Possessed By the Demon (Mystic Ridge Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 1 Charlie

CHARLIE

The Whitfield Estate glowed in the late afternoon light.

Golden rays filtered through ancient oaks whose shadows moved independently of the breeze - subtle enough to dismiss at first glance, persistent enough to make you look twice.

The mansion's honey-colored stone seemed to hold the sunlight, while the gardens stretched out in impossible perfection.

Roses that never wilted lined the pathways, fountains caught light at unnatural angles, and hedges so precisely trimmed they might have shaped themselves overnight.

The runway stretched across the back lawn like a gleaming white ribbon, elegant and pristine.

Sixteen vendors working in perfect harmony, twenty-two models preparing for what Priscilla insisted would be a "revolutionary moment in fashion," and me, making sure it all came together without anyone getting hurt or sued.

It was actually kind of magical, watching it all—

"CHARLIE!"

The first shout was loud enough to startle a flock of birds from the oak trees.

"WHERE'S CHARLIE?”

And there was the follow-up that could probably be heard from the next county.

Priscilla's voice carried across the estate with the urgency of someone announcing the apocalypse, which in her world probably meant the canapés weren't artistic enough.

I'd learned to interpret Priscilla-speak: High pitched yelling at all times.

I emerged from behind the catering tent where I'd been playing referee between a bartender and a server who was convinced the champagne flutes had "bad energy." In most places, that would be nonsense. In Mystic Ridge, I'd learned to take it seriously and keep spell-neutralizing dish soap stocked.

"Right here, Priscilla," I yelled.

She gestured dramatically at the perfectly adequate light setup spanning the runway. "The lighting is completely wrong! It needs to evoke ancient forest magic, not a grocery store parking lot!"

I checked my clipboard and scanned today's list of impossible demands. "What exactly does ancient forest magic look like?"

"More... mystical!"

Right. I made a note to have the crew adjust the filters. Again. Fourth time today, but who was counting?

My headset buzzed. "Charlie, we got a problem."

There's always a problem. "Hit me."

"Three models locked themselves in the bathroom.

Something about the mirrors showing their 'true nature' instead of their faces.

And the tall redhead is asking if we have anything warm.

The really fresh kind, if you know what I mean.

Also, someone wants to know if you can fix a torn seam on one of the dresses. "

I rubbed my temples. "I'm the event coordinator, not the seamstress. Tell them to find Priscilla's assistant for alterations. Handle the mirror situation with some creative lighting. And tell Red she signed a dietary waiver - whatever she needs is between her and catering."

"Copy."

I clicked off and surveyed the beautiful disaster spread across the estate grounds.

My phone rang. Raina's name flashed across the screen.

"Tell me you're calling to save me," I answered.

"Better. I'm calling to offer you work."

"I'm already working. Currently preventing a fashion show from becoming a circus act. And I'm booked solid for a year."

"This is different. High-profile client. Once in a lifetime opportunity. The kind of gig that could set you up for a long time."

I stopped walking. Raina didn't oversell opportunities."What's the catch?"

"No catch. Just... maybe bring extra insurance forms. And keep your receipts for equipment replacement."

"Where are you right now?" she asked.

"Whitfield Estate. Priscilla's fashion show. Why?"

"Perfect."

Before I could ask what was perfect about this day, my headset erupted in static and shouting. Something about stolen flowers and a missing model. Par for the course.

"Raina, I—"

"Talk to you soon. Trust me on this one."

She hung up, leaving me staring at my phone while mayhem erupted around me.

A production assistant ran past carrying an armload of fabric that seemed to shimmer on its own.

Somewhere behind me, Priscilla was having what sounded like an artistic breakdown involving the words "vision" and "philistines. "

I pocketed the phone and headed toward whatever fresh hell was waiting in the dressing area.

But something about Raina's call nagged at me.

Equipment replacement? In my line of work, that usually meant one of two things: either the client was planning something spectacularly ambitious, or they were spectacularly dangerous.

In Mystic Ridge, it was usually both.

The next hour passed in a blur of chaos.

Priscilla's lighting crisis escalated into a full artistic emergency when she decided the current setup was "crushing her creative spirit with its mundane brutality.

" I dug through my emergency kit for safety pins to handle a model's wardrobe malfunction.

Because of course I carry an entire tackle box of crisis solutions.

What kind of amateur coordinator would I be otherwise?

And that's when the lights started cooperating.

Not just working - actually responding to Priscilla's increasingly dramatic demands.

When she gestured wildly and declared she needed "ethereal moonlight filtering through ancient canopies," the spots dimmed and shifted to exactly that.

When she demanded "the warm embrace of a sunset kiss," the lighting somehow achieved that too.

"How are they doing that?" I asked Jada, who was handling the model situation with her usual unflappable efficiency.

She looked up from pinning a hem, silver hair catching the mysteriously perfect lighting. "Doing what?"

"The lights. They're actually listening to her."

Jada glanced around, pointed ears twitching slightly. "Huh. That is weird. Even for us."

But Priscilla was finally happy, the models were dressed and ready, and somehow everything was falling into place with an ease that felt almost too good to be true. I decided not to question the small miracle of cooperative lighting equipment.

The show began right on schedule. The first model stepped onto the runway wearing a flowing gown that shifted from deep emerald to midnight blue as she moved, the fabric seeming to capture and hold the light like liquid starlight.

The second followed in a structured jacket that sparkled subtly with each step, tiny points of light dancing across the lapels like captured fireflies.

"Look at that," Jada murmured beside me, her eyes wide with genuine appreciation. "The way that dress moves... it's like watching water flow."

"And the shoes," I added, watching as the model's heels shifted through the color spectrum with each footfall, leaving brief trails of shimmer behind. "I've never seen anything like them."

"Priscilla might be dramatic, but she's also brilliant," Jada said as the next model appeared in a cape that billowed with impossible grace, its edges seeming to blur and refocus like heat waves. "This isn't just fashion."

"It's wearable art," I finished, genuinely impressed. A cocktail dress that deepened from blush pink to wine red based on the angle of view made the guests gasp in delight.

Guest murmurs grew more appreciative with each piece. Even I had to admit it - no wonder Priscilla had been so particular about the lighting setup. When you're showcasing clothes that respond to movement and light in ways that shouldn't have been possible, every detail mattered.

As the show concluded to enthusiastic applause, I spotted my lighting crew and made my way over. "That was incredible work tonight. I don't know how you managed to make the lighting so responsive to what Priscilla wanted, but whatever you did was pure magic."

The head tech exchanged a quick glance with his assistant before shrugging. "You know how it is in Mystic Ridge, Charlie. Sometimes the equipment just... does what it wants."

His assistant nodded sagely. "Old venue like this, lots of... atmospheric influences. Makes our job easier when everything aligns properly."

They were trying way too hard to look casual, but there wasn't time to puzzle it out.

For the first time all day, everything was perfect.

I was doing a final sweep of the VIP area when I noticed him leaning against one of the estate's stone columns. Tall, dark-haired, and so absurdly attractive I actually forgot what I was supposed to be doing.

He definitely wasn't on my guest list.

I walked over, professional smile in place. "I'm sorry, sir, but this area is reserved for VIP."