Shifters in the Snow

by Jacqueline Sweet

  “That oughta do it.” Clementine Weatherspoon tightened the cap on the vial of her favorite oils. Sage and frankincense would purify the entryways. Verbena would keep darkness at bay.

  “It’s really gone, isn’t it?” Greta Carmichael breathed in deeply. A shock of white hair cut through her frizzy chestnut waves. “The air feels so different.”

  “She’s gone.” Clementine employed her gentlest tone. It never sat right with her when people referred to ghosts as its. Ghosts were once people, too, after all.

  “Honey, you should pull out that trick on the Fourth of July. I ain’t never seen such a light show.”

  Clementine hummed as she stored the bottle in her satchel, ensuring that it was slotted into place beside her container of rock salt. “She’s found peace now. That’s all that matters.”

  “It’s funny, old Aunt Aggie’s been creaking and groaning her way around the house all these years. It almost won’t feel right without her.”

  “It was long past her time. Restless spirits become angry. I’m just glad I could help before she got a little too—”

  Greta widened her blue eyes and nodded in quick succession. Clementine didn’t need to finish that thought, but she still felt an urge to comfort.

  “Homes are like an old quilt. Everyone who’s ever stepped foot inside becomes a part of the fabric. Even after they’re gone, they’re still a part of the house’s memory.”

  “That’s a nice thought. You know, I was never one to put much stock in w—” Greta trailed off, hesitating over the word. “In what you do. But I’m mighty glad you can do what you do.”

  Clementine pulled on her jacket. Not that it would help much against the building blizzard outside. “Happy to help.”

  Greta reached into one of her dress pockets and retrieved a handful of cash.

  Clementine shook her head. “You hang on to that.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You saved Christmas! It’s my turn to host the family this year, and it just wouldn’t have done at all to have old Aggie throwing the plates against the wall. Please, take it.”

  After she’d draped her satchel over her shoulder, Clementine pushed both hands into her jacket pockets. “No, ma’am. Thank you, but I don’t do this for money.”

  “Balls,” Greta huffed. “Hang on, you wait right there.”

  Clementine considered sneaking out before the woman could return, but Greta was spry for her age.

  “Here,” she said, forcing a covered pie dish into Clementine’s arms. “And take these, too.” She offered a canvas sack containing a few Mason jars filled with preserves. “There’s a jar of apple butter and two jars of apple sauce. All handmade from the best damn apples in the whole state.”

  “Mrs. Carmichael, I couldn’t pos—”

  “You can and you will.”

  Clementine relented with a sigh. The pie was still warm. Cinnamon and nutmeg clouded her judgment. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “You enjoy. You earned it.”

  When Greta opened the front door, a frigid gust of wind greeted her. Bracing herself, Clementine stepped out onto the porch.

  “You all right to drive in this?” Greta asked, eyeing Clementine’s Camaro. “It’s awful dark out. You’re gonna slip and slide all over the roads in that thing.”

  “I’ll be just dandy,” Clementine said, heading down the sidewalk. She cast a fleeting smile over her shoulder. “I’m a witch.”

  * * *

  ‘I’ll be Home for Christmas’ wafted from the Ford’s old speakers. Static obscured Bing Crosby’s melancholy delivery.

  Clayton Afters had been awake for seventeen hours. Not that he planned on sleeping anytime soon. He avoided sleep during the few short months out of the year he was actually conscious.

  Snow fell in heavy sheets around his trusty blue truck. He kept his speed measured and his gaze focused on the road ahead. What little he could see of it, anyway. Enhanced shifter sight didn’t matter much when someone shook the snow globe.

  Clayton didn’t mind the perilous drive. Blinding flurries aside, the rumble of the engine soothed both man and beast. Every bump in the road felt like breathing.

  It’s funny what you miss when you spend most of your life trapped under the weight of a curse.

  Clayton tried to avoid those thoughts as best he could. As he grew older, though, the thoughts were inescapable. His future hung over his head like a question mark.

  From today until the spring equinox, he was free to live and be. But it was hard to be anything when you knew your brothers were trapped in their own enchanted slumbers.

  Braxton had the summers to roam. Dalton had the autumns to harvest. And Houston got to watch their endless acres spring back to life. Clayton got the cold and the dark.

  He hadn’t felt the summer sun or watched the leaves turn gold in almost a decade. He hadn’t shared a joke or a beer or a shift with his brothers in just as long.

  At least he still had Vangie. The lone Afters sister had been pardoned from the curse. She hadn’t gotten off easy, though. As far as Clayton was concerned, Evangeline Afters was a damn saint. She was their very own guardian angel. In place of wings, she wielded razor-sharp teeth and claws with a wit to match.

  Vangie still believed there was a way for them to break free of the curse. Clayton could never bring himself to shred her hope. Braxton probably could. He’d always been the one with the temper to mirror his animal.

  Clayton, though? He’d always been the runt.

  The cerebral one, as Vangie liked to say. The one who thought before he spoke. The one who plotted and planned before he made a move.

  Clayton wasn’t sure that had ever served him well. Considering he’d yet to find his true mate, all his careful thinking and planning had never really amounted to much.

  Cold crept into the old truck, and Clayton tightened his grip around the steering wheel. He passed the familiar sign for Ever Afters Farm and Orchards.

  God, he hated that name.

  Once upon a time, it had seemed charming. But the Afters were cursed, and there was nothing whimsical about their unhappy ever after.

  Their lives were a fairy tale, sure. Complete with an evil witch. Most people forget that traditional fairy tales almost always end bloody.

  There was no magic apple to bite. No castle wall to scale. No flaming sword to slay a beast.

  They were the beasts.

  And Clayton had read enough to know that no one ever comes to save the beast.

  He slowed, preparing to make the turn onto the long, private driveway that led back to the family farmhouse. A shock of red cut through the flurry of white, staining the air crimson.

  Tail lights.

  “Sssshit,” he hissed.

  He slammed his foot onto the breaks. The truck skidded on the slick asphalt. He winced, readying himself for the inevitable collision.

  Seconds before the nose of his truck met the ass-end of a canary yellow Camaro, everything went still.

  Clayton blinked. It took a second for him to realize he was holding his breath. Exhaling, he threw the truck into park and hopped out of the driver’s side door.

  Rounding to the front of the Ford, he squinted through the heavy snow. The truck had come within a hair of the other vehicle. They were so close, he couldn’t have slid so much as a toenail between them.

  “The hell are you doin’ out here?” he demanded, striding toward the driver’s door of the Camaro. “Farm’s closed! Come back for your tree tom—”

  The window rolled down, and a pretty redhead peered out at him.

  Cinnamon. She smelled like cinnamon.

  No, that wasn’t right. Sage. And rosewood. Verbena petals.

  She smelled like snow and lightning. Like an old book and a mug of honeyed tea laced with whiskey. Like long nights by a crackling fire and endless mornings under crisp sheets.

  But most of all, she smelled like mate.

  Bear blood always ran hot, but Clayton’s grizzly now burned bene
ath his skin. This was it. He felt it in his marrow. She was his.

  “Oh hell,” she whispered, gawking at him as if he’d just burst into flames.

  Startled, Clayton straightened. Had he frightened her?

  Before he could reply, she’d rolled up the window and snapped her eyes back toward the road.

  Chapter 2

  “Hell, hell, hell.” Clementine repeated the words like a litany.

  Every witch worth their stash of rock salt knew they had a beloved, a singular soul who mirrored their own in the most perfect way possible on this imperfect mound of dirt.

  She’d ventured to Harpers Ferry to fulfill her duty to the ether. She was here to work. She hadn’t expected to find her beloved, but there he was, standing as tall and proud as an oak.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. She hadn’t earned this kindness. But on the darkest day of the year, the fates had offered a gift.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  She flitted her gaze back to the window. He’d bent down and was gently rapping his knuckles against the glass.

  His eyes were brown like molasses. Clementine saw flashes of gingerbread and bottomless cups of black coffee.

  Golden light swirled like a halo, encasing his broad, muscular form. The hum and pulse of his aura matched hers almost exactly.

  But there was something else. Something more.

  Behind the safety of her window, she locked eyes with the man. The dark, ruffled locks of hair that fell over his forehead spoke of something wild.

  Clementine caught a glimpse of dense forest. Of claws dragged down the sturdy trunk of an ancient ash. Of black fur and sharp fangs.

  He was wild. He was a bear. And for just a few, precious seconds, she saw it in his eyes. Gleaming gold to match his natural energy, the bear overwhelmed the man’s dark irises.

  Clementine’s heart shot up into the back of her throat.

  Gold receded into brown. Shock flitted across his chiseled features. He hadn’t meant to show himself to her. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did.

  Before Clementine thought better of it, she rolled down the window. Just a crack. Only a crack.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi back,” she replied.

  He swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “You okay?”

  “Dandy.”

  He nodded. “You lost?”

  “I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

  He smiled. Twin dimples appeared on his cheeks.

  Oh, hell’s bells. I’m in trouble.

  * * *

  She wasn’t human.

  With the window cracked, Clayton took a few seconds to revel in her scent. He was certain even a few deep gulps of her fragrance would render him—grizzly metabolism aside—drunk.

  She had fire in her green eyes. The same fire Clayton had in his own. But through the cloud of her intoxicating aroma, he didn’t detect fur or feathers.

  She smelled human, only not.

  “What are you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

  “Cold.” Her slight smile wavered. “Are all bears so forward?”

  The grizzly roared in Clayton’s chest, satisfied that their mate had recognized them for what they were. The human part of him, however, went stiff.

  Rule number one of Shift Club: Never talk about Shift Club with humans. Even human mates had to be courted with special care.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  She laughed. God help him, she laughed.

  Clayton Afters had a full grown grizzly bear hiding inside him, but the tinkle of her laughter made his knees go watery.

  “How’d you know?” he asked after a beat of uncertainty.

  “You’re standing in the middle of a blizzard wearing a t-shirt. Aren’t you cold?”

  Clayton glanced at his bare arms. “Not especially.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, rolling down the window a little further. “Does it hurt?”

  “The cold?”

  “No, when you shift. Does it hurt?”

  “Sometimes. You get used to it.” Clayton frowned at his candor. The bear snorted at him as if to say, Stop thinking. “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, I can’t tell.”

  “Why not?”

  “You should never give your name to strangers.”

  “Is that all I am?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers. “A stranger?”

  There it was again. The fire was back in her eyes, burning gold. It lingered long enough that Clayton let his bear come to the surface. As they regarded one another, her lips curled into a slow smile.

  Clayton wondered how they’d taste against his own.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Clayton Montgomery Afters.”

  “Clayton,” she repeated. “Clayton and Clementine.”

  He grinned. “Clementine? Like the song?”

  She hummed in agreement. “It’s terribly morbid, you know. Listen to the words sometime.”

  “It’s a beautiful name. I have no experience with citrus, though. We specialize in apples here at Ever Afters.”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “Best damn apples in the whole state?”

  “You been here before?”

  “No, I just came from Greta Carmichael’s. She gave me an apple pie.”

  “Miss Greta makes damn fine pie.”

  Clementine strummed her gloved fingers against the steering wheel. “Wanna share?”

  God yes. Everything.

  Clayton offered his very best smile. “Turn in that driveway. Follow it about a mile back to the farmhouse. I’m right behind you.”

  Chapter 3

  The farmhouse stood three stories high. Clementine climbed out of her car with the apple pie in tow, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the second floor of the home.

  Despite the strands of white Christmas lights twinkling over the covered front porch, the house was dark. A large, lit Christmas tree adorned a broad window inside what was most likely the living room, but even that additional festive touch couldn’t conceal the truth.

  There was tainted magic here.

  Go, said the wise voice in the back of her head. Get out of here.

  “Welcome,” Clayton said. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he approached.

  She craned her neck to look up at him.

  “Hell’s bells, you’re tall,” she remarked, trying her best to stifle a sudden swell of unease. He seemed to sense her nervousness and kept a respectful distance.

  “Bear.” He shrugged as if that explained everything. “Come on inside. I’ll get a fire going.”

  Clementine hesitated. Snow drifted on the air between them, mingling with the surging golden glow that continued to emanate from her beloved. “I shouldn’t stay long.”

  “Stay as long as you want.” His tone was easy, but the bear was in his eyes again, peering out at her with something that was both warm and possessive.

  Stay forever, it seemed to say.

  She offered him the pie dish. “Lead the way, big guy. But be warned: I don’t have claws, but I can knock you on your ass if need be.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I can assure you my mama raised a gentleman.”

  “She here?” Clementine followed him up to the porch.

  “She passed a couple years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Clayton unlocked the front door and held it open for her. Despite the flickers of tainted magic, Clementine steeled herself and crossed the threshold.

  Worn hardwood floors told tales of a large, busy family. The scuffs were perfectly charming. Garland crept up the railing of the foyer’s stairway. She followed the green to a dark landing. Tendrils of energy trickled through the ceiling.

  Clementine removed her gloves. She ventured forward and pretended to check out the living room. Straining her ears, she listened closely. Three auras pulsed from above.

  Men. Bears.

  “So you’re all alone he
re?” she asked, testing the waters.

  “Not usually. My sister Vangie’s in town for the tree lighting ceremony. The mayor always insists on using Afters spruces. I just got back, myself.”

  She nodded slowly, trying her best to ignore the flares of energy seeping from the ceiling. “It’s just you and your sister?”

  “Just us.”

  Clementine set her jaw. Okay, waters tested. “I should go.”

  Clayton’s forehead—golly, he really was handsome—crinkled with concern. “Is something wrong?”

  “There are three men upstairs.”

  Clayton’s right eye twitched. He regarded her with a wary frown. “My brothers. They’re sleeping.”

  “It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

  “They won’t wake up. Not anytime soon. When we sleep, we might as well not be here at all.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Clayton simply pursed his lips.

  “Enjoy the pie,” Clementine said, deciding enough was enough. Between the darkness that edged the pulses of energy coming from upstairs and the fact that Clayton Montgomery Afters seemed a little too comfortable with obscuring the truth, every witchy bone in her body told her it was time to leave.

  “But I just found you,” he said, seizing her left hand as she strode past him.

  Clementine froze. Power surged through her veins. She was just about to knock him right on his ass with a blast of her magic, just as she’d promised. Instead, she cried out.

  Clayton released her hand. Concern warred across his features. He must have thought he’d hurt her, but the touch of his bare skin against hers was so much worse than physical pain.

  “Oh hell, fuck, damn. You’re cursed!”

  “Who are you??” he asked, squaring his shoulders.

  Clementine glanced toward the stairs, understanding the source of the dark shadow over the house. “Your brothers too?”

  Clayton stepped toward her, closing the space between them. His molasses-brown eyes were wide and wild, but there was no hint of his bear. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I’m a witch!”