. Nor, a quick glance determined, was the battered old recliner under my window. And hell, why not add the dude standing in front of my fireplace to the tally? My eyes bounced back and forth between the three strangers like a ping-pong ball, my mind refusing to catch up. It took a moment before I recognized the girl in the chair and the guy leaning against my mantle as Mr. Hottie and jailbait; the couple I had seen earlier at Gilroy’s.
    Right before they disappeared mysteriously.
    And I was attacked by Goliath the monster.
    Lovely.
    The woman on the couch was the only one I didn’t recognize. She was middle aged; gentle and motherly looking in her violet cardigan and dark blue jeans. As she peered up at me, her heart-shaped face framed by waves of rich brown hair that matched her big, doe eyes, an unexpected calm filled me. I lowered my hand from the lamp cord, leaving the light on. Of course, the urge to run for the phone, screaming bloody murder crossed my mind but—somehow—it didn’t seem to be the appropriate course of action. Maybe it was the desire to find the missing puzzle piece of how I had gotten home from the bar that overrode my fight-or-flight instinct. Maybe it was that not one of them had moved or spoken, and that all three looked just as uncomfortable as I thought I should feel. Or maybe I was still half-convinced my brain had sprung a gasket and I was hallucinating. Again.
    Whatever the reason, instead of losing my shit I calmly gripped the back of the couch to steady myself and said a prayer of thanks that I hadn’t stripped down to my panties before coming out of the bedroom. (Score one for skanky laziness.) I looked at them each in turn once more and cleared my throat. “So. Someone want to catch me up on what’s going on here?”
    Maybe if the situation had been just a little less weird I would have found the baffled looks the three of them exchanged comical. I understood their surprise. Really, I did. No one in their right mind would expect a single gal not to freak out if she awoke from a nap to find a trio of strangers in her living room. Of course, I don’t know if anyone in their right mind would put themselves to be in the position of being said strangers either. I mean, what if I had been some gun toting right-wing nutbag? Riverview wasn’t a rough city, per say, but there was a high enough crime rate that the idea had crossed my mind once or twice.
    Finally, it seemed that the burden of answering me fell upon the older of the two women. She twisted around on the couch, once again looking up at me. Her smile was hesitant as she said, “Please, do not be frightened.” Her voice was low and soft, like verbal velvet.