Spells Trouble, Kristin Cast [books to read in a lifetime .TXT] 📗

silently went to the driver’s seat, Xena’s soft hand stroked the back of Mercy’s hair as she murmured, “Oh, my poor kittens…”

Twenty-nine

Goose bumps peaked along Hunter’s arms as she opened the heavy glass door of the sheriff’s department. It was cold. Really cold. Arctic tundra cold. She pulled the sleeves of her holey cardigan over her hands and rubbed them against her arms. Her boots squeaked across the shiny linoleum floor as she headed to the long, beige counter that separated the townspeople from those tasked with keeping them safe.

Trish McAlister poked up from behind the counter. Her curly red hair bounced against her pink cheeks as she hefted up a box labeled DONATE and set it on top of the Formica-covered ledge. An aluminum can spilled over the top of the box and landed on the floor with a thud.

“I got it!” Hunter welcomed the excuse to jog over and supply more heat to her body. “Only a tiny dent.” She pointed to the dimple and set the can of green beans back in the box.

“They’re for the elementary school’s food drive.” Trish brushed a few perfectly spiraled locks away from her green eyes and smiled. “I don’t much think they’ll care about a little dent.” She shivered and zipped her puffy winter jacket up to her throat.

Hunter bounced in place and flexed her stiffening fingers. “I think your a/c has gone insane.”

Trish clasped her hands in front of her and buried her chin in the collar of her coat. “The sheriff is having quite the time staying cool.” Her glossed lips smoothed into a thin line. “With his hot flashes and mood swings, you’d think he was going through some type of male menopause.” She grumbled before glancing up at Hunter. The color in her cheeks deepened cherry red. “But you didn’t come to hear about that.” She waved away the comment and lifted herself onto the stool behind the counter. “Now, what can I do for you…?”

“Hunter,” she supplied.

“Thank you, Hunter. It’s just that you girls are so darn hard to tell apart.” Trish’s shoulders shook with a chuckle. “So, what can I do for you, Hunter?”

Hunter clenched her toes. “I need to speak with the sheriff. It’s an emergency.”

“Oh?” Trish pressed her hand against her chest and tilted her chin, birdlike. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Not too serious.” She cleared her throat. “Well, it is an emergency. Can an emergency be unserious?” Her toes ached and she blew out a puff of air. “I just need to see the big man in charge.” Hunter bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from spouting more nonsense. If her plan was going to work, she’d have to keep from saying asinine things like unserious emergency and big man in charge.

Trish slid off her stool and straightened her puffy jacket. “I’ll go see if he is taking visitors.”

Hunter fought off another a/c-induced shiver. “I’m not really a visitor. I have a serious emergency.”

Trish stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Hunter, dear, you are preaching to the choir.” Her tennis shoes squeaked on the linoleum as she spun around and marched toward the only office with its door closed.

Except for the occasional ringing phone or whoosh of the printer, the sheriff’s department was silent. Every few weeks, when Hunter followed Mercy in and out of the businesses along Main Street to hang flyers for the bake sales and club activities the more outgoing twin participated in, the sheriff’s department pulsed with energy. Deputy Carter seemed to always be up and around, flashing a straight-toothed grin and those puppy-dog eyes at the women who stopped by to hand out sweets and innocent flirtations. There was laughter from the coffee station, somber meetings in the glass-front conference rooms, and at least one very drunk, very loud townsperson. Hunter rubbed her palms against her bare thighs and shivered. Everything was different now, colder, and it wasn’t just the air conditioning. But that’s what happened when the easygoing sheriff was body snatched and replaced with a murderous monster.

Hunter flinched with each of Trish’s sharp knocks on the sheriff’s closed wooden door. Hunter strained to hear what they were saying, but her witchy powers didn’t extend to super hearing. She picked at her thumbnail and waited.

Everything rested on her. Everything always rested on her, so that wasn’t really a shock, but this was so much different than pulling her sister out of her despair or making sure their mother’s funeral arrangements were in order. This was huge—life ending. And then there was Tyr. Hunter swallowed.

Sheriff Dearborn yanked his door open. It slammed against the stopper with a sharp crack. Tension washed over the bullpen. Even the trilling phones quieted in Sheriff Dearborn’s wake.

Hunter stiffened. She could do this. She had no choice.

She lifted onto her toes and shouted, “Sheriff!”

His head jerked from Trish to Hunter. Under the fluorescent lights, the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses looked like two starbursts.

Showtime.

Hunter knitted her brow and frowned. “Out by that old olive tree, there’s a—a—” She pressed her cold fingers against her lips and sucked in a jagged breath.

The sheriff brushed past Trish and stalked toward Hunter.

Deputy Carter stood and picked up his cowboy hat off his desk. “If you take Miss Goode’s statement, I’ll drive out there and take a look.”

“No!” Dearborn’s temples flexed with each sharp clench of his jaw. “What I mean is, I need you”—he swung his gaze around the bullpen—“all of you, to stay here. Finish your work. Protect the town. I’ll use this…” With another clench of his jaw, he flicked the radio attached to his shoulder. “And let you know if I need backup.”

Deputy Carter’s puppy face disappeared as he dropped his hat back onto his desk and sagged into his chair.

Hunter kept her damsel-in-distress mask firmly in place as she surveyed the office. None of these people had gotten to say good-bye to the real Frank Dearborn. After tonight, if everything went well for Hunter, each person’s memory