“Hey, watch where you’re going.” One of the zombies slaps the hood of Jasper’s nice ride.
“I believe you stepped out in front of me, buddy,” Jasper says under his breath.
He pulls into the circle driveway right in front of the inn, and I swing the door open as the icy breeze envelops us.
A dull groan evicts from me. “Why do I feel like our magical honeymoon will officially be over as soon as I step foot outside of this car?” I lean over and steal a kiss from this caustically handsome man that fate somehow brought to my path. It’s true, with his shock of black hair and pale gray eyes—have I mentioned the body built by the gods of Mount Olympus?—Jasper is sheer perfection both inside and out.
He pulls me in close. “How about we vow not to break the spell? I vote we unofficially continue with our honeymoon for the next fifty or sixty years.”
“Sounds like a reasonable amount of time.” I land another, far more lingering, kiss to his lips before hopping out of the car, and just then a thought hits me. “Ooh, I bet I’ll get to see Fish and Sherlock first!”
Fish is my sweet black and white tabby, and Sherlock Bones is Jasper’s red and white freckled mutt—but now he’s mine, too.
“Give ’em a squeeze for me. I’ll park and meet up with you.”
Jasper takes off, and no sooner do I take a step toward the inn than a small black cat scampers in front of me. I’ve never been one to lean toward the superstitious side of things, but a chill rides up my spine, and a terrible feeling of foreboding hits me. If it wasn’t apparent before, it’s apparent now—a very dark cloud is sitting over the inn and I have the distinct feeling something wicked is about to rain down on us all.
“Hey, you,” I whisper, bending over and snapping my fingers at the cute little kitty who looks like a stray. “Come here,” I say. “Let me help you.”
It turns my way and hisses with its yellow eyes glowing like high beams and I gasp at the seemingly supernatural sight. And then in a flash it disappears into the night.
The double door entry looms ahead with a colorful wreath comprised of fall leaves dotting each one. Last month, I had every square inch of the inn festooned for fall with colorful leaves and orange twinkle lights strung up along every counter and doorway. Pumpkins dot the entry, along with bales of hay, and there are a couple of scarecrows sitting on either side of the door. The oversized pots adorning our landscape are brimming with crimson and gold mums, and the maples that line the property have turned a fiery shade of red.
I hurry inside to find the inn toasty and decorated to the hilt for Halloween with witches’ hats, ghosts, bats, and spider webs everywhere you look. The pumpkins that sat on the long marble counter have been replaced with glowing jack-o’-lanterns, and I see Emmie dressed as a zombie as she helps out a small crowd of guests who also share her sudden flair for tattered accouterments. In fact, everywhere I look, I see costumed guests.
The inn has gray rustic wood floors, dark mahogany wood paneling along the walls, and a grand staircase that leads up to the second level. And I can’t help but note that fall leaves and orange string lights have been wrapped around the banisters that lead upstairs, and it looks like a fall wonderland in here.
Bizzy! My sweet cat, Fish, hops over and I quickly scoop her up and squeeze her tight while peppering her face with kisses.
I found Fish about two years ago as a stray outside of my sister’s candle shop, Lather and Light. She’s a cute long-haired black and white tabby—and yes, I can read the animal mind, too. Believe me when I say, on most occasions they have better things to say than humans.
Initially, Jasper and I wanted to take our pets, Fish and Sherlock Bones, along to Vermont with us, but Emmie talked us out of it. And since I once believed Emmie was of sound mind, Jasper and I listened.
Fish mewls as she nuzzles her face to my neck. How I’ve missed you! And, of course, Sherlock has been a wreck without you. He’s here, somewhere, milling around these monsters that have congregated at the inn. You have to do something. Emmie is out of control. She sold the inn to the Montgomerys and she’s humiliating Sherlock by forcing him to dress like a clown. She tried to get me, too, Bizzy, but I hissed and ran for the hills. I wasn’t above clawing at her, you know.
“I’m going to run for the hills in a minute myself,” I whisper into her tiny cold ear.
I’m about to make a beeline for my bestie when a man in a tan trench coat bumps into me.
He pulls back and nods. “My apologies.” He’s tall, built thick and stalky, handsome more or less, and about Jasper’s age, mid-thirties to my late twenties. Has a dark, neatly trimmed beard and matching dark hair. His blue eyes siren out against his olive skin as he gives a quick glance to the left and right of me.
“Can I help you find something? My name is Bizzy Baker and I run the inn.” I grimace because here, on the very first opportunity I had, I forgot to mention my brand new surname.
Bizzy Baker Wilder, Fish is quick to correct. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten so soon. I didn’t have that luxury. That nuisance Sherlock you left me with reminded me every single minute that I was a Wilder now like him.
Normally, Fish and Sherlock get along, but I can see she’s had enough of him at
