Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Liam
I pop the trunk, pull out my battered black leather suitcase, and click the lid shut, my fingers gliding over the car’s recently polished, smooth curves.
The deep burgundy glimmers in the afternoon sun, a stark contrast to the whitewall tires.
Numerous museums and private collectors have beseeched me to retire it from the road, asserting its place is in a gallery, but my perspective differs.
It’s crafted with both aesthetic appeal and utility in mind. Beautiful objects are meant to be used and enjoyed, not merely displayed.
Smoke curls from the stone chimney, presumably from the kitchen, given the layout of the establishment I looked up online in the old records.
I make my way along a stone path, taking the wooden stairs to the porch two at a time.
Before I can grab the brass knocker shaped like an owl’s head, the door swings open, and I’m faced with a willowy woman.
Her silvery-blonde hair is precariously piled atop her head in a chaotic jumble of curlers.
A burnt-orange midi dress flows beneath, and her feet are clad in vibrant yellow fuzzy house slippers.
“Tall, dark, and furry,” she says as she gazes up at me, her sharp cheekbones accentuated by even sharper blue eyes, only a hint of crow’s-feet crinkling at their corners. She clutches a crystal ball to her chest, tapping at it with long orange fingernails. “I knew it. I just knew it.”
“Pardon? I’m looking for Evie Hawthorne.
This is the Brews and Broomsticks Bed-and-Breakfast?
” I glance back at the wooden sign swinging out front near the street, then return my attention to the woman at the door.
The scent of smoke and sage wafts off her as she rocks back and forth on her feet, lips pressed together as she assesses me.
Without another word, she turns and disappears into another room, leaving me stranded in the open doorway.
The truth is, I don’t need to stay at this establishment, but the item I’m worried will be stolen next is rumored to be displayed in this very house.
Norman Sandford confirmed he’d seen an object matching its description in the dining room several winters ago during a Christmas party the police department hosted here.
The investigation began with the reported theft of a significant artifact the owner identified as “the chalice.” It was an invaluable family heirloom, and their pockets were deep when it came to paying for its recovery.
Weeks later, a second, equally valuable item, identified as “the pentacle,” was stolen. The proximity of the two thefts, along with the high-profile nature of the items, suggested a potential connection that warranted further investigation.
My early research unearthed a compelling legend: the stolen items were originally part of a set of four objects, each supposedly imbued with distinct magical properties.
Centuries ago, the artifacts were said to have been bestowed upon four daughters, who later dispersed and established their own family lineages.
Despite my skepticism toward folk tales, being a jaguar shifter from a long lineage of them and having moved between magic-heavy cities means I can’t dismiss magic outright.
Shifters, vampires, witches, and even several forms of monsters exist. I’ve worked alongside many of them, as well as humans and other nonmagical beings.
My disbelief lies only in the notion that one item could be so imbued with power as to become an artifact.
Those are the things of legends and bedtime stories meant to empower or frighten children.
Stories of lamps granting wishes, families cursed for generations, and monsters snatching children from their beds.
No, the time we live in is one of small magic and hard work. Everything else is a carefully woven tale meant to explain the unknown and give shape to our fears.
After the second theft, I spent weeks meticulously researching the four families descended from the original recipients of the artifacts. I traced genealogies, examined historical records, and sought out any surviving lore or traditions associated with the ancient objects.
There had to be some connection that could lead me to the thief.
But right under my nose, as I traveled to the last known location of “the sword,” it was stolen.
The trip didn’t leave me empty-handed, however. The third family had a more extensive lineage report, providing the breakthrough that led me to the Hawthorne family.
Which is how I find myself standing on the doorstep of the elusive Brews and Broomsticks Bed-and-Breakfast, armed with the knowledge that I’m potentially within reach of the remaining artifact.
“Hello?” I step over the threshold just as another woman with the same sharp cheekbones comes bustling down the stairs, cheeks flushed.
“You must be Liam.” She pauses at the foot of the stairs, the swell of her breasts rising above the apron tied around her neck and waist, accentuating her curved hips.
The air in the foyer suddenly feels hot despite the cool fall breeze carrying in the scent of smoke, mingling with her sweet apple, cinnamon, and clove scent like warm apple fritters fresh from the oven.
She smells good, the jaguar in my head rumbles.
“I’m so sorry. I was upstairs and—”
It takes everything in me to tear my gaze away and force myself to look at her face as the jaguar urges me to go to her.
What is wrong with you? We’re on a case here.
She lifts a hand to her long blonde hair threaded with pink, tucking it behind her ears as she peers at me with soft baby-blue eyes through round, wire-rimmed glasses.
Her gaze drops to the suitcase in my hand.
“Oh, let me help you with that. Normally, we have a bellhop who comes in, but he’s off today. I can show you to your room. Here’s the key,” she rambles as she holds out her palm, offering me an antique brass key while reaching for my luggage with the other hand.
Her nails are bitten down to the quick, a telltale sign of anxiety I immediately note.
I hold the suitcase out of her reach and clasp her small, warm hand in mine, pausing for a few moments before my fingers close around the key.
“Don’t worry. I can carry my things. Just show me to the room.” My voice comes out deeper than I intend, and I catch the quickening of the pulse in her throat and the way she bites her lower lip, leaving little impressions in the soft flesh.
“Yes, right. Follow me.” She turns and nimbly takes the stairs, and I trail behind, letting my hand glide over the smooth wooden railing.
“The room you’re staying in has a private bathroom. Breakfast is ready between six and nine thirty.”
She stops at the end of the hall, brow furrowing as she crosses her arms over her chest, fingers tapping against her biceps.
“How long did you say you were staying again?”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, um, well, how long do you think you’ll be staying? We haven’t exactly gone over rates, and—”
“Two weeks. I need to be back in the city by the end of the month, and I’m hoping to have the case closed by then. I fully intend to pay for the two weeks even if I finish early.” I try to act nonchalant while every instinct in me screams to run my fingers through her hair.
“Oh, you really don’t have to do that. I’m sure we can find another guest if you end up leaving early. Shall I email you a bill, or do you prefer a handwritten—” She stops and rushes into the room.
I follow her, placing my suitcase on the wooden dresser as she stands on tiptoes, pulling the large glass window down.
“I must have left it open earlier when I was checking on the—Ouch!”
The window slams closed, and she falls backward, landing on her bottom. A bead of blood wells on the tip of her finger, silver lining her eyes as she stares at it. I drop to my knees, pulling an embroidered white handkerchief from my pocket.
“Here, let me.” I take her hand and inspect the finger, but it appears she’s only pinched it in the frame. I apply pressure with the handkerchief. “Just a superficial wound. It’ll heal quickly.”
“I thought you were a detective, not a doctor,” she quips but doesn’t pull away or tremble beneath my touch.
“No, but growing up in a family of jaguar shifters, you see a scratch or two.”
“Jaguar shifter? I can’t say I’ve met one before, so I’ll have to take your word for it.” Her eyebrows rise as she appraises me.
I inhale sharply, realizing how close I am to the witch as my senses are overcome by her heady, intoxicating scent.
Mine, the jaguar growls.
A pleased rumble vibrates in my chest at our proximity, and I lean closer, nearly nuzzling her face before abruptly standing.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head to clear the haze and step back, offering her a hand. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She plasters a smile on her face and clutches the handkerchief in her fist. Ignoring my proffered hand, she pushes to her feet before moving past me to the door.
She murmurs under her breath, and I nearly miss her next words despite my heightened shifter hearing. “I’m fine, save for my ego.”
“Thank you—”
“I’ll leave the bill by the door before morning,” she says before disappearing into the hall.
“Wait, Evie.” I spring after her, but she’s already gone. The only trace of her left is the sweet scent of fall lingering in the air.
I close the door behind me, remove my jacket, hang it in the closet, and take off my shoes.
It was a long drive from the heart of Pennsylvania to Pumpkin Hollow.
I’ll start my investigation into “the wand” and potential thieves tomorrow.
The last thing I need to worry about is a curvy blonde business owner who radiates anxiety like a nuclear bomb and clouds my thoughts with her very presence.
I pull back the downy embroidered comforter and stretch out on the king-sized mattress, sighing as my body sinks into the memory foam. I have to admit, this is one of the most comfortable places I’ve ever had the pleasure of staying.
Even if her scent lingers in the air.
I roll over, and the scent grows stronger, mingling with the fresh detergent.
I prowl around the room, opening my senses.
Dropping to my knees, I peer under the bed and spot a small silky scrap of fabric bunched up beneath it.
I bring it to my face and inhale deeply, the corners of my mouth curling up as I recognize her scent.
That belongs to our witch. This room smells like our witch.
“Yes, it does.” I glance around the room, her words about the whole place being booked echoing in my mind. “What an interesting, selfless little witch.”