Chapter 5 #2
Riordan leans into his seat. “Now we have to figure out what to do with the body. Because Morgan is a shifter, Faith doesn’t think he needs to be hooked up to wires or anything while we work toward putting the…
” His golden eyes flares. “...the ghost back where he belongs. No need for a morgue, either, even if we had one in town. I could bring him to pack territory to keep him safe—”
Ash crouches at my side, still carrying Gus on his shoulder, and grabs my arm. “I want you to take charge of my body.”
My heart jumps, and I’m not sure if it’s from the unexpected touch or the way his pretty purple eyes are pleading with me. “What? Me? Why me?”
“Because Honey trusted you with the bakery. With Gus.” He uses his free arm to pat Gus’s furry backside. “And that means I’m pretty sure I can trust you with my body.”
If he had any idea what I would do to it if he was alive and recognized me as his mate, he might not be so sure of that.
“Please, Roxy? I’d feel better knowing you were in charge of it.”
For Alpha’s fucking sake. Maybe I’m finally a little glad I have dark circles under my eyes because maybe these two won’t have any idea how much I’m flushing right now…
My mate needs my help. How can I say no?
I turn toward Riordan. He’s watching me with a slightly knowing expression.
“Roxy?”
“Ash wants me to take his body and keep an eye on it for him.”
The slightly knowing expression turns to one of surprise. “Really?”
True, he can’t confirm what I’m saying, but I only hope that an alpha wolf’s ability to scent when lesser dominant shifters are lying to him works for Riordan. Because, damn it, I’m being honest.
Especially when I say, “I know. No one ever trusts me with the important shit, and I’ve got two opossums in one week who think they can.
” My words are flippant, but the pride they inspire inside of me as I realize that’s the truth…
it isn’t. “It’s fine. We can put the body in that apartment over Honey’s bakery. ”
My raccoon squeaks in protest at the idea. My inner animal is still harboring jealousy toward Honey when it comes to our mate, and the reminder that he’s her cousin… it’s not helping.
And you know what? My beastly side is right. There’s no way in hell I can justify putting Ash’s body in Honey’s bed when I have a perfectly good spare room in my two-room apartment to keep him.
“Or I have space at my place. I spend most of my time there. It’s probably better if I did that… especially if there’s someone out there who tried to kill him and only managed to do it partway.”
Because that’s a concern, isn’t it? Ash isn’t dead… but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a supe in town who decided to commit another murder in Moonburrow.
“Normally, I’d say no,” Riordan says after a moment to process.
“That’s just… fucking weird. But Faith has this idea that proximity might matter.
If his being a ghost is what’s missing from the body, and you’re the only one who can interact with him so far, it’s probably for the best that they’re both kept closer to you. ”
I don’t care what his reasoning is. I just want to keep my mate close by so that I can make sure nothing else happens to him before I can actually make him my mate.
I shoot a look Ash’s way. “What do you think? Roomies?”
For now?
His lips split into a wide grin that has me forgetting how to breathe. “You’re the best, Roxy.”
Finally, someone else realizes how fucking amazing I am.
My shop doesn’t have an actual name. There were golden letters stuck to the front window that says ANTIQUES, and I figured that was good enough for me.
Mainly because, four years ago when I saw the empty storefront with nothing but those letters, got the idea to start my junk shop, and made a deal with the landlord, I expected to be on my way out of Moonburrow by the end of that summer.
I’m still here. So is the shop, and if forced to admit it, I’d have to say it’s the thing I’ve been most proud of in my existence. It’s mine, and I run it the way I like, and it’s enough to keep food in my belly and a roof over my head without me having to do a single damn thing to change who I am.
Most people walk inside, curious, and immediately assume the place is all clutter.
I know because I watch their faces change as they step through the door.
Their eyes widen slightly as they take in the crowded shelves, the hanging lamps, the stacks of old records, trays of jewelry (both costume and real), towers of old books, antique clocks, chipped teacups, framed photographs, charmed odds and ends I’ve found, plus enough strange little treasures to make a magpie weep with envy.
But while I won’t deny it’s full, I don’t like the word clutter. Clutter implies mess and I bust my ass to make sure my shop isn’t messy. In fact, I know exactly where everything is. Every object on the main floor has its own place, whether anyone else understands my system or not.
I know exactly which drawer holds silver jewelry that’s safe for shifters, jewelry that is worth more than a few bucks, and what I’ll give away for little more than a bag of candy from Emile’s Sweet Shoppe.
I know which pictures are valuable and which are decorative and cheap.
I know where the first edition books are stored on my shelves, and where I put a big bundle of comics I stumbled upon in a dumpster in nearby Santa Clara.
Upstairs is different.
Upstairs is my sanctuary.
The apartment that came with my shop is clean and organized in a way that would surprise anyone who has the wrong idea on how raccoons live. Despite our chaotic approach to life, most raccoon shifters need order in their personal space. Me? I need that and more.
I have two rooms: my bedroom and a spare for guests that I never host. There’s a small kitchen, a narrow bathroom with a toilet and a shower stall, and a cozy dining area that couples as my TV room.
It has a couch and a stack of tray tables folded in the corner, plus the big screen mounted on the wall.
Each room has a bed and a single dresser.
My style tends toward minimalist when it comes to my den, without a single stack, pile, or shelf full of knick-knacks on the second level.
Just clean countertops, white walls, and the faint lingering scent of the cleaner I use to mop the hardwood floor twice a week.
What can I say? After spending all day sorting through everyone else’s trash, cleaning it up, and pricing it, the last thing I want is straight chaos following me to the one place where I’m free to be me without having to have my prickly guard up.
Ash notices that almost immediately.
Downstairs, he was instantly drawn to the books in my shop.
Since I was waiting for Riordan—or whoever he passed the duty onto—to show up with Ash’s body, I let him look through them.
Then, when Riordan himself showed up to bring the coma-fied Ash upstairs, I escorted the wolf to the spare room where we planned on keeping the body until the local coven witch arrived to look him over.
Riordan promised to check in later after confirming that Ash’s attempted murder was the number one priority for him and the sheriff’s office.
I figured as much. On a usual day, the most the deputies have to do is break up predator challenges in public and talk down prey shifters who let panic get to them and end up in a tree.
The first murder in Moonburrow shook our community.
No one wants to believe that there might be another one, even if Ash didn’t quite die.
The Beta is determined to solve this before it gets to Max. I can’t imagine that the gossips in Moonburrow won’t find a way to reach out to the Alpha and his mate, so the clock’s definitely ticking.
Especially since I’m inwardly terrified that Ash might disappear completely before we find a way to get his soul back into his body…
He doesn’t seem too concerned. Ash, that is.
A few times today, he’s reached out to steady himself on my shoulder, almost as though he needs to be grounded by physical touch.
Every time he does, his purple eyes brighten, and he swallows roughly before pulling a shy smile to his lips.
I’ve heard him mumble a couple of apologies, but I brush them all off. If he needs me, I’m here.
Isn’t that what mates are supposed to do?
Just like how I offer to let him take whatever book interests him upstairs. I almost forget for a second that his fingers would dip through the pages, unable to turn them, and scowl when I do. Damn it. He just seems so real, even as I’m looking right through him.
Instead, I wait for Riordan to leave before locking the door behind him. We have a while until the witch arrives, and I’m not in the mood to open my shop up to customers today. I’d rather go upstairs, get Ash and Gus settled in, then veg until the coven healer shows up.
The second I lead the ghost and his opossum passenger through my shop and up the stairs, Ash looks curiously around my space.
His gaze lingers over the immaculate kitchen, the neatly folded blanket tossed over the couch, the careful order of everything.
There’s no judgment in his expression. If anything, he looks quietly thoughtful, and somehow that feels far more dangerous to me and my solitary nature.