Chapter 2 #2
Whiskers doesn't need to be told twice. He slithers down my arm with the grace of liquid mischief and disappears beneath the rows of folding chairs, a white streak darting between ankles and purses.
Jasper lounges back in his seat, legs splayed wide, somehow managing to look both vigilant and deeply bored. “This should be interesting.” He nods to the seething line of townsfolk already queuing up for the Q&A.
The questions are what you’d expect—unproductive, desperate, a little unhinged.
If it’s not the bake shop complaining about lost revenue, it's the innkeepers and hosts of Airbnb rentals fretting over cancellations, or parents demanding to know if their children are going to be safe while trick-or-treating.
The Mayor deflects with the skill of a seasoned politician, her answers circular and soothing in that maddening way that says everything and nothing at all.
A half hour later, the crowd has thinned, and the moon is hanging low outside the theater.
Whiskers finally reappears, scrambling up my leg with the urgency of someone who's stumbled onto something juicy.
He reaches my shoulder, his teeny body vibrating with excitement and whispers, "You're not going to believe what I just heard."
Jasper leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Could you two possibly wait until we're out of here before sharing state secrets?" His voice is low, but the scolding in his eyes is unmistakable.
I shoot him a look that could wilt flowers. "Since when do you care about propriety?"
"Since my wife started using her familiar as a spy." His mouth quirks up at one corner betraying his feigned anger.
Fair enough.
But in my defense, this is the first time someone has been murdered in Pennigton Falls since I was still wearing pigtails and light up sneakers. And furthermore, I’m allowed to be nosy when people are dying and there is a potential serial killer running loose in the town I live in.
Whiskers scurries back into the safety of my purse, and the three slip out through the back exit just as Mayor Bishop wraps up with a final plea for community vigilance and cooperation.
The streets of Pennington Falls are empty, just flickering jack-o'-lanterns and the distant glimmer of the gothic clock tower, now stuck at three minutes to midnight.
I wait until we're safely in the cab of the truck, before I yoink Whiskers out of the handbag in my lap and fix him with an expectant stare. "Okay, spill."
Whiskers leaps from my grip onto the dash, his chest puffed out. "First of all, you're welcome. Second, I deserve hazard pay. Do you have any idea how many boots almost crushed me back there?"
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “And thank you.” I offer him one of his favorite treats as payment.
"Not only did the Sheriff and Vice Mayor say they have zero leads," Whiskers announces, gnawing the treat as he talks, “but get this.
Apparently, every crime scene has been clean.
Like, freakishly clean. No fingerprints, no stray hairs, nothing.
Just bodies with gaping holes where their tickers used to be. "
“Wait a second. Their hearts were removed?” I ask, feeling my own heart thump in discomfort.
"Yup," Whiskers says, his whiskers twitching with satisfaction.
"Yanked right out—clean as a whistle. The Sheriff thinks it's someone using tools, but the Vice Mayor basically said it had to be supernatural.
He said, and I quote, “Nobody's that neat, not even my ex-wife with a chemistry degree.” If Whiskers had hands, he’d be making air quotes right now.
Jasper's fingers tap a slow rhythm against the steering wheel as he peers through the windshield, his gaze lost somewhere in the swirling fog. The corner of his mouth pulls downward in that way it always does when his mind is working overtime. “So, either we’ve got a surgical maniac, or someone with supernatural abilities.”
My stomach turns as the pieces click together. "No wonder they're keeping the gory details under wraps."
"They’re probably hoping that the less they say, the less people will panic," Jasper mutters, not taking his eyes off the dark road. "Classic small-town management: pretend nothing’s wrong until the monster’s in your living room, then close ranks and blame the weather."
Whiskers nods, the tip of his pink nose wrinkling. “To be fair, it usually is the weather.”
He’s not wrong.
The rest of the drive passes in a quiet scrape of thoughts, the kind that settle between your ribs and set up shop for the long haul.
As we crest the hill that leads to our farm, the sight of our mansion all lit up and surrounded by its playful army of glowing pumpkins feels both comforting and, for the first time, slightly menacing.
“I need to reinforce the wards around the house,” I say, my voice a little shakier than intended.
We park at the edge of the patch, the headlights cut through the evening mist, casting long shadows behind a row of scarecrows whose burlap faces seem to watch us with hollow eyes. Jasper scans the perimeter, his werewolf senses on high alert.
“You go ahead inside,” he says. “I’ll check the barn and do a quick sweep of the grounds. Make sure nothing’s out of place.”
I nod and hustle toward the porch, Whiskers riding shotgun in my arms. Inside, the house feels warm and alive, but I don’t let it lull me.
I head straight for the parlor, where my altar stands.
It’s a messy cluster of dried herbs, crystals, and a dozen half-melted candles.
I light three of the biggest, then set about reinforcing the ward around the house, tracing protective sigils on the windows and doors with chalk and whispering the old family words under my breath.
When Jasper returns, he smells of hay and cold air. His face gives nothing away, but the slight relaxation in his shoulders tells me the property is clear.
He stands by the parlor door, watching as I complete the last sigil. “All done?” he asks.
I finish the chalk line and wipe the dust off my palms, exhaling a little. “For now.” The ward pulses faint gold then settles into a barely visible shimmer. “But what if it’s not enough?”
Jasper crosses the room in two steps, his fingers tilting my chin up to meet his gaze, brown eyes soft but determined.
"Hey. Look at me." His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and I lean into his touch. “It’s enough. We’re going to be okay. No one is stealing your heart on my watch, witch. I promise you that.”
His words wrap around me like a blanket, warm and secure, but the chill of unease lingers beneath my skin. I offer him a small smile, trying to match his confidence.
Whiskers, not one for sentiment, hops onto the table and starts chewing on a sage bundle. “So, am I allowed to sleep in your bed tonight, or am I going to be relegated to my sock drawer in the middle of a murder spree?”
Jasper glowers, but I just laugh, the tension breaking for a moment.
“We can all stick together tonight,” I say, reaching over to scratch between his ears. “Safety in numbers.”
Jasper groans dramatically, then pulls away to make sure every door and window is locked. I gather Whiskers and head upstairs, the house settling around us with the creaks and groans of an old friend.
I get ready for bed with mechanical efficiency, brushing my teeth, unbraiding my hair, pulling on my favorite flannel pajamas. Jasper joins me a few minutes later, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he sits down on the edge of the bed.
"Everything secure?" I ask, slipping beneath the sheet.
"Triple-checked," he says, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it toward the hamper. It misses by a foot, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.
I’ll pick it up in the morning.
Jasper crawls under the covers, then slithers down until his cold feet land directly against my shins. I shriek and flail, nearly kneeing him in the jaw. He just laughs, muffled by the blanket, and surfaces with a wolfish grin.
“You’re ice!” I hiss, pretending to scowl as I shove him with my foot until he grumbles in defeat.
"You're going to have to start sleeping in one of the guest rooms if you don't cut that out," I threaten, but my words melt as he pulls me into the V of his arm, and then nuzzles his nose into my neck, his stubble brushing goosebumps up my spine.
“Shhhh.” He whispers, “Enough with that nonsense. You know you love me too much to send me away.”
I giggle.
He’s right, and I don’t say so, rather, I let my hand wander beneath the blanket and trace lazy circles across the plain of his chest.
Whiskers lands with a soft thump at the foot of the bed, then vanishes beneath the covers like a furry submarine. I feel his weight zigzag up the mattress until he emerges at my pillow with a dramatic sigh, kneading the fabric into submission before curling into a tight ball against my head.
We fall asleep this way, entangled amid the domestic shambles of mismatched sheets, cold toes, and the hope that tomorrow will bring a brighter day.