Play Dead, Stay Dead (Murder in Moonburrow #2)

Prologue

If gus was there, he would’ve helped the raccoon…

but, sadly, gus wasn’t alive yet.

— gus

TWELVE YEARS AGO

I’m locked in a dumpster.

Again.

It’s early June in Virginia, the sun is high, it’s humid as fuck, and having the lid slammed down on me with little airflow makes the whole thing so much nastier.

It stinks like chunky, curdled milk in here, with the added bloom of rotten cafeteria food making my raccoon nose twitch and my human side want to hurl.

To make it worse, it won’t be long until I stink like that, too, and when your entire town is made up of shifters, every single person I pass on my way home will know where I spent the last school period of the day.

Crouching among the trash bags, I slam both of my palms against the metal lid over my head, hitting it hard enough to rattle it even if the lock holds. “Crystal! Let me out of here!”

Husky laughter echoes from somewhere close by. And then, “You should be thanking me, Rox. It’s a predator-eat-prey world out there. You get caught flatfooted, you deserve to get tossed in the garbage.”

Of course that’s how she justifies ambushing me when I cut last period because my inner raccoon was nudging me, pushing me outside. Why? No clue. I barely stuck my nose in the air to get a sniff before someone plowed into me from behind and muscled my bony ass into the dumpster.

Alpha damn it, Crystal! “When I get out of here, I’m going to bite the shit out of you!”

Another laugh. “No, you won’t. Besides, my canines are bigger.”

You know what the most annoying thing about having an older sister is?

They know exactly when you’re bluffing and your threats are basically bullshit, plus having a year on me means that she’s right: her raccoon fangs—not as big as a predator’s, but big enough for opportunistic prey shifters like us—are notably larger than mine.

She’s faster, too. Meaner. And with her deceptively innocent features and ability to fool every elder member in our clan into thinking that she’s the perfect supe while I’m Onancock’s reject, Crystal Kane is the face I envision on the board when I sneak out to local human bars and fleece them while playing darts.

She thinks she’s toughening me up. Yeah, right.

If anything, she’s reminding me of the lesson all raccoons learn early on: the only one we can rely on is ourselves.

Like our counterparts in the wild, we tend toward being more solitary than social creatures, and as I dig deeper into the trash to leverage a new position, I’m mentally counting down the days until I graduate from Onancock High next year and can kiss this backwater town with its small-thinking prey shifters and fear of predators and humans and anything except how it is and how it’s always been goodbye.

Twelve months. Well, twelve months, two weeks, and six days…

but who’s counting? I’ll get my diploma, figure out what the hell I’m going to do to survive, and go.

And, considering I’m a scrappy, resourceful raccoon whether I’m in my fur or my skin, I’m more concerned about breaking out of this dumpster than anything else right now.

I glare up at the closed dumpster lid, breathing hard through my nose.

All around me, crumpled quiz papers and empty soda cans shift and crunch under my heavy boots.

I could strip, go furry, and—thanks to my raccoon’s dexterous paws and fingers—carry my clothes out of the dumpster so long as I can squeeze out through the narrow opening on the side where the lid bows.

Of course, I’d have to shift back and be naked for as long as it took me to shrug on my undies, my black jeans, and my t-shirt again, and the last time I tried that, Crystal came barreling out of nowhere, snatched my clothes, and left me to either do a walk of shame or scurry home in my fur.

No, thanks. While some shifters are casual about nudity, I’m not one of them.

Most raccoons aren’t, either. I mean, look at us.

We wear a face mask burnt into our fur, for Alpha’s sake.

Sure, the darkened fur around our eyes helps with our vision, but I like my bandit mask…

even if I’ve tried enough under-eye creams to get rid of the constant dark circles that translate to my two-legged, human shape.

Outside the dumpster, voices carry across the muggy summer air. Students with early release laugh from somewhere beyond the parking lot while I marinate in the garbage all because my sister decided humiliation builds character.

She’s out there, too. I know she is. Crystal loves to be a witness to her own cruelty too much to actually leave while I’m still stuck in here.

That means shifting and hoping she doesn’t run off with my pants is out.

Good thing I’m a determined supe with shifter strength who will do whatever it takes to prove that nothing will knock her down.

Plus, I’ve been in enough scraps—both in my skin and fur—to know that I can kick with the best of them.

I brace one boot against the dumpster wall in front of me. Using my other foot, I kick upward with enough force to rattle my teeth as the steel tip makes contact with the lid.

The latch snaps loose with a crack. Bright sunlight floods the dark dumpster as the lid flies open, and I grab the pitted, rusted, metal edge to haul myself out of the trash as fast as I can before Crystal can slam it down again.

Only it’s not Crystal waiting to ambush me a second time.

I’m sure she’s out there somewhere—and once I get the stink of trash out of my nose, I’ll catch her scent and begin plotting my sisterly revenge—but as I pop out of the trash, launching myself into the parking lot until I’m crouched low on the asphalt, my band tee covered in something gloopy and white…

as I straighten, I notice that there are two other shifters watching me with matching expressions.

One part amused, one part confused, and undeniably curious overall, normally I wouldn’t give a shit what they thought about my little escape trick.

But then I recognize the female shifter and I think I might just bite Crystal after all.

Honey Morgan is standing in the parking lot, staring at me.

Perfect, sweet Honey with her golden hair and her bright purple eyes, her pretty smile and her effortless ability to make people like her within thirty seconds of meeting her.

Honey, whose worst trait is an opossum shifter quirk; she has the tendency to ’play dead’ when startled which means other, stronger shifters have this urge to keep her and her clanmembers safe.

Honey, who I sometimes like and most of the time can tolerate until moments like this when it’s obvious that, despite us both being prey shifters from the same small town and pack, we're really worlds apart.

She’s not alone, either. There’s a male standing next to her, looming slightly considering he’s a head taller than she is. I’d put him at seventeen, maybe eighteen, so he’s Crystal’s age, give or take.

Oh, and he’s fucking stunning.

I don’t know what it is about him. At first glimpse, he’s so not my style.

I’m wannabe punk rock; he’s preppy as hell.

He’s wearing a pale yellow polo shirt over a pair of pressed blue jeans and honest-to-Alpha penny loafers.

His hair—such a pale blond color that I can’t think of it as anything other than white—is cut short on the sides with longish strands in front, falling forward into his eyes.

His purple eyes.

Opossum, squeaks my raccoon. Like Honey, he’s an opossum shifter, but not anyone I’ve ever seen before.

I’ve lived in Onancock my whole life. It’s definitely opossum territory with a handful of raccoon families, some hedgehogs, a few rabbits, and the powerful wolf shifters who protect us and turn our ragtag clans into some semblance of a local pack.

I’m a loner, but I still know all of the opossum families in town.

I can guarantee that I’ve never seen him before.

The way he’s watching me closely says that I’m unlike anyone he’s ever met.

Oh, shit. Now I’m staring at him.

Who is he? No idea, but whether I’m just pissy because Crystal got me again or it’s the way Honey’s covering her mouth, stifling belated laughter as I brush the goop off my shirt and onto the asphalt, my hackles instantly go up as I think about how close Honey is to the stranger.

I lift my own hand, rubbing my nose to get the stink out. I tell myself that I’m looking for Crystal, but when a new scent filters in through my nostrils—one that has my stomach twisting suddenly—I give an involuntary full-body shudder.

Honey takes a step toward me. On the one hand, a part of me is irrationally glad that she’s putting some distance between the opossum male and herself. On the other, I have no idea why I care—and I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.

Honey’s mouth twitches. She’s trying not to smile as she gestures at the side of her hair. “Roxy—”

I reach up, knocking a stray french fry from the tangles of my own rat’s nest. I watch it hit the ground and scowl. “Thanks.”

“Crystal?”

The look I give her answers the question for her.

Everyone in our grade and Crystal’s knows about the rivalry between the Kane sisters.

Honestly? Considering our mom and her sisters need to get bailed out of county every few weeks for their own battles—against each other and when they team up against the Fiorello clan—the entire town probably expects it from us.

Doesn’t mean I need Honey to interfere, especially right now…

“If it helps, she ran off when I came out here to—”

Nope.

I really don’t want to know what she was doing in the parking lot instead of classroom, clearly cutting last period to meet with an opossum I don’t recognize… and who my raccoon is really, really interested in getting to know.

“It’s fine,” I snap, cutting her off. “I’ll get her back.”

One way or another, I always do.

In her helpful way, Honey ignores my attitude and begins to offer a much nicer revenge plan than the one I’m contemplating.

I’m barely listening. Though I know better, I can’t help but glance over at the male.

A few steps behind her, he’s watching me quietly.

His expression has turned more thoughtful, probably because he’s trying to figure out what to make of me.

I’m used to that.

His gaze catches briefly on the white stripes in my hair before drifting lower to the dark circles beneath my eyes. Just like how I picked up on his unusual coloring and figured out what he is, one glimpse and he at least knows a raccoon when he sees one.

But then one corner of his mouth curves upward just enough to be noticeable—or maybe that’s only because I can’t quite look away…

He dips his chin. “Interesting way to spend an afternoon,” he murmurs with a vague gesture toward the dented dumpster lid behind me.

Something about his warm tone sends a shiver down my spine. And, because I’m Roxy Kane, I assume he’s fucking with me and immediately go on the defensive.

“So?” I toss back. “Some of us have hobbies.”

And mine just happens to be dumpster-diving, okay?

Honey snorts out a laugh. The stranger’s smile deepens, and the wind brings another hint of a distinct scent right to me.

It’s a combination of dark wood and bergamot; so incredibly fresh and clean, I instantly remember where I was—and how bad I must reek—right before our eyes met for the first time.

For one weird second, they find each other again. The rest of the parking lot seems to fade around the edges as my inner raccoon scratches away at my ribcage, determined to break free.

I swallow back the sensation and purposely look away.

Whoever he is, he can’t be mine. He clearly belongs to Honey Morgan, and if I find a reason to dislike the optimistic opossum at that moment, that’s no surprise. Good girls get guys that smell clean and look like they’ve never had to dig their way out of a dumpster.

Raccoon shifters? We get the scraps, and even that’s if we’re lucky.

“Whatever,” I snarl, shoving my hair out of my face. “I gotta go find Crystal and get back at her.”

Honey begins to point. “She went that—”

“Yeah. I got it. Thanks.” I nod at her. “Honey.” I nod at the other opossum. “Honey’s male.”

Honey squeaks. “He’s not my—”

Doesn’t matter. “Like I said, whatever.”

And then, taking a deep breath and looking past the way my heart sings and my raccoon screeches ‘mine, mine, mine’ as the male’s scent imprints on me, I search for notes of chilled ice and burnt sugar.

Because, suddenly, I have the intense desire to take out my newfound frustrations—not jealousy because why would I be jealous of Honey Morgan—on my sister.

Who knows? I might just bite her after all.