This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Shift Happens
COPYRIGHT © 2020 by Carrie Pulkinen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: www.CarriePulkinen.com
Cover Art by Rebecca Poole of Dreams2Media
Edited by Krista Venero of Mountains Wanted
First Edition, 2020
Shift Happens
New Orleans Nocturnes Book 2
Carrie Pulkinen
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Become a VIP Reader
Also by Carrie Pulkinen
About the Author
She wants to bang a werewolf, not become one.
Sophie Burroughs is determined to be a witch. Her grandmother was a witch. All the other supes say she smells like a witch, but she can’t cast a spell to save her life.
Sprouting fur is so not on her to-do list.
But when a smokin' hot werewolf bites her and then accuses her of crimes against his pack, she has until the next full moon to prove him wrong and stop his magic from transforming her into a wolf.
A romp in the sack would be a nice bonus, too.
Trace Thibodeaux didn’t mean to bite Sophie. The red wolves have been cursed, she's the prime suspect, and if he wants to keep his rank in the pack, he has to end her magic by any means necessary.
But that doesn’t include sheathing his sword in a witch’s scabbard.
He’s gotten into bed with the enemy before, and that’s a mistake he’ll never make again.
Or will he?
If you like funny heroines and smoldering shifters, you'll love this steamy paranormal romantic comedy.
Chapter One
“If doing this buck naked doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.” Sophie Burroughs dropped her blue silk robe onto the back of a chair and smoothed a soiled shirt on the kitchen table. She ran her finger over her grandmother’s handwritten incantation in the grimoire, tapping the line beneath the title. “It says, ‘A simple spell to remove stains from clothing.’ Simplicity must be the key, and you can’t get any simpler than being buck naked.”
“I think the preferred term is ‘skyclad.’” Jane, her vampire best friend, leaned against the wall, peering at Sophie’s ancestral book. “And I don’t think being naked is going to make it any easier to cast a spell.”
“Hey, being naked makes a lot of things easier. Sex. Shaving. You don’t have to do laundry.” She ticked the list off on her fingers. “Anyway, I read about this online. Some witches perform their spells naked because it intensifies their magic. Maybe my grandma was one of them.”
Jane scrunched her nose. “Ew. Now I’m picturing a wrinkly old lady with sagging boobs dancing naked around a bonfire. Thanks.”
“She was twenty-five when she died, and she was gorgeous. I’ve seen pictures.”
“I still don’t think it’s going to help.”
“You never know until you try.” Sophie scanned the short incantation one more time, though she’d already memorized it during the first seven times she tried to cast the damn spell.
Jane grabbed her boobs through her red cashmere sweater, pushing them together and up before narrowing her eyes at Sophie’s. “I should have gotten implants while I was alive. Yours are fabulous.”
“Oh, please.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Yours will stay perky for all eternity, while I’ve got about twenty years tops before gravity comes a-callin’. Besides, the hottest vampire in New Orleans thinks you’re utterly perfect, so I don’t want to hear it.” Sophie jerked her head toward the exit. “Either get naked or get out. I don’t want anything contaminating this spell. It has to work this time.”
Jane lifted her hands, a look of pity softening her eyes. “I’ll be in the living room.” She flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder and strutted out of the kitchen.
Sophie closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and trying her damnedest to sense some kind of magic sparking inside her. Nothing happened, as usual, but she ignored the empty sensation like she ignored her best friend’s looks of sympathy every time one of her grandma’s spells refused to be cast. Which was literally every time.
If she could just get one to work—any spell, it didn’t matter which at this point—she could prove she belonged in the coven and finally get those secretive bitches—err…witches—to accept her. It was her destiny. A palm reader told her so.
Focusing on the stain, she recited the spell three times, each repetition growing louder, intensifying along with her frustration. As she ended the final chant, she swiped her hand across the fabric, exactly like the directions told her to do, and waited, willing the damn spot to disappear. Nothing happened.
“Fuck me with a wooden dildo. I give up.” She jabbed her arms into the robe sleeves, cinching the belt around her waist before dropping into a chair.
“The Sophie I know never gives up.” Jane appeared in the doorway faster than Sophie could blink and sank into the chair next to her. Damn vampires and their super-speed. They could also wipe a person’s mind and make them dumber than a turkey lining up for Thanksgiving dinner—at least for a short period of time. It was so unfair.
“Meet the new Sophie, quitter extraordinaire.” She crossed her arms, and as her bottom lip poked out in a pout, she left it there. Even badass bitches deserved a little pity party every now and then.
Jane shook her head, leaning an elbow on the table and flashing that look of pity again. “You’re not a quitter. You moved five hundred miles away from home to expand your business on the advice of a fortune teller, and you’re doing great. This magic stuff is weird. A lot of it boils down to fate and meant-to-be crap that I never believed in before, but listen…” She grasped Sophie’s hand. “You can’t force it. If you’re meant to have powers, they’ll come when it’s time. Good goat cheese, do you hear me? I’m starting to sound like Ethan.”
“Great. And in the meantime, I’ll just stay the awkward weirdo who gets along better with animals than she does people.” She touched the scabbed-over bite marks on her forearm. “Most animals.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I’m married to a drama queen. I don’t need this shit from my best friend too. You and I both know you’re not a weirdo; lots of people are good with animals, and that’s a werewolf bite. It doesn’t count.”
She pulled her sleeve down, covering the wound. “Whoever it was, they were in animal form when they bit me. Has Gaston had any luck figuring out who did it?”
“None. Apparently, it’s illegal for werewolves to bite witches without permission, and since you smell like a witch and had a witch grandmother, the entire supernatural community is being tight-lipped about it.”
She leaned an elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand. “Fabulous.” The one time they acted like Sophie was actually a witch, she didn’t want them to.
“How’s it healing? Do you need me to lick it again?”
“It’s fine.” Sophie laughed. Vampire spit had healing properties, but she wo
uld never get used to hearing Jane talk about this stuff like it was the most normal thing in the world. “My best friend just offered to lick my wounds. Maybe I’m not the weirdo in this pair after all.”
“You’re definitely not.”
Sophie sighed and flipped the grimoire shut. The leather spine creaked as the cover closed over the thousand-plus pages of secrets Sophie apparently wasn’t meant to be privy to. “I think I’ve found a witch who might be willing to help me. She lives upstairs and runs the coffee shop on the first floor.”
“Are you sure she’s a witch? Have you asked her?”
“Not yet. She’s kinda my last hope, so I’m giving it time, getting to know her before I start bombarding her with questions.”
Jane nodded, tapping a finger to her temple. “Smart.”
“I just can’t believe I did this, you know?”
“Did what?”
She toyed with the belt on her robe. “Moved here on the advice of a psychic.”
Jane patted her hand. “You also moved here to be with your BFF.”
“I know, but I got so caught up in the apparent magic of the situation, I couldn’t see it for what it really was. A coincidence.”
“You’ve always been a believer, and that psychic did come highly recommended. I read the reviews after you saw her.”
Sophie had seen a palm reader on a whim one night when she was out with a few of her employees. After a flourish of ringing bells and chanting in a language Sophie didn’t understand, the psychic told her that her business would prosper in New Orleans and if she went there, she’d find magic and a man who’d make her innermost dreams come true.
The very next day, Jane had told her she was planning a trip to the French Quarter for Mardi Gras, and Sophie pounced at the chance to make the palm reader’s premonition come true.
Now, her dog walking business was doing well, and she’d found magic alright. Her best friend was turned into a vampire the second night they were there, but the witches in the tourist shops wouldn’t give Sophie a hot minute, much less the time of day.
New Orleans was full of supernatural beings, but they blended in with the humans, leaving Sophie dancing around the edges of a magical world she wanted so badly to join. And the man who would make her innermost dreams come true? Yeah, right. Aside from the hunk she’d encountered briefly—and quickly lost—at the party last night, she hadn’t met a single man remotely capable of making her orgasm, much less making her dreams come true.
That palm reader must have had her wires crossed, because the prophecy didn’t come true for Sophie, it happened for her best friend.
“Ugh.” Sophie angled her head toward the sky. “God, Grandma Burroughs. Why did you have to die before you could teach me how to be a witch?” Her jaw clenched shut, and she shoved the grimoire away from her. The book slid across the smooth wood tabletop, teetering on the edge before falling to the floor with a thunk. Damn, that little hissy fit felt good.
“Careful. That’s an old book.” Jane slipped out of her chair and crouched on the floor to retrieve it. “Hey, Soph? Have you read the whole thing?”
“It’s more than a thousand pages. I haven’t made it past the basic stuff.” And it seemed she never would. It was time to face the facts. Sophie just wasn’t a witch.
Jane rose onto her knees, peering at her friend over the kitchen table. “A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought anything of this, but I think you need to come see the page it fell open to.”
“Why? Is it a spell to create the perfect man, because I think I found that in my cookbook. Gingerbread men. They’re quiet, sweet, and if they get on your nerves, you can bite their heads off.” She plopped cross-legged on the floor next to Jane.
“Look at the date on this.” Jane pointed to the script in the top right corner. “Wasn’t your dad born in 1963?”
Sophie nodded. “She wrote this spell a week after his birthday.”
Four lines of elegant cursive writing were positioned in the center of the otherwise blank, yellowing page.
My heir will land where the Spanish reigned.
When man turns beast, her path will be forged.
What is done will be undone.
All must be lost to find everything.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I thought spells had to rhyme.” Sophie scanned the text again. “‘My heir will land where the Spanish reigned?’ That doesn’t sound like an incantation.”
Jane picked up the grimoire, gently placing it on the table. “I think it’s a prophecy.” She turned the page. Finding it blank, she turned the next one, and then another. “The book is empty after this.”
“Because she died shortly after my dad was born.” Sophie flipped the page back to the supposed prophecy. “Do you think it’s about my dad? He’s her heir, right? Her son?”
“Could be.” Jane leaned over the grimoire, running her tongue over her teeth.
“Oh, hon, your fangs are out.” Sophie wiggled a finger at Jane’s fully extended canines. “Do you need to go?”
Jane didn’t take her eyes off the book. “I’m supposed to meet Ethan at eleven for a meal, but this is too fascinating to interrupt. Do you still have my stash in your fridge?”
“There’s a bottle of O positive on the bottom shelf. Last one.”
Jane’s lip curled as she sent a text to her husband. “I prefer O neg these days, but it’ll do. I asked Ethan to pick some up on his way home.”
“He doesn’t mind you standing him up?” Sophie opened the fridge and took out the bottle of blood—another thing she would never get used to. The mere sight of blood made Jane faint not too long ago. She popped it in the microwave to heat it as close to 98.6 degrees as she could get it and poured herself a glass of chardonnay.
“He’s with Gaston. As long as I’m home for playtime before dawn, he won’t mind.”
“You’re so lucky.” Sophie set the warmed bottle and a wine glass in front of Jane before sinking into the chair. “I’m on my third set of batteries this month.”
“You know all you’d have to do is bat your lashes, and you could have any man you wanted in your bed.”
This was true. Sophie had never had any trouble landing a man. It was holding on to one she hadn’t mastered yet. That, and finding one who actually knew his way around a woman’s body was next to impossible. If not for her trusty vibrator, she’d be wound tighter than her Spanx after an all-you-can-eat buffet. “I’m tired of casual sex. I want more. I want what you have with Ethan.”
“You’ll find it when the time is right. I know you will.”
She could have argued, but what was the point? She’d either find Mr. Right, or she wouldn’t. No use crying over milk that couldn’t be spilled because it didn’t even exist. “So, ‘land where the Spanish reigned.’ Do you think she meant Mexico? We went to Cancun once for summer vacation when I was a teenager.”
Jane chewed the inside of her cheek, her brow furrowing as she stared at the book. “I don’t think this is about your dad. Read the second line.”
“‘When man turns beast, her path will be forged.’” Sophie gasped. “‘Her path.’ But, my dad is an only child. My grandma didn’t have any female heirs.”
“She has you.”
“Me?” Her mouth dropped open. “How can it be about me? I wasn’t even a glimmer in my dad’s eye when she wrote it. He was just a baby himself.”
“It’s a prophecy, duh. It’s about the future. Look.” Jane pointed to the third line. “‘When man turns beast, her path will be forged.’ Soph, a werewolf bit you last night. That’s the very definition of a man turned beast.”
This was crazy. Sophie’s dead grandmother did not write a prophecy about her thirty years before she was born. “Okay, maybe that fits, but what about the first line? ‘The land where the Spanish reigned.’ We’re in the French quarter. All the cute little sayings here are in French: lagniappe, laissez les bons temps, and all that jazz. Ethan calls you cher, not mi amour.”
“I walk fifteen dogs a day. I’m not about to pay money to walk more.”
Jane laughed. “The Spanish were in control of New Orleans at the end of the seventeen hundreds. Most of the architecture in the French Quarter is actually Spanish.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened, and she straightened her spine. “Oh my God. We flew here the first time, so I did technically land where the Spanish reigned.” A flurry of adrenaline rolled through her veins, making her heart pound. “A man did turn into a beast, and then the sucker bit me. But what’s my path?” She clutched Jane’s shoulders, her voice coming out in a whisper. “What’s my path, Jane?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re really going to turn into a werewolf?”
Gaston, their three-hundred-year-old vampire friend, informed Sophie there was a 99% chance the bite would heal, and Sophie could get on with her life. But since her ancestor was a witch, she might have had a little dormant magic inside her that could activate the werewolf mutation and make her sprout fur at the next full moon.
Wouldn’t that be her luck? She wanted to sleep with a werewolf, not become one herself. “I obviously don’t have any magic, or I’d be able to get one of these spells to work.”
“Read the next line.” Jane pointed to the book. “‘What’s done will be undone.’ What do you think that means?”
“It’ll be undone. The bite will heal, and I won’t turn into a werewolf.” That had to be what it meant. Sophie was intent on becoming a witch, not a werewolf. She loved animals more than she loved people, but hair only belonged on her head and between her legs. She refused to sprout fur. It wasn’t ladylike.
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