Nothing to Bite Home About Read online

  Nothing To Bite Home About

  Covenant of All Hallow Paranormal Cozies: One

  Smashwords Edition

  Patti Larsen

  Copyright 2022 Patti Larsen

  ***

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  Chapter One

  California sunshine warmed me the moment I stepped down to the sidewalk, heavy air conditioning and that particular aroma all busses seemed to bear (and now permeating my person and everything I owned) chasing me out into the street. After three days, two transfers and so many stops along the way I was sure I could have walked from Manhattan faster than this ride had taken, I deeply regretted not opting for the train. Or splurging for a flight, even if my cash reserves were running dangerously low at the moment. Not for long, I hoped, but enough of an issue I had little choice.

  Turned out I was only one of three people disembarking in the late afternoon at picturesque Lakeside, the two others hurrying off before I could wrangle my giant suitcase out from under the bus’s storage compartment, the smiling driver tossing me a wave and a smile behind his silver mustache before reboarding and moving off, leaving me standing in awkward discomfort in the heat, wondering what I’d been thinking taking this ridiculous trip anyway.

  It was pretty obvious from the gas station drop off point that Lakeside didn’t warrant its own station. Not that the rather upscale town with its social media perfection and new rich feel to it had much call for the kind of transient folk who used that mode of transportation. Except, of course, as I hefted my heavy backpack over my shoulder and tugged on the handle of my rolling case, Lakeside wasn’t the only town in town, so to speak. Because just a short walk from my present location? The long, stone bridge that led across the narrowest point of All Saints Lake into Hallow.

  And that, I assure you, was exactly the kind of place that had transient written all over it. I scowled at the sprawling and rather ramshackle appearance of the town in question, the composition of its darker, older and clearly less tidy offering compared to the shining example of modern capitalism that was its wealthier cousin across the water with growing skepticism. I’d triple checked the instructions Mom left me before boarding the bus all the way out here to the West coast, but I hadn’t expected to be quite so underwhelmed with the destination.

  “Home sweet home,” I muttered to myself. “No wonder you left, Mom.” One of the wheels on the bulging bag I dragged decided to hitch to the left while the other three turned right, forcing me to stop, cursing a little (yeah, I admit it) and heft it back into a standing position. I’d have left it in New York, except this bag (along with the one on my back) bore the sum total of my existence and had traveled the world with me enough times I forgave it the occasional wheel malfunction.

  Whether it was my tardy pause at the bus stop or my general appearance (or some other reason only known to him), I looked up to discover I’d attracted the attention of a uniformed member of the local population. His heavy scowl and beady brown eyes under thick, black brows and a crewcut so severe I could see the sunburn on his scalp made me instantly wary, straightening my shoulders and tipping my chin to look up at him though he had at least a foot in height on me.

  The once-over he gave me while I stood there, doing my best to look confident and non-threatening (despite desperately needing a shower and a change of clothes, knowing my rumpled jeans and t-shirt weren’t exactly making my case for me) in the face of visible disapproval.

  “You visiting, miss…?” His deep voice had an odd nasal tang to it that instantly irritated me.

  “I am,” I said, hitching the backpack again as the one strap dug into my shoulder. “Mr…?” Okay, not the best decision, was it, to taunt local law enforcement, but come on. It wasn’t like I looked like trouble. At 5’2” and maybe a buck fifteen, with an embarrassingly youthful face despite my thirty years, I might have been wiry, but there was no way I came across as dangerous. So yeah, attitude emerged, whether I’d regret it or not.

  His scowl deepened, go figure. Both thick thumbs hooked in his gun belt, hung low from his black dress pants, lean enough himself, though a bit thick through the neck with those deep lines that suggested a life lived in the sun and under the yolk of blaming the world for his lot. Enough thin, red veins stood out around his round nose to indicate he'd succumbed to alcohol on a regular basis as some form of comfort. I pictured him as a bully and wasn’t disappointed when he spoke again.

  “Sheriff,” he snarled, taking a step closer, the scent of his cologne now overpowering even the nasty musk I’d brought with me from the bus. “Harold Marigold.” He glared down at me a long moment, the thin mustache he wore twitching under his broad nose, wide lips lifting to sneer at me. He might have considered a visit to the dentist for a thorough cleaning at some point, but I digress. “And you are?”

  My mother always sighed over my issues with authority. Told me they’d get me in trouble for real someday. She wasn’t wrong, and I blamed her in many ways for my attitude, the fact she had her own spine of steel and never took flack from anyone. So, the fact she called me on my own self-confidence always made me grin. Thing was, she wasn’t here, and the fun of being a smarty pants to an arrogant and pushy stranger had lost its appeal.

  When I lost her.

  “Abigail Wilde,” I said, deciding my task would go faster and easier if I just buckled down and let things go. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff Marigold.” I thought that artful little add on was a nice touch.

  Marigold didn’t seem to agree. He huffed softly under his breath, hitching his belt aggressively, chin dropping as that scowl turned to a veritable mask of rejection. “You don’t say,” he grumbled. “Wildes don’t have the best reputation around here, young lady.”

  Wow. Thanks for the warning, Mom. “I’m just passing through.” I adjusted my backpack again, hating that doing so looked like weakness, shrugged as best I could with fifty pounds on my back. “No trouble here, sheriff.”

  He absorbed that far too slowly for my liking. Hard not to draw a bit of a staring fest under the circumstances. I grimaced at the pair of women who hesitated on the sidewalk before hurrying past and waved at the two men standing off to one side, near the entry to the bridge just across the street, doing my best to appear friendly while the Sheriff of Nothing-ham made up his mind about me.

  “You Ninomae’s kid?” I twitched at my mother’s name, nodded immediately, though it only seemed to make Sheriff Marigold even more unhappy. “Your mother wasn’t well liked, let me tell you.”

  “Well, she’s dead now,” I shot back, my patience finally gone, thanks for that, “so I guess you won’t have to worry about her anymore.”

  He flinched, at least. I hadn’t meant to react that way, but sheesh, seriously, what was wrong with him, anyway? Mom left town, what, twenty-five years ago, dragging me along with her at five years old. I’d used to wonder what life would have been like if she’d left me behind. Now I was even more grateful she’d taken me along.

  The older of the two men watching me spun on his friend, chattering to him in a harsh whisper, while the younger, his darkly bearded face grinning but far from friendly, never turning away from me as the pair clearly carried on some kind of conversation. About me? Let them talk. As far as I was concerned, I had a quick stop t
o make, a duty to fulfill and that was that.

  So long and see you never, Hallow.

  Crazy vibe older dude left in a hurry, crossing the bridge toward the rough side of town, his younger companion turning and walking off toward Lakeside proper. I brushed them both off as the sheriff collected himself after my smackdown and grunted, nodding.

  “Sorry to hear that.” He seemed to realize it was a disingenuous thing to offer up after what he’d just said to me, flushed, shuffled his feet, then half-turned, gesturing for me to carry on. “Take care you mind your own business, young lady, and don’t make trouble.” He paused one last moment as I hurried past him, one hand reaching out to stop me, hovering in front of me while he leaned in. Yellow horse teeth flashed, tiny mustache dancing as my discomfort reached an all-time high. “I got my eyes on you.”

  He strode off then, leaving me to glare after him in the kind of resentment that could end in rather unladylike swearing and plotting of revenge if I wasn’t careful. Instead, with my whole life in two bags thudding and wheeling along with me, I crossed the street to the bridge and strode with angry purpose for my destination.

  This better be worth it, Mom.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  My suitcase rattled over the cobblestone surface of the bridge, the job made heavier by the uneven surface, to the point I had to stop near the midway point to shed my denim jacket, threading it through the straps of my pack, sweating through the thin fabric of my t-shirt and sticking my dark bangs to my forehead. This time I did shoulder both straps, settling the familiar weight across my back, that pressure now even somehow easing my mood.

  This was just another stop on a long road I’d been traveling my entire life, after all. Mom’s PhD work as a contract archeologist exploring and consulting on dig sites of a wide variety of historical finds had taken us to the most amazing places. And encouraged me to finish my own doctorate, with the same broad scope of interest, I’ll admit, hating to nail myself down to one culture or timeline. We had a plethora of published papers between us, she and I, the kind of team that swept into a site, got things settled and moving in the right direction, and swept out again. Of course, it meant financial instability and a lack of any kind of connection or home outside of one another, but it had always been enough for me.

  Until she died on me and left me alone.

  Not Mom’s fault. Still.

  On the other hand, it meant I had a ton of experience interacting with a lot of different kinds of people, right? I could manage an awkward interaction at my mother’s request, surely. She’d raised me to stand on my own two feet, to trust my instincts and my education, both in books and real life, so there was no need to allow this trip to a nowhere town where I’d been born but had little to no memory or attachment get me down. Not when I had a job waiting for me in Peru at the new dig site Mom arranged before she went into the hospital for the last time.

  Hallow was a pit stop and I couldn’t wait to put it in my past once and for all.

  I fished out the letter from my cross-body bag, unfolding the well-creased page she’d given me that night she died, breathing her last into the quiet, dark room while the machines keeping her alive failed her as everything else had. It took me three weeks to make this trip, to settle her affairs—though she’d known, we’d both known, months ago there was nothing modern medicine could do to stop the cancer eating her alive—and make arrangements for her ashes, now tucked away in a small, wooden box she’d bought for just the occasion, bound for the Andes and her final rest when I got to spread her ashes to the wind. Tears stung, my throat tightening at the sight of her scrawling script.

  Abigail, I know we never had much, but we had each other, and that was always enough for me. The last contract for the dig in Peru came through, so you’ll have some money coming in at least. And there’s a small insurance policy I took out years ago. You’ll find the paperwork in my camp bag.

  I had, and applied for the funds. Was told it would be two months from proving her death before payout. That had been two weeks ago. Whatever. I’d be all right.

  There’s something I need you to do. When I left Hallow, it was on terrible terms with your grandmother, and I regret not going back to say goodbye. Please, go home for me. Give her the journal I kept. Tell her I’m sorry I failed and that I died trying.

  That part made zero sense to me, but she wasn’t around to ask and, honestly, was the reason I was here. I wanted answers from my grandmother Mom couldn’t supply anymore.

  I love you. You are the best part of me. I wish things could have turned out differently, that you could have everything you deserve. Your birthright dies with me. Be safe, my sweet, brave and amazing girl. And whatever you do, don’t ever stop chasing the magic.

  Love, Mom

  I swiped at tears trickling down my cheeks with angry hands, scowling at the address at the bottom of the page, the rough sketch of the streets she’d drawn for me. How many such maps had she created over the years, of back alleys in Paris to hidden cities uncovered underground in Egypt to ancient Viking settlements in Iceland and more, so many more, all held in the pages of her journal.

  Maybe I’d luck out and my grandmother wouldn’t want it. Because I did. Hated the thought of parting with it. Sighed as I cleared away the last of the tears and resigned myself to the end of my mother’s journey. Paused one last moment, looking out across the water at shining Lakeside, flawless in its design, towering and expensive homes lining the edge of the glittering water, then turning again toward Hallow and the old, battered remains of a town clinging to the rocks on the other side.

  Had me wondering why someone hadn’t moved in, bought up the properties, turned the whole lake into a resort town for the rich and famous. Surely the residents of Lakeside resented the flaw in their precious landscape that was Hallow across the water? Whatever, not my problem, nor did I really care about either place. Or my grandmother, to be frank, the woman who’d made zero effort ever to reach out to me or Mom all the years we were gone.

  That I knew of. I had to shake off my anger and resentment, uncoil my fist from around the letter in my hand. For all I knew, she had tried only to have Mom keep it secret. Regardless, I was about to find out, wasn’t I, one way or another?

  I once again set off, the rattle of wheels and thud of my backpack my only remaining companions, not ashamed to admit I was feeling a little sorry for myself, contemplating my future. Sure, I’d go to Peru, take the job, make some money. Then what? I felt my feet slow again as I debated my next steps. I’d had offers along the way—so had Mom—to tenure at colleges and universities around the world. But the bulk of my education had happened long distance, while on digs in far-off lands. That meant none of the usual college friends to call on for back up or home bases that felt like, well. Home.

  Maybe it was time to put down some roots of my own. I had a few acquaintances here and there, but Mom had been my bestie, always. Now that she was gone, I didn’t have to live the life she’d led me on.

  I had options. So why did I feel like I was a lost little girl who’d never find her way?

  All of those thoughts died in a heartbeat when I stepped across the center of the bridge. For some reason, the moment my well-worn hiking boot touched down on the next cobble, a full-body shiver ran through me. Like electricity running up from the sole of my foot all the way to the ends of my hair, goosebumps alert on my arms despite the warmth of the day. I inhaled sharply, the sensation hanging on for a long moment before my heart started up again, the normal beat faster than usual until it finally settled out.

  Weird. Freaking weird. Mom and I, in all the years we’d investigated dig sites and so-called historical paranormal phenomena, curses, magic, you name it, we looked into it, I had never felt anything like that before. Shook my head and shrugged it off, rattling the page in my hand with a weak grin.

  “Mom,” I said, “was that you?” You know what? Asking the question brought me comfort and, as I carried on and the m
oment vanished, I let myself relax out of the anxiety I’d been existing in since she went into the hospital. Of course, she was with me. And that meant everything was going to be okay.

  I just hoped my grandmother would be happy to see me.

  ***

  Chapter Three

  It wasn’t until I’d almost made it all the way across the bridge that I noticed the pumpkin light fixture that graced the tall, iron light post overhead. Sunlight shining through it cast an orange glow on the ground at my feet, the oddity making me look up and grin in surprise at the sight. And, as I looked back, I realized all of the lights had that same grinning jack-o’-lantern covering the bulb. More, as I turned back toward Hallow, I couldn’t help but notice the theme carried across the cobbles and into the town itself.

  I vaguely recalled something like this from my far distant childhood memories, what few and thin ones I retained, though it wasn’t until now an ah-ha! moment of epiphany reminded me of the oddity of the town’s décor. Part of me assumed little Abigail was simply remembering Halloween in town. Instead, it struck me that I’d been wrong and the residents of Hallow had taken their home’s name to a year-long level of Samhain celebration that dominated everything.

  Which meant the streetlight smirking pumpkin covers continued down the main center street, not to mention the rotund garbage containers painted black with orange eyes, their lids shaped like the tops of carved gourds. Everywhere were skulls, witch hats and brooms, ghostly shapes carved into doorways and phantom footprints embedded in the asphalt of the streets. And while it amused me at first, by the time I made it to the corner of my mother’s map and turned right toward my destination, the charm of Hallow’s choice of decorating had worn thin to eye rolling overdone. I mean, come on. Naming the local bar Jack’s? A bit much, as was the coffee shop called Witches Brew, and the pharmacy choosing The Apothecary as an identifier. While I understood the temptation—with a name like Hallow on All Saints Lake, I guess it made sense—surely someone in town had the good taste to stand out in the crowd and not pick a Halloween theme for their business or mailbox (a black cat whose belly opened with its tail to receive mail, really? Better than the witchy shoe whose tongue pulled lifted the toe for letters). No such luck, however, as I slowed my pace, nodding to the very few people who passed me in the street, refusing to bow my head even when they stared (I was nice enough not to stare back). It occurred to me the foot traffic—and car traffic for that matter—or lack thereof made Hallow feel like (groan, forgive me) a ghost town. Did that mean the populace mimicked their name’s love of the night or was this place simply on the way out and most residents already moved on?