Do You Really Want to Haunt Me: A Happily Everlasting World Novel (Bewitchingly Ever After Book 3)

by Mandy M. Roth

  “I’d love to meet Mildred at some point,” said Morgan.

  Betty eyed her. “Who said you haven’t already met her?”

  Bob was right. Betty did tend to get easily confused and easily mixed up.

  Morgan glanced at the huge, ornate grandfather clock that was done in black with ravens carved into the wood. “Betty, you should rest. You were up before the sun again.”

  “Sweet dear, I was created before there was light. Makes sense I’d wake before it.” Betty turned in the office chair and Bob assisted her with getting down. She took the throw pillow from the seat of the chair and walked it slowly over to the deep red Victorian sofa that sat against the far wall. She carefully returned the pillow to what had been its original position and then faced Morgan. “Yes, dear, it’s hard to sleep at my age, but then again, I still manage to sleep more than you. But that will change soon enough.”

  Morgan didn’t bother to question the statement because she knew Betty wasn’t altogether home upstairs any longer.

  Bob took her arm gently. “Um, Betty, Morgan is right. Let’s get you up to your room for a nice nap.”

  With that, the two of them headed from the room just as Luc was entering. His gaze went to his laptop, which was open and on, still showing the shopping site Betty and Bob had been on. He sighed. “What did they do now?”

  Morgan grinned. “Zombie parts. Don’t worry, I made a point of saying you’d be unhappy.”

  “Bet that only encouraged Bob more,” he said, as the edges of his mouth drew upward.

  “It did,” added Morgan. “You know him well.”

  Luc went to his computer and closed the lid. “I do. And I know he’s excited about his first Dead Rising Day. I’m almost afraid to know what trouble he’ll manage to get into while in human form for an entire day.”

  “Should be just enough time for him to burn Hedgewitch Cove to the ground accidentally, or on purpose,” said Morgan, only partially joking. “On a good note, Howie is in hell visiting his mother again, so the dynamic duo will not be together for the event. How is his mother doing?”

  Howie, a demon who just happened to be Morgan’s best friend, and who was scared of anything happy, had been making frequent trips to hell to see his mother. She was getting older (as in, born-at-the-dawn-of-time kind of old) and was in poor health. Since his mother was like he was when it came to happy things, the fact she was nearing the end of her days somehow made Howie’s entire family want to throw a party—his mother included. They were a strange lot for sure, but they cared about one another so that was all that mattered.

  “She’s feeling much better,” said Luc. “Which means they’re all now miserable and worried.”

  Morgan couldn’t help but laugh. Being afraid of happy things was so bizarre, yet she’d gotten used to that and so many other things since her death.

  Luc went to the far bookcase and began moving items around, obviously searching for something. “You haven’t happened to have seen a small wooden box with two crescent moons, three stars, and a pentagram burned on the top, have you?”

  Morgan thought on it. “No, but you have a lot of things with moons and pentagrams on them.”

  With a grin that the ladies no doubt found irresistible, he chuckled. “Sort of my thing. Doodled it once on heaven’s version of a dinner napkin and it kind of stuck.”

  She aided in the search of his office for a box fitting the description. “Please tell me this isn’t one of those end-of-the-world boxes. I hate it when you lose those.”

  He lifted a brow smugly. “I’ll have you know I’ve only lost three of those in my lifetime. And then there was the one I left in a safe place only to have Pandora open it. Not my fault.”

  “Uh-huh, sure. Bet all the demonic world leaders say that,” teased Morgan as they continued to look for the box. “So what does this one do?”

  He tensed. “Nothing.”

  She stared at him. “That was almost believable. You know, you’re rumored to be a great liar. It’s like whoever wrote the stuff about you in the bible never even met you. Had they, they would have realized you’re kind of the worst liar ever.”

  “Am not,” argued Luc, sounding like a child. “My brother Gabriel is. I’m a close second though.”

  Laughing, she continued the search, vanishing quickly as she went to the closet and searched it before reappearing in the study. “It’s not in there.”

  “Attic?” he asked.

  She popped to the attic in the blink of an eye and searched with a speed only a spirit could before appearing in front of Luc once more. “Nope. Is there a spider in my hair? I’m sure I went through at least six cobwebs.”

  “No. There is no spider in your hair,” he said, reaching out quickly and plucking one off her shoulder.

  “Jerk.”

  “Most fear me,” he said with a snort.

  “Most don’t have you as a godfather,” she supplied, earning her another laugh from him. “When was the last time you saw the box?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Nineteen eighty-nine.”

  The year stuck out to her for more than one reason. Namely, it was the year she’d died. “And it’s suddenly imperative you have the box now?”

  “It is.”

  “What does it do?” she questioned once more.

  He licked his lower lip and then sighed. “It has the power to bring the dead to life.”

  She touched the bridge of her nose. “And this is something you left lying around for any old person to happen upon? Luc, what if Bob found it? Or worse yet, one of the spirits who haunt the Dead Forest? You want one of them roaming around alive again?”

  She shuddered at the thought.

  It took her a moment to realize Luc was staring at her oddly.

  “Is there another spider on me?” she asked, before turning in several fast circles, working herself up to a scream.

  He caught her shoulders, stopping her. “Morgan, there are no more spiders on you.”

  “Then why were you looking at me like that?”

  “Because you haven’t once hinted at wanting to use the box for yourself,” he confessed.

  She thought harder on it. “Why would I?”

  “You don’t miss being alive?” he asked, sadness touching his voice. “You were supposed to live a very long, very full life. What your parents did cut that short.”

  She tensed and waved a hand in the air dismissively. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You never want to discuss it.” Luc stepped back from her. “It’s okay to get upset and to be mad at what they did to you.”

  “Would that fix anything?” she asked, already knowing the answer. “I’d end up one of those bitter spirits in the forest. The ones that can’t be trusted. I don’t want that.”

  He sighed. “Morgan, Dead Rising Day is coming.”

  She lowered her gaze. “I know I’m not exactly like the rest of the spirits in town. I’m guessing that means it won’t work the same for me as it does them.”

  “No,” he confirmed. “It won’t work the same.”

  A pang of sorrow came over her and she quickly tried to push it deep down, into the compartment where she kept her feelings locked away. “I understand. It will be nice for Bob and the others, having a day to be alive. I can pop around town to be sure they aren’t getting into too much trouble for you, if you want.”

  Luc swallowed hard. “Can you do me a favor and pop over to the antiques shop? If memory serves, I think I might have entrusted one of the Peugeots with the box decades ago. I bet it’s on a shelf down in the artifact area.”

  It took her a second to respond, as she fought the urge to give in to her emotions. “Yes. Of course. I’ll be right back.”

  With that, she popped away from the inn and directly into the antiques shop.

  Chapter Four

  York pulled his truck into an open space in front of the antiques shop and put it in park. As he did, the volume level of the music coming from his spe
akers managed to somehow get louder.

  Cherry Corduas stepped out of the bookstore that was next to the shop and looked up at him, raising a brow as she did. The woman—who looked to be middle-aged, but who York suspected was older than that—shook her head as she mouthed something in his direction.

  He shut off the truck, but the radio kept going.

  Cherry waved a hand and just like that, the music cut off. Her magic drifted over the air, making the gifts York had inherited from his mother’s side respond in kind. His magic flared slightly but since it wasn’t his main gift, he held his breath, hoping nothing disastrous occurred.

  Thankfully, it didn’t.

  Blissful silence was all that remained.

  York got out of his truck and made it to the sidewalk as Cherry continued to mouth something in his direction. He wondered if she’d taken to miming what she was trying to tell him. Why on earth didn’t she just say it? Why mouth it?

  It hit him then that the music had been so loud, he couldn’t hear her speaking.

  He motioned to his ears and shook his head.

  She smiled and then waved her hand again. Her power trickled over him, helping him hear once more.

  A natural-born witch, Cherry held a lot of power. Her family line had been somewhat questionable in its usage of said power, but Cherry was working hard to change that image and show the town there was good in the Corduas line after all.

  York was too young to have been around when the Corduas line was at its worst, but to hear his grandmother tell the tale, the family had been into some dark stuff. Looking at Cherry, who was currently wearing a neon-pink dress that hung nearly to the ground and had small blue flamingos on it, it was hard to picture her or her kin being anything close to evil.

  She turned her head slightly, and her upswept hair showed off beach ball dangling earrings. Upon closer inspection, he realized the words “beach party” were printed on them in a small font. They matched her colorful glasses frames, which were very cat-eyed in their shape. Basically, the woman was about as eccentric as they came. Yet she fit right in with many of the inhabitants of Hedgewitch Cove.

  And nothing about her screamed darkness and evil. If anything, she came off as carefree and happy in her dress and manner. That didn’t change the way many in the town looked at her through a tainted lens. She was still held accountable in many of their eyes for the sins of her forefathers. It was a shame some were so set in their ways that they couldn’t see how ignorant they were being in judging her and her sisters so harshly. From what York had been told, Cherry hadn’t been part of all the wrongdoing her family had done. Neither had her sisters, Lemon and Peach.

  But they bore the name Corduas and had their ancestors’ magic running through their veins. And for some, that was more than enough to judge them guilty.

  “That better, sugar?” she asked, her drawl as Southern as they came.

  York didn’t have much room to talk when it came to accents. He knew his was thicker than most but not as thick as some in town. He blamed his father for some of the thicker parts. Walden Peugeot was Cajun through and through.

  Their mother liked to say, you can take your daddy from the swamp, but you’ll never take the swamp from your daddy. That had been true in more ways than one, seeing as how Walden was also a were-gator.

  York nodded his thanks to Cherry. “Thank you. Not sure what you did but you’re tops on my list of people today, Miss Cherry.”

  She pursed her lips a tad. “Am I to assume you did not try to run over Arnie on the way into town?”

  York groaned. There was nothing quite like the rumor mill of a tiny town. By the time dinner rolled around, the word on the street would be that Arnold was dead and gone, or worse.

  “I didn’t even bump him,” returned York. “I did scare him.”

  Ms. Cherry looked to be fighting a grin. “Bet he was disappointed you didn’t do him in. You know how much he’s looking forward to the end.”

  “Well, he did get to see the sign,” said York with a snort.

  One of her over-plucked eyebrows darted upright in a questioning manner. “Do I want to know?”

  “Nope. Probably not,” said York. “I better get in there and see what Louis wanted me to stop by the shop for. You know how he gets when I take too long to do anything.”

  “Oh magic above, that boy is coiled tighter than a lawn mower’s startin’ string. Not nearly as bad as Virginia though,” said Ms. Cherry with a slight whistle. “I really hope the twins are easier going like their father. I’m not sure the town can take another Type A personality. It’s so…Northern.”

  It was said as the insult she meant it to be.

  York couldn’t help but chuckle at the mention of his sister, who was expecting twin boys any day now. “With me as an uncle, I’m sure everything will be fine. I get to spoil ’em real good, and then run away to leave my sister to handle the aftermath. Perfect. Just like I do with Missi’s little one.”

  Ms. Cherry lowered her glasses slightly and peered down the end of her nose at him. “Joke will be on you when it’s you havin’ little ones before you know it.”

  He threw up his fingers, making the sign of a cross in an attempt to ward off her curse.

  She laughed long and hard before heading down the street in the direction of the flower shop. “Gonna happen soon, New York. Real soon.”

  He paled, instantly feeling sweaty. “How soon we talking here? How many years?”

  “Years?” she echoed with a broader grin as she glanced back at him. “Sweetie, we’re talking months before your little ones start arrivin’.”

  He felt faint. “Months before I have little ones? But I haven’t even met my mate.”

  She winked. “Who’s to say you haven’t already met them in some form or another? You’ve really got to learn to see with more than your eyes.”

  With that, she walked away, leaving him standing there, feeling as if he might very well pass out.

  Chapter Five

  “Brother?” York hurried down the stairs that led to the basement of the antiques shop and stopped just outside the closed, solid metal door. The door was ornate with all of its exposed cogwheels, and shades of golds and browns. While it looked to be a nod to steampunk, in reality it far predated the craze. It had been created by hunters and bespelled to help protect the contents within the vault. The vault was massive and defied logical, as did just about everything else about the enormous basement.

  Walden had sat the boys down when they were younger and explained both the basement and their expected duties as born hunters in detail. Problem was, Louis had been the only one paying attention. York had been fixated on Morgan, who had been hovering near them a lot at the time, seeing as how the Collective had made an attempt on one of York’s sisters not long prior.

  Morgan had volunteered to keep an extra eye on York and his siblings until the proper spells could be put in place. While she’d not shown herself to York, he’d still been totally swept up with the idea of her. Though with age came different feelings. Ones he didn’t exactly like to dwell upon.

  What kind of man had the hots for a ghost?

  A woman he’d never even seen?

  York put his hand to a flat spot on the door and it began to glow with a faint yellow light. The cogwheels turned and the bolts holding the door in place disengaged. The door popped open, and he stepped through to find his twin standing before a large grouping of boxes, all of which were open.

  Next to Louis was Petey Williams. While the older man was technically a town founder, he wasn’t from the area. He was a Yankee but an honorary local all the same. He was in his standard fishing waders with dark jeans beneath, and a flannel shirt. Didn’t matter how hot out it was. He also had on a knit cap that barely contained his unruly gray hair.

  “Petey? Louis?” asked York. “What’s with all the boxes?”

  It all looked like items that belonged in a vintage clothing shop, not the antiques store. In fact, most of it remi
nded him of the ’80s.

  Louis, who was in a pullover shirt with a collar and a pair of dress slacks (clothing York wouldn’t be caught dead in), bent before another of the boxes and stared up at York, his dark eyes wide. “Look.”

  Petey put his thumbs through the suspenders of his waders and rocked on the balls of his feet as York walked around the boxes to stand near his brother.

  “Can’t you just tell me what in tarnation is so important?” he asked, a second before he glanced down to see an open smaller box within the large one. The box contained clippings from newspapers and magazines.

  “Heiress Gone Missing” was written on one headline. The rest were similar. Some said foul play was suspected.

  When York spotted a photo splashed over the page of a newspaper, his chest thundered with excitement, but he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know the woman in the photo, yet she was stunning. The most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon.

  Huge eyes were framed by thick dark lashes, nestled in a heart-shaped face. The woman’s pale skin didn’t look like it had seen sunlight ever, and if he had to guess, she didn’t tan. Her jet-black hair was tousled with a streak of color in it but since the photo was in black and white, he wasn’t sure what color it was. She wore a black turtleneck and had on dark lipstick. Basically, she was the exact opposite of the women he usually found attractive. The types who thought the bigger the hair, the closer to God, and the ones who looked as if they had just stepped off the runway of a beauty pageant.

  This woman looked deep. Like she had a secret no one else knew and an inner river that raged with thoughts, passion, and emotion.

  The clipping was dated back thirty years.

  “She’s beautiful,” whispered York.

  “The picture doesn’t really do her justice,” said Petey, still rocking in place.

  York’s attention snapped to the man. “You knew her?”

  Petey stared blankly at him. “You been hitting some of that moonshine Old Man McCreedy makes out in the forest?”

  Baffled, York glanced to his brother. “What is he talking about?”