Chapter 1
FAVOR
mother is leaving gus.
shame on mother.
what will gus do without her?
— gus
In my experience, the best dumpsters are perched behind the nicest stores, and Moonburrow is no different.
Not that outsiders—humans, specifically, though some other supes, too—know that Moonburrow even exists in the first place.
Our supernatural small town hides smack dab in middle-of-nowhere Maryland.
Thanks to the witches and their warding spells, plus the predatory shifters leaving their territorial scents along the borders, you only get in if you’re welcome.
Otherwise you drive on by as though it doesn’t exist.
I was lucky enough to slip through. Hey.
I’m a raccoon, right? The overwhelming stink of stale wolf piss should’ve warned any level-headed prey shifter away, but no one has ever accused Roxy Kane of being level-headed.
I took it as a sign to keep moving forward, invited myself in, and because I’m not a vamp, a human, or an outright threat, they welcomed me in.
That was four years ago. With Moonburrow initially being founded a few decades earlier as a wolf town before the Moonshadow Pack began to take some prey shifters under their protection, I was the first raccoon to find her way here.
Since then, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who has.
Of course, that means I get first pick of the best dumpsters in town, so I’m definitely not complaining.
I’m not lonely, either. No. Really.
Mean it.
When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was put Virginia in my rear view mirror. I did, too, for a time. Never for long enough. Some drama with my mom or my sister always dragged me back before I took off again, trying to escape it.
To escape them.
To escape my old rep, plus the whisper of bergamot and dark wood I’ve been doing my best to outrun since I was sixteen...
Moonburrow’s my latest attempt. Located in Maryland, it’s near enough to Virginia that I can keep my eyes and ears open and locked on what’s going on back home.
Unlike Honey, I’ve never tried to disappear into the human world.
So many prey shifters do, but I’ve never done what was expected of me.
People will treat me differently either because I’m a raccoon shifter or because I wear my worn leather jacket as a second skin during the winter and a pair of sunglasses indoors whenever I’m in the mood for it…
I have a big mouth and bigger balls that most prey shifters, and I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about me.
Might as well stick to the supe world, and in a small town like Moonburrow—where the local Alpha is decent enough—I’ve been getting along fine.
I’ve got a business. So maybe it’s not the most reputable in town.
It’s mine, and if that’s one thing I can’t wait to rub into Crystal’s face next time I’m called to Virginia, too bad.
She went the route of so many shifters back home.
Find a mate, settle down, pop out a couple of kits.
Good for her (and I mean that, too). But if I thought matehood and motherhood would mellow her out, all I needed to do was look at Mom and Aunt Karina and Aunt Vee to know that it makes a female raccoon even more of a terror.
Crystal’s no exception. She just had her thirtieth birthday, I’m little more than a year behind her, and when we see each other, that old, ugly rivalry rears its head like we’re both teenagers again.
Of course, that means that I do what I can to avoid her, and it works out best for all involved.
She’s still my sister, and I’ll always have her back against the rest of the world, but me living in Moonburrow and Crystal sticking around Onancock just works.
Besides, if I’m ever homesick, all I have to do is visit Dough You Believe in Magic and I can have a slice of the old clan the same time as I snag a piece of pie.
For now, I’m sitting on the edge of the dumpster behind Moonglow Boutique, one of the higher end witch shops on this side of Moonburrow.
Prowling around the more affordable herbs and spells shops like Witches ‘n’ Things is usually more my speed, but I’ve got to admit that the pricy coven-run boutique throws out some beauties in their trash.
Like the compact mirror I just found near the bottom of the dumpster, tucked in a sticky corner.
I swiped the muck off with the wet rag I bring with me on these finding missions for just that purpose.
The outside is a scratched silver that I’ll be able to buff smooth back at my store.
On the inside, there are two mirrors: one that shows me as I normally am, and the other that blows up my face until I can see every Alpha damn pore.
Even better, it’s obviously magic and definitely abandoned. It looks like it’s been in this dumpster for a while, and considering I nearly snapped a nail, prying it off the floor, it’s not like anyone will mind if I add it to my inventory.
I twist the compact, using the ‘normal’ mirror.
I lick my canine fang, prodding one of the dark circles under my yellow eyes thoughtfully with a fingertip.
Years ago, thanks to Crystal’s habit of locking me in dumpsters, I got a reputation in Virginia for being a trash panda.
Humans might think that’s an adorable way to refer to raccoon shifters.
Among my packmates, I knew better. As always, they were looking down on me, and that’s when I began to stick my middle finger up at all of them.
I actually went through a phase where I colored my trademark under-eye bags in with a black eyeliner pencil to really sell being a raccoon in human form.
I styled my hair so you couldn’t miss the white streaks that usually belong to skunk shifters, yet somehow manifested in my own black locks.
I began to collect as many t-shirts with raccoon puns as I could—such as “it’s trash can, not trash cannot” and “stay trashy”—and replaced some of my vintage band tees with those.
I’ve grown up a little since then. I still stick to wearing all black, plus a leather jacket when the season calls for it, though I’m a lot lighter-handed when it comes to eye makeup these days.
I’ve tried to dye my streaks a handful of times over the years, but like most shifter traits, they always win out.
No dye will do shit for my hair, and when I get a little self-conscious about the dark circles, I have a pair of oversized sunglasses that I wear.
Deep down, though, I’m still the same Roxy Kane that I’ve always been, and if there’s anyone in Moonburrow who knows that, it’s Honey Morgan.
Whoops. I mean Honey Lobo.
Just about eight months ago, I caught a familiar whiff on the air and followed it to the witch-run charmed bakery in town.
Turns out, the witch who used to own Dough You Believe in Magic is Honey’s grandmother.
When Ms. Jean decided to leave Moonburrow, Honey came to take over the bakery—and the opossum shifter I’ve known since we were kits became my closest… okay, only… friend in town.
Honey’s still a little wary of me; at least, when I first surprised the shit out of her, she looked at me like she was seeing a ghost. She doesn’t play dead when I’m around so I figure we’re cool now.
So I used to terrorize her when we were younger.
So there was that time I let my jealousy get the better of me and I spat a wad of bubblegum into her hair.
Whenever I thought of Honey and her male…
maybe young Roxy was a touch irrational.
I like to think I got better, especially once I heard through the grapevine that Honey left Onancock to find herself and her fated mate.
Because the gorgeous stranger wasn’t hers, and I found myself able to be a lot fonder of the opossum once I discovered that…
That’s why, when my phone starts buzzing in my back pocket and I pull it out to see her smiling face on the screen, I don’t ignore the call even if my antisocial side isn’t the biggest fan of talking on the phone.
I drop the mirror compact inside my tote of acceptable objects from today’s dive, then swipe the screen. “You got Roxy.”
“Hi! It’s Honey.”
I know. “What’s up? And, let me just say, if this is about your weirdo sex cabin idea, I told you: what you and the sheriff get up to is your own business.”
I swear, I can hear Honey rolling her eyes almost as much as I can sense the way her cheeks pinken. “You know it’s just a regular old cabin in the mountains, right?”
“Yeah, until Max gets you inside and closes the door where no one can disturb you two.”
Max Lobo—Sheriff Max Lobo—is the Alpha of the Moonshadow Pack and, to everyone’s shock (especially Max’s), Honey’s fated mate.
No opossum for Honey. She got saddled with a growly, protective wolf shifter who thinks the sun shines out of her ass.
Which, okay, that’s what you want out of a mate, but he’s a predator.
He’ll do anything to keep Honey safe, including coming up with this brilliant idea that they have their ‘honeymoon’ in a secluded mountain cabin where they could be alone and away from the prying eyes of our packmates for a week or two.
I guess I understand. We’re only about six months removed from the first—and second—murders in Moonburrow.
With the help of yours truly, Honey and Max figured out who was poisoning shifters in town.
Suffice to say, Leo Holloway is no longer a threat, and a couple months after the wolf claimed his opossum, Max finally thinks things have settled down enough in Moonburrow for him and Honey to be able to leave it for a long-deserved getaway, just the two of them.