book i just sent to first readers (Gingerbread):
The House itself was a goth version of Baba Yaga’s hut, a nightmare on stilts and claws, perched on the side of this hill where I was sure nothing ever really grew, not to blooming, anyway, everything half dead and brittle. Even on Arwen’s death-day, in the middle of summer in this place that never stayed all that hot, the grass had been brown, almost burnt. In the movies vampires hated the sun unless they had magic rings or could hide in the shadows or under blankets. Finding shadows deep enough to disappear in was difficult here, unless you liked them thin and spindly. I wasn’t even sure the trees we’d walked through had ever sported more than a handful, more than a straggle of leaves. Around us the wind was like wolves, howling. I pushed my toque down over my forehead with my forearm. A step, something brittle cracked underfoot.
I looked up. The house’s winged protectors looked down at us, their stone beaks holding pools dank, rotten mulch. Dirty icicles, the grey of fire smoke, hung from their violent mouths.
book i decided to pick up again (Ellis)
Ellis didn’t always live in the Seventh Tip. Once she lived dead-middle, in Ferrule, a place of rats and cats and hammered tin. She lived in a house with a pointed roof where the floorboards creaked and water dripped from unseen spigots and gargoyles, long blinded by the wind, perched carefully on each of its four corners.
I am nothing if not dependable :D