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

by Mandy M. Roth

  He certainly couldn’t.

  Sure, he’d been going through something of a dry spell when it came to dating, but that was a direct result of the curse over his head. It was one thing to have his blender nearly bite his hand off but quite another to explain it away to a woman, or worse yet, have a piano fall on her head from being too close to him.

  Already his identical twin, Louisiana (Louis), had narrowly escaped taking a piano to the head on three separate occasions. It was starting to become something of a running family joke. Though York suspected the joke would run out of funny real quick should it actually injure or kill Louis.

  Sadly, it was just a matter of time before the spell went too far and cost someone their life. Everyone knew it, but no one was outright saying it.

  Just this morning, York had gotten a call from Louis because something his brother deemed important had arrived at the antiques shop. Since Louis ran the shop for the family, and it was more than merely a place one stopped to buy antiques, people took note when anyone sounded the critical alarm. Especially when Louis said he’d taken whatever it was directly to the vault below the shop that contained magical artifacts entrusted to the care and oversight of the supernatural hunters. Since that was what York and his siblings were (something they got from their father’s side of the family), it was their responsibility to keep a handle on things at the shop.

  The music in the truck instantly cut out and York heard his cell phone ring. He pressed the button on his steering wheel that permitted the vehicle to connect with Bluetooth to his cell. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up?” asked his father, his Cajun accent shining through. “That how your momma taught you to answer a phone?”

  York chuckled. “I noticed you didn’t mention how you taught me to answer one.”

  Walden Peugeot laughed loudly. “That’s because I know darn well what you learned from me. Guess I should be happy you managed to be as civil as you were. Where you at?”

  “About two miles out from Kelpie Lane,” answered York. “Headed in to see Louis. He call you about the important thing-a-ma-jiggy?”

  “He isn’t excited about rare stamps again, is he?” asked Walden, a note of horror in his voice. Walden never really understood Louis to the extent he did York. That was because York was cut from the same hellion cloth as his father. He’d deny as much, but it was the truth. York had heard more than one tale of his father’s wild days before he’d met York’s mother, Murielle Caillat, and settled down to have a family.

  As York thought about the last time Louis had gotten worked up over stamps, he groaned. “I hope not. I didn’t haul myself out of bed early to listen to him nerd out on me.”

  “Pull yourself out of bed early?” questioned Walden with a grunt. “It’s nearly noon. Boy, tell me you didn’t close the bar last night.”

  “All right. I didn’t close the bar last night,” said York.

  His father let out an annoyed breath. “You lyin’ to me, boy?”

  “Nope. I was drinking on the pier with Blackbeard, Curt, Sigmund, and Leo.” York waggled his brows for effect, despite the fact his father couldn’t see him.

  “I’m so proud,” said his father snidely. “My son and sons-in-law were drunk as skunks in public.”

  “Could have been worse,” reminded York as he continued to drive. “Could have been Momma, Mémé, and the rest of their social circle drinking on the docks. Remember when they did that last time? Mémé tried to stuff dollar bills in Blackbeard’s jeans when he lifted her to carry her home.”

  Walden grunted. “Don’t go reminding me about how all the women drool over that ghost.”

  “Daddy, ain’t nothing ghost-like about Blackbeard. He’s as present as you and me. And he’s basically the Pied Piper of women. Trust me, I avoid heading out to places with chicks when I know he’ll be there, because I know he’ll get all the attention.”

  Walden said a few choice words on the matter before clearing his throat. “I called for a reason.”

  “I figured it wasn’t to talk about Blackbeard’s sex appeal.”

  “No,” said Walden. “It wasn’t. Luc reached out to me this morning asking if I’d seen the Box of Righted Wrongs.”

  York shook his head. “Who names these things?”

  “No clue,” said Walden. “All I do know is he’s looking for it and sounded worked up.”

  “What’s this Righted Wrongs thing do?” asked York, unsure he really wanted to know.

  “From what I remember from my daddy when he mentioned it years ago, it has the power to open the door between the spirit realm and the human one.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m not exactly sure of the hows and whys myself. All I know is, the whispers about it say it ain’t nothing good we’d want roaming about freely. In the wrong hands, a lot of damage could be done. Can you and Louis lend Luc a hand hunting for it? I’m gonna be tied up out here at Dead Man’s Creek for hours yet.”

  “Can do,” said York, a second before his father disconnected the call and the music began to blare once more from the sound system.

  Hedgewitch Cove was certainly no stranger to the odd or to spirits. It had to be the most haunted town in America, if not the world. Most of its ghostly inhabitants were stuck within the confines of the town. Some couldn’t even leave the property on which they’d died. Then there were others, a select few, who could come and go as they pleased. But outside the magical limits of the town, the ghosts weren’t seen and heard with any kind of ease by humans.

  He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go through life—or in their case, death—never being able to communicate with anyone. That had to be a lonely existence.

  Instantly, he thought of Morgan, a spirit who lived at Hells Gate Inn. The place was owned and operated by Luc Dark. Luc’s main job was a little bit bigger than just running an inn. He also happened to be the guy in charge of hell.

  The devil himself.

  Luc’s place was full of the undead of all kinds, and just about every type of supernatural you could think of. York had once heard his mother refer to Luc’s place as a halfway house for the wayward, and he had to admit that seemed to be the case.

  Morgan had haunted (or whatever you wanted to call it) the inn since York was just a baby. He knew a little about her death. Mostly that it happened in the late ’80s at a concert. But he didn’t know the specifics, despite trying to pry the information from Morgan and Luc.

  Both were tight-lipped on what had left her dead and inhabiting the inn. Unlike some of the spirits there, Morgan could move around town with ease. York had never asked if she could leave the town limits, but he got the sense she didn’t want to go. That maybe Hedgewitch Cove felt safe to her.

  All he was sure of was that the woman fascinated him. It actually bordered on obsession, and he knew as much.

  He’d considered going out with a bunch of women to take his mind off Morgan, but he’d never actually gotten around to it.

  As he tried to think about the last date he’d gone on, the stereo volume increased exponentially. He wasn’t sure how the speakers weren’t blown, or at the very least crackling. The music was painfully loud but crisp—and very, very ’80s. If he was right, the song was by a band named Wham.

  Regardless of who sang it, the song wasn’t something York wanted pumping from his sound system as he drove through town with his windows stuck down.

  But the curse had other ideas.

  The music stopped suddenly.

  “Interesting song choice,” said a sultry female voice from next to him in the cab of the truck.

  York jerked on the wheel and nearly went off into a ditch before he managed to right himself and the truck. He pulled off to the side of the road and put the car in park, his heart thundering.

  “Where did you learn to drive?” asked the woman, who didn’t show herself, but instead remained a disembodied voice to him. A voice he knew well.

  Morgan.

  Sh
e chuckled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “What part of popping into my truck out of thin air and talking to me without me knowing you’re here wouldn’t scare the living daylights out of me?” questioned York, pleased to have her near him, despite nearly wetting himself.

  A half-drunk can of soda from the day prior rose by what looked like its own will. He knew better. Morgan was picking it up. “Eww. You drink this stuff? Gross. It’s warm.”

  “It’s from yesterday,” he confessed.

  The soda can floated in midair. “You really need to clean out your truck.”

  He’d have taken offense, but she was right. He did need to clean it. He kept a tidy house, even if it was decorated in what his sisters liked to refer to as the single man’s furniture choices, but he wasn’t so great about keeping his truck free of junk, namely, soda cans and food wrappers.

  He looked over at the empty seat next to him, his mind filling in the void with a mental image he’d conjured of the woman. It was hot. Very hot. “Miss me?”

  “Totally,” she said with a soft laugh that made his entire body tighten. “Just checking in to see what trouble you’re getting yourself into now. Wasn’t expecting to find you jamming to Wham.”

  He smacked his lips together. “I’m a multifaceted man.”

  She laughed more. “Sure you are. Your grandmother’s spell is controlling your music choices again, isn’t it?”

  He offered a bad-boy grin. “Yep. Did the sound of ’80s music draw you to me? If so, I’m going to play it all the time.”

  She set the soda can down in the drink holder once more. “It’s like a dog whistle to me.”

  “Really?” he asked, making a mental note to buy every song from the decade and blare it every chance he got.

  She snorted. “No. It doesn’t work that way.”

  He cut the engine and continued to look in the direction he sensed her in. “How does it work? Were you really just wanting to check in to see if I was up to no good?”

  “Hon, I assume you’re always up to no good,” she said.

  Hon.

  He liked hearing her refer to him in such a manner.

  “Admit it, you just came to see me because you missed me. I’ve grown on you,” he said, hoping his words were true.

  She nudged him lightly. “Kind of like a rash.”

  “Hey, I’ll take it,” he returned, reaching out as if to caress her. The only problem was, he didn’t know exactly where she was or what he might touch on her.

  For a split second it felt as if her finger grazed his, but that couldn’t be. It would have meant she wanted to hold his hand. That couldn’t be right. Could it?

  She growled lightly and the sound was nothing short of adorable. “I have to go. Betty and Bob are stirring up some trouble. I promised to keep an eye on them for Luc.”

  “Stay,” he said fast before trying to play it ultra-cool. Somehow, he was reasonably sure he failed. “Um, I mean, I’m sure they’re fine. How much trouble can one demon and one ornery spirit get into?”

  As he asked the question, he realized the answer and sighed. “You should go. Now.”

  She laughed, and the sound was much closer than he expected. The next thing he knew, the smallest of chaste kisses was placed upon his cheek, and he stiffened, afraid to move for fear he’d scare her away from ever doing such a thing again.

  When, in reality, he wanted her to do that and much, much more.

  “Morgan?” he asked with a gasp, only to find he was once again alone in the cab of the truck.

  York’s hand went to his cheek, to the spot where she’d kissed him. That wasn’t something she’d ever done before. Sure, it was chaste, but it was still a kiss.

  He was about to dwell on it more when his truck and the music kicked back on, this time louder than ever.

  With a groan, he put it into gear and drove out onto the road once more. His thoughts were still on Morgan as he neared the more populated area of town.

  A quick glance over at a huge white antebellum home showed him that he’d not gone unnoticed. Three of the women from his momma’s bridge group were there, each sitting in a white rocking chair, each fanning themselves with small paper fans in one hand while holding what he could only guess was sweet tea in the other.

  From the disapproving look on Mrs. Schulyer’s face, York’s mother would be getting an earful sooner rather than later.

  He offered a curt wave and went faster than he should have, his sights set on the upcoming turnoff for Kelpie Lane. The street ran past his sister’s magic shop and fed into the main artery of downtown Hedgewitch Cove.

  Just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get worse, he turned onto Kelpie Lane as a man in a dark rain slicker with a matching surrey hat walked right out in front of him (nowhere near the crosswalk).

  The music in the truck cut off instantaneously.

  Tires squealed as York slammed on the brakes, gripping the wheel to the point he nearly ripped it from the dash. The vehicle came to a stop just shy of striking the male.

  The man still fell over, vanishing from York’s view.

  York fumbled with his seat belt to get it off and hurried from the truck, leaving the driver-side door standing wide open.

  “Good Lawd!” exclaimed a Cajun-tinged voice from the back of one of the houses on the street. “York done went and killed Arnie.”

  There, lying on the street in front of the truck, was a man clad head to toe in dark colors. He had on his ever-present rain slicker and the board sign that he wore around his neck. It usually covered the man’s front and back with sayings that all revolved around the end of days. It was how he’d gotten the nickname of Apocalypse Arnold. Right now, the front of the sign was popped up, covering Arnold’s face and head.

  York held his breath as he bent quickly to check on Arnold. He’d thought he hadn’t hit the man, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  “Is he dead?” asked Barnebas Cybulski, his mailbag cast aside near the edge of the road as he rushed over to assist. Since Barnebas was also a volunteer firefighter in addition to being the town’s mail carrier, his help was more than welcome.

  York’s hand made contact with the wood sign just as Arnold moaned.

  “Am I dead?” questioned Arnold from under the sign.

  Barnebas rolled his eyes. “I already asked that question, Arnie.”

  York lifted the sign and made an attempt to ease the strap over Arnold’s head. He wanted to check the man over to be sure he was indeed as fine as he sounded. That earned him a swat to the arm from Arnold before the man grabbed hold of the sign for dear life, his eyes wide.

  “Don’t go taking it from me. I’ll be naked,” said Arnold.

  “Naked? You’re fully dressed and in a rain slicker,” corrected York. “We haven’t seen a drop of rain in weeks and the weatherman ain’t calling for any. I think you can probably take the sign off for a spell, and maybe the rain slicker too.”

  Barnebas muscled York out of the way, which was saying something, since the mailman was hardly someone anyone would put money on winning a fight. He took hold of Arnold and pulled him upright, helping to fix his surrey hat, which was cockeyed.

  Reaching down, Arnold lovingly caressed his sign, assuring it was well. He let out a long, slow breath, his eyes sad. “I thought it was the end. I saw the sign.”

  Barnebas scratched the back of his head. “Like the big white light? Like your maker?”

  Arnold appeared puzzled. “No,” he said, tapping the sign. “I literally saw the sign. This one here. Figured I was a goner.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but you’re still among the living,” said Barnebas, pulling York’s full attention to him. It was then York realized the mail carrier was wearing a pair of boxer shorts with a postage stamp pattern and a T-shirt with an eagle on it. The flip-flops he’d paired with them really drove home just how odd the man was.

  “Didn’t the town council ban you from wearing your skivvies to deliver the post?” ask
ed York, distinctly recalling a town meeting devoted entirely to the subject of Barnebas and his attempts to wear his underwear to work.

  Barnebas grinned. “Got these as a birthday present from the district supervisor. So, they’re government issued. Loophole.”

  “I really need to consider moving somewhere sane,” said York, partially under his breath. He didn’t mean it. Doing so would mean he’d be away from his family and Morgan.

  Barnebas grinned. “You wouldn’t get far. You’re not like your siblings, Arizona or Georgia. Hedgewitch Cove suits you perfect. I can’t picture you somewhere fancy, like say, New York City. You’d never make it out there among the humans.”

  At the mention of humans, Arnold shivered and clutched his bell and sign tighter. “They’re scary.”

  Barnebas nodded. “They sure are. Did you hear another one managed to get through the town wards?”

  A spell had been cast over the town at its inception to help keep humans from wandering in and invading the haven for supernaturals. Every once in a while, a human made it past the wards that normally compelled them to keep on driving, to not notice the town at all, and to never put it on a map. As of late, more and more humans were eking through. It was certainly cause for concern.

  After all, supernaturals weren’t known to humans.

  Arnold looked upward. “Humans are invading. The end really is near.”

  “Well, now, I don’t know that I’d go to that extreme, but something is amok,” stated Barnebas.

  York stood and rotated his neck and stretched his shoulders some. He towered over the other two males. Not really a surprise, since his father was just shy of seven feet tall. “You okay, Arnold?”

  “No. Humans are coming for us all,” said the man before he began to ring his bell, going on and on about the end being near.

  Barnebas snorted. “He’s fine. You scared him. That’s all. I’ll keep an eye on him and lift his spirits some by reminding him we’ve got jazz band practice this week for the upcoming Dead Rising Day parade. You excited? It’ll be my first one. You?”