I step out of the office and let the door swing shut behind me, sucking in a lungful of dry Texas air and trying to get my damn head on straight.
My phone is vibrating in my pocket like it’s possessed, and I’m just about to check it when I hear Delilah behind me.
“Sheriff?You’ve got another call.This time over at Graves’ Mark.”
I nod, tucking the phone away without looking.“Got it.”
And that’s when Megan walks out, holding a few sheets of printer paper.Her hair’s a little messy from running her hands through it, and her expression is focused—serious—but her eyes meet mine like she’s still thinking about what I said earlier.
Good.
Because I haven’t stopped thinking about it either.
“You find something?”I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, holding up the top sheet.“It’s an old blueprint of the Crypt Mansion—creepy as fuck name, by the way.”
She moves beside me, close enough for my shoulder to brush hers as she points to a faded section of the drawing.
“Look beneath the main ballroom.”
I frown, squinting.“Is that a-acrypt?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, tapping it with her nail.“Seems like ol’ Arnold Gregory Bartholomew Ferdinand Crypt—because apparently one name wasn’t enough—had big mausoleum dreams.Town records say the council denied his request, but according to this?He built it anyway.”
“Fuck,” I growl.
“Yeah, that’s weird?—”
“Not weird.Illegal.”I tap the paper.“The Crypts were Warlocks.Bad ones.Warlocks who go dark don’t draw power from natural stores like Witches or Elementals.They pull it from the dead.”
Her brows lift.“Like Necromancers?”
“Worse.Necromancers talk to spirits.Warlocks like the Cryptsconsumethem.Harvest their energy.Twist it.”
Her face goes a little pale.“And this Hellmouth?”
“Could cause a real serious side effect.Hell, it could be the source of all those shades on the property.”I shake my head.“Either way, it’s a damn problem, and I’ll explain more later.But first—we’ve got to check out Graves’ Mark.”
She follows me without argument, sliding into the cruiser beside me, those sharp eyes watching the road like she’s trying to piece it all together.
She finally asks, “What exactly is Graves’ Mark?”
We roll to a stop beside a twisted, ancient-looking cactus that overlooks a canyon.The wind picks up here, dry and sharp, howling low through the rocks.
I nod toward the edge.“This is where Wilton Graves—former Sheriff, and a Werewolf like me—took his last breath.He went over the edge chasing after the woman he loved.”
“Wow,” she says, voice soft.“That’s sad, and kind of romantic.But why?”
“She got bit by a scorpion,” I say quietly.“Was dying.Had minutes.Decided to jump and end it faster.She was human.His mate.And when she died, his Wolf went mad with the loss.”
I glance at her then.
“That’s how it happens sometimes,” I murmur.“The bond breaks, and so does the Shifter.”
She doesn’t speak for a beat.Just stands there, the canyon wind tugging gently at her hair.
Finally, she says softly, “That’s tragic.”
