Chapter Six
The afternoon sun hung low over the mountains, brilliant against a sapphire sky.
The air carried that familiar mountain sharpness: crisp, clean, and edged with a cold that bit through Casey’s jacket.
Main Street shimmered under the light, its storefronts alive with the spirit of October.
The bakeries and boutiques flaunted windows crowded with pumpkins, paper ghosts, and dangling black cat cut outs.
The butcher’s shop had a grinning skeleton in an apron, bony fingers clutching a cleaver still gleaming with something dark and slick.
In the bookstore window, a stack of mystery novels sat beneath a string of flickering orange lights and a sign that read Haunted Reads for Long Nights, its painted letters appearing to bleed down the glass.
On the street corners, planters overflowed with mums in shades of rust and gold.
Casey hurried past the crowds, her boots tapping against the sidewalk, the wind tangling through her hair, cheeks flushed from the cold.
She passed a boutique with a half-Halloween, half-Thanksgiving display—pumpkins on one side, pilgrims and turkeys on the other—before slowing near a narrow storefront wedged between a coffeehouse and an antique shop.
The hand-painted sign above the door read Black Moon Hollow, its silver letters curling like mist. The display window shimmered with crystal balls, tarot decks, and jars of herbs that seemed to darken at the edges when the light struck them.
The bell chimed as Casey stepped in. Warmth enveloped her, along with a sweet, earthy aroma from a burning incense stick near the counter.
Crystal spheres caught glints of sunlight that slipped through the window, scattering shards of color across the shelves.
For a moment, she stood still, drawing in the heavy, fragrant air as the door closed behind her.
A movement near the back made Casey glance up.
From behind a beaded curtain, Curtis Brixton emerged, tall and composed as ever.
He wore his usual all-black ensemble: buttoned shirt, pressed slacks, the faint shimmer of a dark vest that caught the light without softening him.
Even in the warm glow of the shop, he seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
“Afternoon, Casey,” he said, voice low and even, as if every word had been measured before it left his mouth.
“Hi, Curtis.” Casey tried to sound casual, brushing strands of hair from her face. “It’s really cold outside.”
He nodded once, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and stepped behind the counter.
He adjusted a stack of tarot decks, straightened a crystal ball by a fraction of an inch, and lit another stick of incense without looking at her.
The new smoke joined the old in a slow, serpentine dance toward the ceiling.
Every time Casey encountered Curtis, it always amazed her how different Raven and her husband were.
Raven was warm, vibrant, endlessly talkative, and a bit of a drama queen, which fit since she was an actor.
They had so much fun at the after-play parties or hanging out at Casey’s office talking about everyone and everything.
Once, when Casey had mention how dissimilar Raven was from Curtis, she joked and said, “Curtis belongs to the night.” Casey had thought it was a playful nod to his wardrobe and his shop’s occult aesthetic, but the longer she’d known them, the less it seemed like an act.
The strange thing was that Casey had never seen Curtis smile.
Not once. Not even at Raven’s opening nights or the after-parties where everyone else was flushed with laughter and cheap champagne.
He had a kind of detached seriousness that could freeze a conversation mid-sentence.
There was something about him—dark, restrained, and faintly sinister—that she could never quite name.
When she’d first met him, she’d assumed it was theater, a persona crafted for the customers who came in looking for mystery. But over time, she’d realized there was no performance in it. Curtis Brixton was exactly what he seemed to be… and that was what made him unsettling.
Now, as he turned his pale eyes toward her, he didn’t smile.
“Looking for something in particular today, Casey?” he asked.
She hesitated, the warmth of the room pressing in on her like a heavy cloak. “I came in for a book Raven said you were holding for me. The one about haunted historical places in Colorado.”
Curtis paused, the faintest flicker crossing his otherwise unreadable face. “Oh, yes,” he said after a moment, his tone flat, almost reverent. “Ghosts of the High Country. She mentioned it.”
He turned toward the back shelves, moving with that same careful precision, every motion deliberate.
The faint sound of bells chimed somewhere deeper in the shop, too far away to be the door.
The incense smoke thickened near the ceiling, curling around the hanging charms and glass prisms that caught the dim light.
She rubbed her arms against the chill that had somehow seeped into her despite the warmth.
When Curtis returned, he set the book on the counter, saying, “Raven said you’d find this interesting. She’s got quite an affection for stories about the dead.”
Casey gave a small laugh, trying to break the strange gravity in his voice. “Yeah, she mentioned you two took a drive out to Silver Plume last month. She said you toured the old hotel there?”
“Yes.” His eyes lifted to hers, muddy, unblinking, with a calm so still it felt unnatural. “It’s a place that remembers things. Some of them not fondly.”
The words hung between them. Casey’s fingers tightened around the book’s cover. She wasn’t sure if he meant it as a joke.
“Right,” she said, forcing a light tone. “I’m looking forward to spending the night with the stories.” A nervous chuckle spilled from her lips.
Curtis didn’t answer. He slipped the book into a paper bag with the same care he might handle a relic. Then he looked up and held her gaze. “Raven will be glad you stopped in … she worries about you.”
That caught her off guard. What the hell is this weirdo talking about?
Casey blinked. “Raven’s worried about me? She’s never said anything to me.”
“Of course, she wouldn’t.”
For a long minute they stood staring at each other. Then Curtis nodded once. “About you being alone,” he said, voice low. “With everything that’s been happening.”
The words landed like a cold drop down her spine.
She knew exactly what he meant. Hell, anyone in town would have known.
The news hadn’t let anyone forget the murders that had haunted the town in the past few weeks.
Two women, all dark-haired, all local. Theories bloomed like weeds on every street corner, whispered between friends in the bakery line, murmured at stoplights and dinner tables.
Casey had tried not to let it get to her, but sometimes the stillness of her townhouse at night made her skin crawl.
“She’s sweet to think of me,” she said, trying to keep her tone even.
“She cares deeply,” Curtis said, studying her in that detached way of his, his brown eyes steady, unreadable. “She said you reminded her of one of the actresses she used to work with, the same sharp cheekbones… and that beautiful dark hair.”
Casey felt the back of her neck prickle.
Curtis slid the bagged book across the counter, his pale fingers brushing the paper. “Be careful, Casey,” he whispered. “Some people are drawn to what’s dark and striking. They can’t help themselves.”
For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the heater and the faint hiss of incense burning itself out.
“Okay, then…,” she murmured, clutching the bag. “Thanks for holding this for me. I’ll see you around.”
He gave the smallest nod, but his eyes didn’t leave her until she opened the door.
The bell chimed faintly as a rush of mountain air swept in, scattering the incense smoke and carrying a flurry of leaves across the floor.
She stepped out into the bright, cold afternoon and drew a deep breath.
What does Raven see in him? He’s so damn odd.
Casey pulled the door shut behind her, and started down Main Street toward her office, her encounter with Curtis still clung to her, gnawing at her nerves with a cold, quiet dread she couldn’t shake.
The low rumble of a motorcycle reverberated off the brick walls of the storefronts, blending into the hum of the street. The sound gripped her before she even saw him, the vibration running straight through her chest. Her pulse jumped, confusion giving way to something sharper, warmer.
Even before she spotted him, she knew who it was—Chase.
She recognized the easy command of the handlebars, the tilt of his head, the unhurried confidence that made him seem fused to the machine as he glided past the storefronts.
When he came fully into view, sunlight flashed off the chrome and the light brown sweep of his hair, and for a heartbeat, everything else faded.
Excitement surged through her before she could stop it.
Don’t stare. Keep walking. So, it’s him.
Big deal. But her eyes refused to listen, staying locked on him.
He was all power and ease, a man who carried danger the way others carried charm, and damn it all, it looked good on him.
She chewed her bottom lip. He’s so good-looking.
The sharp cut of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, the way his hands moved on the handlebars with casual command all sent a flicker of heat through her.
Her mind pulled up the image of Clara, and how he was with her, his softened expression, the affection in his eyes. It had been real. There was warmth in him somewhere, buried beneath the roughness. And that makes him even more dangerous.