Astoria Greengrass House Novels & Stories

I and Astor both had offered to carry it for her, but she declined. Soon enough, Astor took us through a gate that looked rusted and overgrown but opened quite easily. Iris and I looked through to the street outside, and it seemed strangely odd how normal everything looked in the midday sun. Astor turned to us and nodded. “Good luck, Luna, Apothecary.” Iris touched his shoulder. “Be sure to mention my name if Elroy becomes too angry with you. You are helping his household, whether he realizes it or not.”

She stopped washing the dishes and looked at me, her face going totally pale. "Where is his house located, Ivory?" she asked, her voice tight. "Gravels Street," I replied. She literally deadpanned, her eyes widening in a way that made my skin crawl. "Isn't that the giant, one and only mansion with the deep woods right behind it? The one where the trees practically swallow the fence?" "Yes, ma. It is a big estate. Why?" "What? Really? Ivory, do you really have to go?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

His face was star-struck, and she offered him a kind smile before coming down from the cab, shutting the door gently. Her father's mansion had always been a hot topic among the people. The soft yellow and vibrant orange of approaching twilight bathed the Greek Renaissance hilltop in light. Nestled in the pricey Rosedale neighbourhood of Downtown Toronto, it was among the most expensive pieces of real estate in the city, probably in the country. The Rochester estate. Aurora gently shut the front door to their house, eyes scanning the empty area. When she was assured that it was safe, she darted towards the stairs,

We are alone, racing through Manhattan traffic with an unconscious mother and a clock that never stops ticking. Astoria Extended Care is a brick block of a building with bars on the first-floor windows. It lacks the glass and marble of Hunt Medical, smelling instead of floor wax and old radiators. The intake coordinator reviews our paperwork with the weary eyes of someone who has heard every sob story in the borough. "Deposit is three thousand dollars," she says. "Monthly rate is eight thousand. First month due on arrival." "We have twenty-four hundred," I say, showing her the screen. It feels like opening a vein.

“I don't want to stress you guys more than I already have. Keeping to rehearsal schedules and the last-minute inspections that you girls did on my behalf is more than I can ask for.” “Anything for you, girl. You know we love you.” “Nice location,” I say as we enter the street leading to the house. “The Upper West Side is everyone’s dream location,” Brittney responds as we alight from the car. “I forgot the key,” I say, opening the car to get it out. “Girl, Jordan has eyes for good things." Brittney says, taking a look at other houses as we approach the building. “The outside view alone is breathtaking, and to top it up, it's organic architecture, just how I like it.” I flush as I open the ga

A few months had gone by. Asteria had almost fully recovered, except for her left hand. It had been fractured when the silver wolf clashed its claw against her unarmored hand. Thus, the recovery would take longer. Asteria absentmindedly looked out in the window at the green scenery outside. Asher's mansion was bigger than other nobles. From the outside, its structure which was completely made of wood would make one mistaken it for ordinary residence. But Asteria knew better that there was nothing ordinary here; the rooms were spacious, luxurious furniture and expensive-looking decorations scattered everywhere.

I said his name out loud, because I needed to hear it in the air to know it was real. "Atlas Marchetti." I turned the key. I drove forty blocks south. Fifth Avenue blurred past me. A taxi cut across me at 50th. A bus stopped at 47th. A man on the corner of 38th sold roses from a bucket, three for ten dollars, and he was the only person on the street who looked like he was in his right life that night. The building was on Greenwich Street, three blocks east of the river. Pre-war cast iron. Six floors. Dark windows except for one on the top floor.

POV: Claire Desmond The white Volkswagen Golf slowed to a crawl, its tires crunching over loose gravel before coming to a smooth, silent halt. The engine died with a final, metallic sigh, leaving us submerged in a pool of thick, suburban silence. 2:40 AM. The digital clock on the dashboard glowed with a faint, clinical green. Outside, the world was a graveyard of shadows. This corner of Astoria didn't have the manicured, oppressive quiet of Greenwich Village; it had the heavy, stagnant stillness of a neighborhood that had simply run out of energy.

- Calla The old Greystone Estate was just as I remembered it: silent, neglected, and surrounded by a thick, protective wall of pine and brush. The small cabin was dusty and smelled faintly of mouse droppings and aged wood, but it was mine. No guards, no Marla, and no scent of Alpha Lucien Thorne. Just freedom, purchased with a ruthless transfer of money and a clean break from a destiny I refused to accept.