Fake It ‘Til You Mate It (Murder in Moonburrow #1)

Prologue

Mother died. Again.

But she got better, and I’m glad.

Who else will take care of gus?

— gus

If I had a nickel for every time I played possum and ended up in the morgue, I’d be fifteen cents richer, which might not seem like much, but really? After the second time I scared the shit out of the morgue technician, you’d think they might recognize me before popping me in the morgue drawer.

The way I’m surrounded by steel, refrigerated air pumping in from who-knows-where, my nose numb and my ass just about frozen solid tells me: yeah, not so much.

I’m on my back, arms trapped at my sides.

It’s dark, though one of the perks of being any sort of shifter is amazing night vision.

I know exactly where I am, and even if this isn’t the third time this has happened to me since I’ve lived in Glenville, the sterile air with notes of industrial cleaner make it obvious.

At least there is some air. Most of these drawers are airtight in case of real dead bodies—even humans can’t mistake the truly nasty stink that comes with decomp—and if I’d stayed ‘dead’ much longer, that state could become way more permanent than I’d like.

There’s still some oxygen, so that’s a plus, especially since I don’t plan on staying in here until that happens.

It’s fucking cold in the morgue drawer. If it wasn’t for my inner beast—and my built-in fur coat—I might’ve lost a finger or two already.

Last time, I woke up in the body bag before they moved me.

The previous ME nearly had a coronary when I cleared my throat and asked them to unzip me which might explain what happened today.

He was new, too. After the first whoopsie, the long-time medical examiner shrugged off her lab coat and decided to retire to Hawaii.

If my second resurrection affected her successor the same way, I’m probably going to have to figure out how to explain this to the latest hire.

Right. Because in a world where supernaturals—or supes—are a closely guarded secret unless you live in a Fang City or belong to either a sanctuary or a pack town, I can just tell the poor unsuspected mortals that I’m an opossum shifter with a hint of witch on my mother’s side, and I have a tendency to ‘play dead’ when startled.

It’s only playing, though. You’d think an ME would know the difference between a woman in a catatonic-state and one who was, you know, dead dead.

The freezing cold morgue drawer tells me: nah.

I wiggle my big toe, squinting down the length of my prone body.

Yup. My shoes are gone, and there’s a tag on it.

Don’t slam your head against the steel drawer, Honey, I tell myself, since I don’t want to knock out again.

It was bad enough that I heard a car backfire when I was crossing over Main and Third, heading to get a croissant sandwich from the deli a block from the grocery store where I work as a cashier.

I’ve managed to keep my supe status under wraps since I moved to the human town after graduating high school more than a decade ago.

Rare as we are compared to the predators, prey shifters have always been at the bottom of the food chain.

At least, living among humans, I didn’t have to deal with shifter politics.

That’s the plus. The downside? Is that, when a car backfires and my opossum instincts take over, I drop and, whoops, now I’m in the morgue.

Again.

Thankfully, I’m still dressed. The first time I dropped in front of a crowd of humans, the EMTs pronounced me dead on scene before shipping me off to the local morgue.

The medical examiner didn’t even wait until my family was informed of my ‘heart attack’ before she stripped me down, putting me on ice until she could autopsy me.

That was fun. I’d kicked my way out of the drawer, wrapping the sheet they covered me with around my body, asking meekly for my clothes while Dr. Hamm gaped at me, struggling to accept what she was seeing.

No shoes this go-round, but I’m not naked, so that’s one thing in my favor.

If luck’s really on my side, it’s lunchtime for the medical examiner’s office and I can sneak out before anyone sees me.

Claws crossed.

Scooting down a little, I brace my arms against the cold steel and rear my knees up as high as I can, then kick. Opossums don’t have the impressive shifter strength like bears or wolves do, but I’m still powerful enough to snap the drawer open on my second try.

The drawer crashes open, the force of my kick sending it yanking outward with a squeaky squeal.

I pop my upper half up, grabbing the sides of the drawer, ready to push the rest of me out.

A startled gasp has my head swiveling to my right.

Crud.

I don’t know if she’s the new medical examiner or a morgue attendant.

Based on her youthful face, low ponytail, and the look of horror she’s currently wearing, I’m thinking attendant.

She had a tray of tools in her hand that clank against the tile as she drops them before lifting her hand, pointing a shaky finger at me.

I wave.

Her eyes widen.

“You’re…”

A natural blonde with equally natural violet eyes that tip off my supernatural side?

“You’re…”

An opossum shifter who is beginning to think she should just go furry and flee?

“You’re…”

Not dead?

“Alive.”

Yup. Should’ve known it was that last one.

I shrug impishly. “Sorry.”

I have too much color in my cheeks to be a zombie, I guess.

Either that or the poor attendant never expected the undead to apologize.

Her eyes roll back in her head, her body collapsing in on itself before she ends up in a puddle on the floor, as unconscious as I was after the car backfired right behind me.

That’s my cue.

Forget the shoes. I have no idea where my phone is, and I’m only hoping that my driver’s license and debit card are still in my back pocket instead of in a bag set aside for my next of kin—

Ah, hell. Mom. The first time, I got lucky.

Dad answered the phone and, a full-blooded opossum shifter himself, he knew not to be worried when he got the call that I had ‘died’.

Mom’s half opossum, half witch. She understands how sometimes our inner animal takes over, but she’d lectured me the second time on how dangerous it was to get caught out.

Humans… it’s better if they don’t know that supernaturals exist all around them.

Plenty of prey shifters can live a normal life among their human neighbors. Raccoons, rabbits, rats… no problem. But us opossums? If she finds out that I got picked up again, I’ll never hear the end of it.

She wants me to return home. To Virginia, where most of our clan has a tendency to stick around. She wants me to find a nice male to settle down with, whether he’s my fated mate or not, and start popping out some opossum babies. And, no, Gus doesn’t count according to my mother…

Pass.

So maybe I don’t really know what I want to do with my life.

I’ve been drifting along, taking whatever jobs I can find, determined not to return home until I’ve become someone to be proud of.

Most prey shifters choose their mates instead of waiting for ‘the one’, but while I’m open to finding love, I’m not exactly looking.

Not yet. I’m happy living in my studio apartment with the perfect roommate, and…

I don’t know. It’s possible the lack of oxygen in the drawer did get to me, but I’m beginning to think Mom has a point.

A tiny one.

Like, maybe it’s time I give up trying to live as a human. I’m not a human. Not really. I’m a supe. I’m an opossum shifter.

And if I don’t get out of here real soon, I have a lot of explaining to do.

I stop to make sure that the poor attendant is as comfortable as I can make her, and that she didn’t faint on top of any of those sharp instruments she was carrying. Then, bending down, I slip the toe tag off, reading it. H. Morgan with the accurate date of birth. Great. They know who I am.

Peachy.

I slip the tag in my back pocket, muttering a soft curse when I pat them both, realizing they’re empty. Just like I thought. Everything I was walking around with when I dropped must be in a bag somewhere.

I don’t shift. It’s bad enough that they’ll have to explain a missing body. If I go furry and leave pieces of clothing all over the morgue, that will lead to even more questions.

They have my ID. The human police will show up at my apartment, and while I explained away my first two trips to the morgue as a result of a severe narcoleptic disorder, I don’t think they’ll buy it for a third time.

Honestly? I’m still not sure how I got away with it the first time.

Ah, well. Time to go, Honey. I spare a quick search around the pristine surroundings for my belongings, then decide it doesn’t matter. Clock’s ticking. I should probably hightail out of the morgue.

As I tiptoe toward the door, peeking through the small window, slipping out in my bare feet once I’m sure it’s clear, I can’t help but think I should probably think about leaving Glenville behind, too.