Chapter 16
Owen
We walk from my place over to the back lot of the station as the sky starts bleeding lavender into gray.
Still early, still quiet—perfect.
“Wow, sunrise makes the town look soft,” she muses, and I smile.
I growl deep in my throat and glance over at Megan, who’s adjusting the flannel shirt I gave her.
It swallows her frame, and for some reason that makes something primal in me want to throw her over my shoulder, jog back to my place, and never let her leave again.
Instead, I reach for her, catch her chin between my fingers, and I kiss her.
She blinks up at me, startled.
Then she melts.
Soft and sure, her lips part, and I take advantage, deepening it for just a second longer than I should. Her hand finds my chest, not pushing away, just resting there like she needs the contact as much as I do.
I pull back reluctantly. “Good morning, Agent DiNapoli.”
She squints. “Did you just bribe me with a kiss, so I won’t yell at you for dragging me in here before sunrise?”
“Bribe?” I smirk. “No. That was a tax.”
She snorts and turns around, muttering something about “cop math.”
We slip through the side door into the station. It’s empty for now—quiet, almost peaceful.
I grab two mugs from the break room and pour coffee.
She’s mid-sip when the bell over the front door jingles.
Enter chaos.
Delilah barrels in from the back hallway, squealing.
“MORNING!”
“What the—?” Megan turns just as Esmerelda glides through the door, serene as always, in full-length black linen and heels sharp enough to gut a Demon.
In her hands? A giant Tupperware container stacked with what I swear are homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Behind her, Preacher lumbers in, looking like he crawled out of a crypt and lit a cigar to celebrate.
“Are those your Peppermint Schnapps Devil’s Food cookies?” Delilah doesn’t hesitate.
She zooms past us like a sugar-seeking missile and launches herself at the cookies.
Esmerelda lowers the container just in time to avoid a collision.
Then she stops —“Wait—did you two bang? Already?! Wow! Fast work, Sheriff.”
I snarl.
I can’t fucking help it. And yeah, that’s pretty much the start of what’s bound to be a just another day in Arrhythmia.
After a round of uncomfortable questions followed by some snarling and jaw snapping, we’re ready to start talking, only Delilah is still chomping cookies.
“Good gods, child,” Esmerelda chides, “those are still hot!”
Megan’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
So fucking cute.
Preacher excuses himself to take a call—“Another soul in need,” he murmurs, and just shrugs.
The whole while I’m watching Megan, wondering if and when she’s gonna freak out and leave running.
Arrhythmia’s a lot.
And if you’re new here—like Megan is—a lot doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Try a Texas-sized supernatural smorgasbord where curses outnumber street signs and ghosts have permanent zip codes.
But instead of panicking, instead of tucking tail or hyperventilating over her coffee, my little Jersey Girl leans that gorgeous, unshakeable ass on the edge of my desk and stares down a literal witch and warlock like they’re just a PTA meeting she didn’t RSVP to.
“So,” Megan says, calm as you please, “what can you tell us about the Crypts?”
But then—of course—she turns to me, narrowing her eyes like she just caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. Which she kinda did.
“Wait. Did the Sorceress bring baked goods?”
I try not to laugh. “She always does. It’s part of the ritual.”
“Ritual?” she echoes, like she’s not sure if I’m screwing with her.
“She bakes before battle. Calms her nerves,” I explain, just as Delilah sprints by clutching two cookies to her chest like she’s smuggling gold.
Megan’s eyes widen. “Should I be concerned she’s doing a whole Betty Crocker goes to Hell thing before a demonic site inspection?”
“Yes,” Preacher deadpans, “but they’re damn good cookies.”
Before she can process that, I break off a chunk of mine and press it to her lips.
She blinks. Then chews.
Then, through a full mouth, “Circle back. Did you just say battle?”
I shrug. “Figure of speech.”
Esmerelda chooses that moment to chime in, serene and spine-chilling. “I also brought Hellfire magic. And a sacrificial dagger.”
Megan stares. “Of course you did.”
I sip my coffee. “That’s what we call balance here in Texas.”
“You gonna do the hokey Sheriff thing now? Tip your hat and say, ‘Ma’am, I do declare this town haunted?’”
“Now you’re just making fun of me.”
Megan exhales like she’s trying to suppress a scream. I watch her carefully. Wait to see if I’ve pushed too hard.
But then—she snorts.
One sharp, disbelieving laugh. Like a pressure valve releasing just enough steam to keep her upright.
She’s not panicking.
Not my girl. Nah. She’s in it.
She tucks a curl behind her ear, straightens her spine, and faces our little supernatural task force like she’s been doing this all her life.
Goddamn, I’m proud.
This woman—this psychic, curvy, kiss-swollen badass who mated a territorial Wolf Shifter less than twelve hours ago—is rolling with curses and Hellmouth logistics like she’s part of the team.
No. Like she’s leading it.
Esmerelda eyes her, unreadable. “You’re not what I expected.”
Megan doesn’t flinch. “You and me both, sister.”
My heart pounds.
She’s mine. And the whole fucking world better get used to it.
“Alright,” Esmerelda says, business-mode engaged. “For an infestation of this size, we’ll need a strong plan. And we can’t strike until the full moon.”
“The full moon?” Megan arches an eyebrow.
“Tomorrow night,” I answer before Esmerelda can.
She turns to me, eyebrow still up. “You and the moon have a thing?”
“Yeah. Love-hate relationship.” I rub the back of my neck. “Wolf used to depend on it to shift.”
“But that stopped with the Curse of Natalis,” she says without missing a beat.
My jaw ticks. She knows that?
“Yes,” I nod slowly, heat rising in my chest. “That curse ended, thanks to the blood rites, but there are others. Especially legacy curses. Family-specific.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Are you telling me you have some sort of legacy curse on you, Owen?”
My throat tightens.
“We’ll talk about it later,” I say, then glance at Preacher and Esmerelda who are watching our exchange like it’s Season 6 of some slow-burn romance they’re finally getting payoff for.
Preacher clears his throat and unrolls a massive, weathered blueprint across the desk. It stretches end to end—Crypt Mansion and all fifty acres of cursed soil it sits on.
“Here’s the lay of the land,” he rumbles. “Mansion’s here, obviously.” He jabs a finger at the ornate structure dead center of the map. “But the real trouble is underground. Catacombs snake out like veins in every direction.”
“How far out?” Megan asks, stepping closer.
“Hard to say. The archives you dug up had only the town approved additions on it. Our survey showed many more,” Esmerelda says.
“Some parts collapse, reform, stretch. Warlock magic. Unstable. But we do know the four anchor points.” She taps four corners on the map.
“Northmost. Southmost. East. West. We’ll need to set wards here, here, here, and here. ”
“Type of wards?” Megan asks.
“Blood-sealed,” Preacher says. “Mixed with Demon-bane ash, salt-iron, and lunar-etched obsidian. I’ll do the binding. Esmerelda will prep the spell matrix.”
“And us?” Megan gestures between the two of us.
“We’ll secure the perimeter,” I say. “You and I sweep the house tomorrow morning. Make sure nothing moves before it’s time. That includes warding the nursery.”
Her eyes flick up. “There’s a nursery?”
I nod grimly. “Ghost child. Name was Ruby. Been seen in the windows since before the last owners burned.”
“Fuck me,” she mutters.
Then glances at Delilah, who’s now licking cookie crumbs off her fingers like she was raised by animals—no pun intended.
“Language,” I murmur.
“I was trained by a Witch who would bring a murder-dagger in her purse to work every day.”
“Touché.”
Preacher rolls up the blueprint and hands it to me.
“Meet at the north point tomorrow, an hour before dusk. Full moon rises at 7:11 p.m. sharp.”
“Any chance we can finish before midnight?” Megan asks, arching a brow.
“No promises,” Esmerelda says. “But if we do it right, the mansion will be neutralized by sunrise.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then hell bleeds through. And we all die horribly,” Preacher says.
Megan blinks. “Well. Guess I’ll bring snacks.”