Chapter 7
CRISIS AVERTED
only clan gets to use the magic book.
mother would agree. they are clan.
— gus
Last night, after the witch left and the three of us finally settled down after a long day, I barely slept. And it wasn’t because of the ghost in the next room.
Okay. Maybe not completely because of the ghost in the next room…
It’s my raccoon who kept me up most of the night.
My inner beast lost its mind the second I closed the door behind me, shutting Ash and Gus out.
The two males—one a shifter-turned-ghost, the other a true opossum—hunkered down in my spare room once the day caught up to me and I announced that I needed to go to bed.
I needed to. My raccoon had other ideas.
My other half wanted nothing more than to slip into bed and curl up next to Ash’s unconscious body.
The supernatural coma hadn’t let up one bit, and—despite knowing now that it’s some kind of curse—I couldn’t shake the image of ghostly Ash determinedly lying on top of slumbering Ash as he tried to climb back inside his solid form.
In my imagination, Gus was wearing a cute little cheerleader outfit, shaking pom-poms, cheering Ash on.
My raccoon decided we should look. I resisted the call to shift, to give control over to my wild side.
It was a battle that my humanity won, with the downside being that, the next morning, I look exactly how I feel.
The purple circles under my eyes seem darker than usual, and my streaked hair is so knotty from tossing and turning that I give up on dragging a brush through the tangles before throwing it up in another bun.
I get the idea that Ash was waiting for me to start moving around to drift into the kitchen where I was making a cup of coffee.
He clears his throat. “Are you doing alright? You look tired.”
“And?” I shoot back. “You look dead.”
Ash winces, and I grimace into my mug. “Sorry. I’m barely human before I’ve had my morning coffee.”
“Don’t apologize to me. I know better than to make a comment like that. It’s just… I hate that I’m imposing on you. With my body and the curse and with…” Ash lifts his hand, trailing his fingers in front of him, drawing my attention to how his fingertips are even paler than yesterday. “This.”
I gulp, and it’s not just the scalding hot coffee I’m knocking back. Guilt and fear and worry for Ash… it’s almost as hard to handle as the cup of joe that just burnt the shit out of my throat.
What happens if we can’t fix Ash? Will he continue to fade until there’s nothing left? He’s still solid enough. He came into the kitchen with Gus resting on one shoulder, his tail curved around the back of Ash’s neck. How much longer will he be able to do that?
How much longer will I be able to touch him?
Last night, while I struggled to sleep, I ended up calming my raccoon down by promising that—as soon as I get the chance, the second the curse is broken—I’m going to let Ash know that I recognize him as my fated mate.
I don’t want to follow in Honey’s footsteps.
She knew all along that Max was hers, but because she was convinced that the Alpha wouldn’t want a prey shifter as a mate, she used a wearable charm similar to human perfume to hide her scent.
Instead of stinking like artificial flowers, she had no scent at all…
and no way for Max to figure out she was meant for him.
In passing, I asked Ash if he still has use of his nose. I was probably more relieved than I should’ve been to hear that, as a ghost, he can’t smell anything at all—including the marker in my scent that would reveal that I’m his fated mate.
I know, though. To be honest, I think I suspected as much when I was sixteen and caught that first whiff of bergamot.
I wasn’t quite a mature shifter yet. I didn’t know for sure that the preppy opossum standing with Honey was my future mate, but the way his muted scent slammed into me yesterday, triggering both my raccoon and the mating bond, I can’t deny it any longer.
Ashton Morgan is supposed to be mine, but how can I dangle the promise of forever with him when we don’t even know if he’ll still exist tomorrow thanks to this inexplicable curse?
Plus, he’s dealing with the fact that someone cursed him into a supernatural coma.
Why should I add the cherry on the shit sundae that’s become his life by going: surprise! You’re stuck with Roxy Kane!
I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy and I am Roxy Kane.
There’s a reason why raccoon shifters usually stick with other raccoons.
My mom is a raccoon. My dad is a raccoon.
Crystal’s mate Edward is a raccoon. Very few supes can handle us, and so many members of the clan don’t even wait for their fated mate.
They pick whatever local raccoon they can tolerate—who’s not related to them—and claim them as their chosen mate.
Not me. Maybe I did always know that there was a male out there, meant for me.
Despite the handful of lovers I’ve had, I had two rules: no finishing inside of me and no marking.
I could have casual sex for fun without the threat of being bonded to the wrong male, and my handpicked partners were too afraid of me to try anything.
I often said I’d make the male I ended up with work for me. Deep down, it’s because I suspected there wouldn’t be a male… unless Fate smiled on me and my poor raccoon and brought one particular opossum back into my life.
And there he is. Smiling a crooked smile as he casts his gaze over my bedhead, the sleep shorts I went to bed in, and the oversized t-shirt that features an opossum on one tit, and raccoon on the other, and the words ‘TEAM TRASH’ emblazoned beneath them.
It slipped off my shoulder, and I notice when his gaze lingers on the spot where my neck and shoulder meet.
He likes me in my low-cut, V-neck tees. He likes me in my leather jacket. He likes me in my pajamas… know what? I think I might be Ash’s type after all.
Good thing, too, since I am his mate. And though he doesn’t know that yet, as I watch him in return I can’t help but notice a few things of my own.
Is it just me or has his front canines elongated a little? Not like one of those fanged corpses, either, but a male who has the sudden urge to bite?
I raise my eyebrows at him. He realizes that his lips had parted, revealing his teeth. Flushing slightly—something that should be hard for a ghost to do, but I see it because now I’m still watching him—he closes his mouth and looks away.
I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. I look like I just rolled out of bed, and he obviously picked up on my rough night, but the way he was watching me just now… I’m feeling a lot better about my mating prospects than I was a few seconds ago.
So I won’t tell him right away. But the second we fix this and I’m dealing with Ash the male and not Ash the ghost…
yeah. He’s mine—he’s ours—and there isn’t a single soul in Moonburrow that will stop me from using every trick in my bag to convince Ashton Morgan that he wants a raccoon for his forever mate.
It shouldn’t be that much longer. I spoke to Riordan again last night.
He got in contact with the coven and gave his approval to invite a national witch to come to Moonburrow.
The witch—Penelope Willows—is in the middle of a mission currently, but Olivia was right: she should be in town by the end of next week.
It’s only Saturday, though, and based on my frequent trips to snatch treats from Honey’s display case on the weekend, it’ll be busy at the bakery even if there wasn’t a body found in the dumpster yesterday.
That’s why, at seven-thirty, after I changed, brushed my hair, my teeth, and downed another cup of coffee, I’ve decided that whatever supernatural nonsense is happening in my life right now doesn’t change the fact that I promised Honey I’d run Dough You Believe in Magic while she was gone.
To admit that I can’t would clue her in to what’s going on in Moonburrow.
Not gonna happen. I’m going to head across town, check on Ash’s car to make sure all of his belongings are in one place until he needs them, and open the bakery at some point before morning ends.
I expect a shit ton of customers even if I’m not Honey. Nothing brings the lookie-loos out like gossip and murder, and with the bakery being the scene of another kind of, sort of death, half off Moonburrow will want to stop by and get the story.
Whatever. I’m just hoping that the would-be killer/prick who cursed Ash decides to stop by for a croissant and a look around to see the results of their handiwork.
You know, like how the villain always returns to the scene of the crime…
hopefully they will and Ash can pick them out of the crowd and we won’t need the cursebreaker to fix him.
I don’t even ask if he’s coming with me or not.
Sure, we’re leaving his body upstairs in the bedroom—with that door locked, and my shop shut down so no one can get to him while we’re gone—but my raccoon believes that the essence of our mate…
the soul of him… should be within sensing reach at all times.
This is something I can agree on, and when I tell Ash and Gus it’s time to head to work, I’m not surprised that they both agree.
To be honest, I would’ve happily left Gus behind to watch over Ash’s body.
It feels like an eternity since my first day at the bakery considering everything that’s happened since I closed up yesterday afternoon, but while Gus seems to be tolerating me a little more since we’ve partnered up to help Honey’s cousin, I think it’s a better idea all around if I keep the little opossum in my sight, too.