Chapter Ten-Evie
Okay, so by this time, I was half convinced my brain had turned to fondue.
Not the fancy kind with wine and nutmeg either—just straight up, melted, ooey-gooey mess thanks to one too-hot-for-my-sanity Werewolf walking at my side.
As we crested the gentle slope toward the Castorini Mausoleum, the moldy, sour scent that had started as a whiff turned into an aggressive slap to the nostrils.
Something was definitely off. Cemeteries had their own bouquet—earthy, musty, vaguely funereal—but this? This was wrong.
Like something had been disturbed.
Or pissed off.
Or both.
“You smell that?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
I could practically taste it.
And no one wants to taste ghost stink just after the ass crack of dawn on a Friday.
“I do smell that,” Jaxson said, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder.
He stepped beside me again, protective instincts flaring like neon. He filled his lungs, expelling them with a deep rumble.
“It ain’t natural.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmured, but I wasn’t sure if I meant the atmosphere or my stupid reaction to him.
Can you say new underwear stat?
I pressed my palm flat to the stone facade of the crypt, letting my magic seep out, coaxing the building to give up its secrets.
Most people thought talking to the dead was all candlelight, Latin chants, and the occasional floating table.
But for me, it was more like sticking my finger into a haunted electrical socket and hoping I didn’t get zapped into another plane of existence.
A shiver ran up my spine.
My breath fogged in front of me.
In early September.
In Jersey.
Yup, definitely ghost stuff.
“I’m going to try to make contact,” I whispered.
“Contact with who?”
“I dunno yet. Hopefully, someone not in a vengeful mood.”
Jaxson said nothing, but I heard the unmistakable sound of claws unsheathing.
He was ready to rip into something, should it decide to float my way with bad intentions.
Strangely, that gave me comfort.
It was kind of like showing up to a knife fight with a tank wearing Levi’s.
I closed my eyes and let the hum of the earth settle under my feet.
A pale shimmer of light pulsed beneath my fingertips as the spell activated.
Images flickered behind my eyelids.
A boy’s scream.
Scraping.
Something dragging?
I gasped and pulled my hand back.
“Evie?” Jaxson stepped in close, warm and solid, one hand hovering just above the small of my back.
He didn’t touch me, not quite, but the heat of him curled around me like a blanket made of bourbon, smoke, and lemon-basil goodness.
“It’s not just a prank,” I said slowly. “Something is haunting the cemetery. I saw, I think I saw a kid, and something chasing him. But I couldn’t see what. The image cut off.”
Jaxson’s eyes went silver-bright, glowing faintly even in the weak morning light.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, voice softer now.
Concerned. Protective.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
The truth was, my knees were wobbly, my magic was tingling uncomfortably beneath my skin like ants on espresso, and I was way too aware of the Shifter beside me.
But I wasn’t about to admit any of that.
Mayor Evie Castor did not swoon over hot strangers in cemeteries while doing her civic duty, thank you very much.
“Well, you say fine, but I can smell a lie, Darlin’,” Jaxson drawled.
“You can? Dammit,” I muttered.
“Besides, your aura’s twitchin’ somethin’ fierce.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smiled, slow and sinful.
“My mama taught me to read magic in a woman the way some men read poker hands. And, Sugar, yours is a five-alarm fire right now.”
Oh. My. Gaia.
I was going to die.
Not from ghost attacks.
From embarrassment.
Spontaneous combustion by flirtation.
That’s how Evie Castor would go down in the books.
“I’m not twitching,” I snapped, patting down my curls that were definitely frizzing out under the strain of this moment. “I’m perfectly composed. Mayor-like. Regal, even.”
Jaxson leaned down and murmured in my ear, “Sure you are, Darlin’. But if you ever want help smoothing out those sparks, I got just the touch.”
I choked on my own saliva.
Mortifying.
And then he winked.
He freaking winked.
Why do men always have the best damn eyelashes? Jaxson’s were thick and long, inky black and sexy as fuck.
Ink swirled across his skin, from what I could see of his arms and neck.
His shaggy hair was pulled back in a ponytail that made him look hotter than Aunt Edna’s Shrimp Fra Diavolo recipe.
If I didn’t stop staring like right now, I was gonna jump him.
“Let’s focus on the haunting,” I managed to croak out. “If something’s loose in this graveyard, it’s my job to contain it. Not flirt it into submission.”
He held up his hands. “You got it, Madam Mayor. You lead. I’ll just be your backup.”
The way he said backup made me think of all sorts of unholy things—none of which involved ectoplasm or city paperwork.
But I pulled myself together.
Somehow. I straightened my spine, marched toward the mausoleum’s cracked door, and pretended my thighs weren’t trying to start a drum line just from being in his orbit.
If the ghosts didn’t kill me, my libido definitely would.
The name Castorini was etched across a slab of old-world Italian marble, imported straight from my great-great-grandfather’s birthplace just outside Naples.
Our family mausoleum was, well, impressive.
Statuesque. A bit foreboding.
Okay, fine, it gave me the heebie-jeebies and smelled like the inside of an old spellbook that hadn’t been opened in a few centuries.
Vittorio Alfonso Guglielmo Castorini—try saying that five times fast with a mouthful of cannoli—was the first of our line to cross the Atlantic.
He came over in the 1700s along with a whole flotilla of supernatural immigrants looking for better covens, less stake-burning, and more access to pizza. (I assume.)
Eventually, Castorini got shortened to Castor, and when dear old Nonno founded this quirky little magical hamlet, the grateful locals named it after him.
Which sounds sweet until you remember that supernatural towns don’t name themselves after nice Wizards.
They name themselves after powerful ones.
Powerfully unpredictable ones.
He died long before I was born, as did his son.
But his grandson—my grandfather—now that was another story.
My gaze drifted to the engraved nameplate of Alfonso Castor.
Grandpa Al.
The one who used to bring me fresh pineapples and call me pretty even when I was covered in Nonna’s marinara from head to toe.
He’d pinch my cheeks so hard I’d need a healing balm, but I’d loved him, anyway.
He was warm.
Funny.
Always smelled like tobacco, sugar, and old magic.
Then, one day, poof.
Gone.
No warning.
No goodbye.
Just vanished like a fart in the wind.
I stepped closer, squinting at the plaque bearing his name. Something flickered.
A strange, viscous shimmer coated the stone like ghostly snail slime—and I didn’t need a spellbook to tell me it was the bad kind of magic.
Putrid green and faintly glowing.
Yup. That was never a good sign.
Jaxson took one long inhale beside me and grimaced. “Smells like rot.”
“Yeah, well, it shouldn’t,” I muttered. “Mausoleums are sealed with anti-decay wards. This place is supposed to be magically protected from anything decomposing or demonic. Or both.”
We lingered in tense silence, our boots crunching over wet grass and wilted offerings as the air grew colder—still.
It was that creepy sort of silence that makes even the bravest Witch hesitate. But whoever or whatever had spooked the kids? It was gone. For now.
“Looks like the spook’s cleared out,” Jaxson said after another careful look around.
I sighed, already glancing at my phone. “Yeah, and I have a job to do.”
And, Gaia help me, I wanted to stay—either to chase down the magical disturbance or to keep staring at this stupidly hot Werewolf like he was the last cinnamon roll at brunch.
I wasn’t sure which motive was stronger, which probably said a lot about my current mental health.
But I couldn’t stay.
Responsibility called.
So I turned to go.
“Evie,” he said, and I paused—just like that. One word from his lips, and I halted.
Like I was under a binding charm.
Smooth. Real smooth.
He caught up in three easy steps, all long legs and slow-burning charm wrapped in a cotton shirt and sinfully snug jeans.
I tried to keep my eyes on his face, I swear.
“The boys and I were wonderin’ if there’s a place we can stay around here that’s more comfortable than our broken down truck or the woods?” he asked, voice warm as whiskey.
“A motel? Boarding house? Somewhere we can rest our heads while the truck’s gettin’ fixed.”
“Oh, um, yeah! Actually there is. Maribella—she runs The Tasty Tart, you met her—has a little cottage behind the bakery she rents out sometimes. Just tell her I sent you.”
“Appreciate it, Darlin’,” he said, stepping a little closer.
Close enough for his scent to roll over me again, lemon and basil and male.
Then he reached out and touched my hair.
I froze.
“What are you doing?” I asked, but I didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
My boots were rooted to the mossy ground as if I’d been hit by a magical bear trap.
“Couldn’t help myself, Pretty Girl,” he murmured, brushing his fingers down the freshly styled strands Donatella had tamed for me that morning. “You do your hair just for me?”
“Um, yeah. I mean, no. No! Not for you. For me. Obviously,” I babbled, heat rushing up my cheeks so fast I probably looked like a tomato at a farmer’s market.
Because who was this man, and why did his compliments land like full-body enchantments?
He was too much. Gorgeous, growly, Southern manners, and now attentive?
Nope. Nope.
This was a trap alright.
A handsome, muscled, flirty Werewolf trap.
And I was the dumb little bunny hopping right into the snare.
Still, I didn’t trust myself to speak. Not yet anyway.