Chapter 1
“Now you might believe you don’t need a machete for a business conference,” I said calmly to my mate, “but some would say they’re a necessary tool for outdoor survival.”
Thorn Grantham’s blond eyebrow rose and he cocked his usual handsome grin. “Really, Nat? For a conference at the Holiday Inn in Montana?”
I pursed my lips while my gaze swept over the three suitcases I stacked against one of the bedroom walls. A part of me knew my help bordered on excessive—I did have obsessive-compulsive disorder—but the last time Thorn took a trip to California, he managed to sneak past me with only a single gym bag.
This time, I got up early to intercept him.
Try leaving the house without a first-aid kit this time, pal.
“Last I heard, the city of Helena doesn’t have any jungles,” Thorn said.
“Zombie outbreak?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Sirens tempting men to their deaths?”
“Montana doesn’t have a coastline, babe.”
I folded my arms. Fine.
Thorn reached for me, and I slid into the warmth of his arms. His heartbeat—strong and steady—thrummed against my cheek. Now this is what bliss feels like. Just me and my mate existing. Loving.
He rested his lips against the top of my head and murmured words I couldn’t make out.
I leaned back. “What did you say?”
Mischief danced in his hazel eyes. “When I get back, you’ll find out.”
“If you keep this up, I might not be here when you return.”
“Uh huh.” He winked and let me go. To my dismay he took one suitcase and placed the other two in a pile near the closet.
If he ran out of tighty-whities, it wasn’t my fault.
We strolled hand-in-hand through our cottage from our bedroom to the front door. The sun had yet to rise and bring with it June’s relentless heat.
At the doorway, Thorn drew me into his arms again and his lips pressed against mine. Our kiss deepened and my toes curled from the delicious rush that flowed through me. He gently leaned me against the wall to push the long length of his body to mine.
“You sure you want to leave?” I murmured.
“Yeah, I gotta go.” He kissed my nose. “I’ll be back in a week.”
“Be careful out there. It’s been quiet for too long around here.”
“Quiet is good. You’ll be fine, Mrs. Grantham.”
If Thorn believed everything was right with the world, maybe I should believe, too.
* * *
Now that I had one less person to worry about, you’d think my work week would start drama-free.
What a hopeful fool I am this morning.
“Okay, either someone brought a sack lunch straight from hell or our janitor necromancer has a dead minion who followed him to work,” I snapped.
I scanned the expansive flea market floor, moving from one face in the crowd to the next. Not one of my four co-workers smelled like the culprit. Just another early morning at The Bend of the River Flea Market, also known as The Bends to the locals in South Toms River, New Jersey. The human shoppers, who didn’t hear my quip, browsed our wares and didn’t know about the supernatural world or the mystical objects that were sold on these shelves.
“It doesn’t smell that bad, Natalya,” a blonde next to me said.
I threw Erica a raised eyebrow. As a werewolf like me, her nose worked just as well as mine did. Maybe the cloud of designer perfume around her kept the funk at bay, but I could damn well smell it. And it stank to high heaven.
Saturday mornings never fared well for me. At eight-thirty in the morning, we had a sizable crowd hungry to rifle through the latest shipments to The Bends. My boss Bill should’ve been here complaining about the stench and ordering us to handle it. Naturally, the goblin was nowhere to be seen.
Looked like I’d get to have all the fun. As usual.
Since I couldn’t trust the cleanliness habits of my fellow employees, I followed the one thing I could: my nose, which led me through a set of wooden doors into the business office.
If I found one of the janitor’s zombie minions shuffling around the desks, he wouldn’t get an invite to the company picnic this year.
The back office was empty. No Bill either. Maybe my boss was hiding somewhere. Didn’t matter as I was on the hunt. Everything in the office was as I’d left it after the workday ended yesterday. The stack of invoices was in an ideal pile, the chairs arranged perfectly behind the desks, and even the merchandise we needed to prep for sale stood at attention.
Except for the old, beige steamer trunk on the floor.
It reeked.
Other than the foul stench emanating from within, the faded trunk was a thing of beauty with polished brass hinges and intricate clamps. The edges were slightly marred from where perhaps a dockworker long in its past had knocked it about. Under the fog of death, the saltiness of the sea still lingered.
I circled the luggage, noticing two strange things. There were strange carvings along the trunk’s backside. The etchings were so tiny the human eye would’ve assumed they were scratches and nicks. There was also a palm-sized stone next to the trunk with the same markings. Nothing else was amiss.
Until that sucker shifted to the right. No warning, just a hard push on its own—from inside. I peered over the trunk’s side to look at the front again. Something poked out. A large digit, hooked by a sharp talon and black and mottled with blue spots on the skin, tore a fist-sized hole through the leather near the seam. A four-fingered hand emerged. At least I thought it was a hand.
What in the ever-living hell?
The necrotic claws flexed along the edge, perhaps attempting to create a bigger hole. The stench of rotten eggs burned by eyes and twitched my nose. I hadn’t smelled anything that foul since my aunt Vera tossed out six-month-old cabbage that somehow hid in the back of her basement refrigerator.
I took a step back.
Another quarter of claws crept through the gap that the first had formed. Now I had two potential escapees. The first then snaked out of the hole, revealing a long gray arm, the skin dry and scaly. Together, they reached about until one of the talons found the lock along the front.
Then the trunk shook with a hard thump.
A third set of claws came out to join the first two. Were all three attached to one body, or did I have multiple foes to face?
Hell to the no.
With a gentle push—this stuff wasn’t mine—I tipped over the trunk onto its side.
“Get back in there!” I grunted.
Another thump from inside the trunk knocked me on my ass. The concrete floor in this room wasn’t forgiving. The trunk jerked to the left on the floor. I plucked the fire extinguisher off the far wall, ready to kick some ass.
Now, to be honest, this wasn’t the first magical mishap to go down at The Bends. Most problems though came from backfiring fairy wands to jock-itch-inducing jewelry. Cruise trunks containing monsters trying to break out was madness at a whole new level. Poised over the gray appendage, ready to knock that puppy back in, I bent back to do the yo-heave-ho when the customer service bell rang.
Under most circumstances, pretty much all of them, the bell would’ve had me scrambling like a werewolf caught butt-naked in human-form at dawn. Today, I had no choice but to ignore it. Damn it all to hell, I wasn’t the only warm body working here.
Mid-swing that annoying shrill filled the air again.
Anxiety shot up my spine and smacked the back of my head.
Let it go, Nat.
I hit the arm hard with the fire extinguisher, and the luggage jumped. The second fist swung at me, hard and fast, but I dodged with a leap to the right. My body’s shift pushed me toward the third set of claws, which seized the chance to slam me against the wall. Office supplies stacked on the shelves rained down on me. More work for me to do, huh?
A growl rumbled in my chest. The wolf within urged me into a full-out fight. No more obsessive-compulsive tendencies for the day. No more high heels. To hell with my clean blouse and pencil skirt. I advanced on the trunk, grabbing the fire extinguisher on the way.
The shrill ring of the buzzer entered my haze.
Don’t answer it. Time to get medieval on the monster in the box.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I stormed out of the back office, fire extinguisher in hand, ready to knock out whoever thought it was a fun idea to do an Irish Line Dance on the buzzer, only to find a group of gaping nuns and a wide-eyed Erica.
“Oh, Jesus,” I whispered and hid what I held behind my back.
“Indeed, Ms. Stravinsky,” one sister, the shortest, chirped.
Erica plastered her charm on high with her debutante grin. “The Sisters of Divine Grace wanted the antique cross that came in two weeks ago.”
Ugh. If there was a hell for goblins, Bill had a first-class ticket. In truth, that antique cross was a broken T-shaped torture device from the Spanish Inquisition.
“And?” I managed. The need to be polite was pivotal here. If you crossed the “SDG,” as they were known in South Toms River, their gang-like mentality would mean ruin and dirty looks during the Christmas season.
“We’d like the cross loaded into our truck please,” the woman said, her smile crisp and unwelcoming.
“Of course—” A loud crash from the back office made everyone look past me with concern, but I didn’t miss a beat. “—we’ll have a staff member load it up for you once we process payment.”
The sound of glass breaking forced my jaw shut so tight the back of my teeth sang. “Will that be cash, check, or charge?”
“Is there a problem?” one of the nuns asked. Fear blossomed in the sweat of the tallest one who peered at me with suspicion.
One of the clerks, a fire witch named Millicent, paused from checking out another customer at the register and gave me the look. The should-I-stop-what-I’m-doing-and-make-a run-for-it look? I wouldn’t be hearing a Braveheart rallying cry from her anytime soon.
“I need to see about a trunk,” I said as I backed away. “Ms. Holden will assist you with payment while our staff prepares your cross. It will be a lovely addition to Sunday Mass, I’m sure.”
The moment the sisters turned around, I hightailed it to the back office. What was left of it.
Holy shit.
One desk was toppled on its side, pens and paperclips scattered across the floor. I stepped over a broken stapler to inspect the new panes of glass we planned to use to replace a broken display case window, now shattered to glittery bits. And finally the coup de grâce, that stinky escapee smashed the box of week-old donuts Bill had left out for his employees. The dry jelly donuts bled their gooey centers all over the floor like a ravaged strawberry field.
There was no trunk or stone, but a revolting trail of grayish goo oozed from the center of the room to the busted-out double dock doors.
The odor was so bad that I pulled my collar over my nose as I drew closer to where the trunk had sat. Fear pulsed through me. Something magical, something strange that I never encountered until now, had been here.
From behind me, the doors to the main floor opened.
“So, Nat—” Erica stopped cold. “What happened?”
I pointed toward what was left of the dock doors. “Our merchandise just made a run for it.”
