A Grave of My Own: A Curse of Blood Serial (Hartford Cove Book 2) Read online

  A GRAVE OF MY OWN

  Copyright © 2021 by L.L. Frost

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by L.L. Frost

  Book design by L.L. Frost

  Printed in the United States of America.

  First Printing, 2021

  Contents

  Ghosts of the Past

  The Yard of Bones

  Too Tired For Shock

  Should Have Gone to Canada

  The Belly of the Beast

  Family of One

  Sour Comfort

  Serving for Three

  From the Author

  Also by L.L. Frost

  About the Author

  Ghosts of the Past

  Silence fills the room, and I peek back over the desk just to make sure my dead, childhood friend is still there.

  Owen stares up at me, his eyes wide and bewildered, and I jerk back to focus on the filing cabinet. The last time I saw Owen was the night my mom died. He’d been there, too, when the attack happened, and I had clearly seen him die. No one survives that much blood loss. My mom certainly hadn’t.

  My dad had taken me away that night, ignoring all of my grandma’s protests that we stay.

  He wanted us away from the monster that killed my mom. That killed my friend when he tried to protect us. Owen sacrificed his life so I could escape the same fate. It’s shocking it’s taken this long for him to come back to haunt me.

  Was his ghost waiting here all this time, living in limbo until I returned and could face the consequences of not dying with them when I should have? Will my mom appear next?

  I can’t handle that.

  “Nope!” Bolting upright, I swing my legs off the side of the desk, studiously avoiding the two frozen men on the floor. One of which is obviously not there because he’s dead. “Not doing this. Tris!”

  A scramble of claws comes from the hall, followed by a yelp, and I bolt out of the room to fight whoever just hurt my friend.

  Deputy Arden and Tris face off with each other in the main room, with the Deputy blocking the hall and Tris trying to get around him. Despite the deputy’s command for Tris to sit, my best friend isn’t having any of that. Whatever control the deputy had on him before has broken, and he’s no longer playing docile.

  He’s not getting past the deputy, though, either.

  The deputy that made Tris yelp with pain.

  Angry, I continue to run forward and barrel into the deputy’s back. I take him my surprise and shove him out of the way to reach my BFF.

  Tris straightens from his crouch, his ears perking forward, and I grab his collar to steer him toward the door. “Come on, bud, we’re out of here.”

  “Rowe!” a familiar voice calls as footsteps chase after me.

  “La, la, la.” I smash my hands over my ears. “I don’t see dead people. Dead people are dead and therefore not here.”

  “Ms. Branning!” the sheriff thunders. “We’re not done talking.”

  I spot my backpack on the deputy’s desk and snatch it up. “I’m not staying here any longer. I don’t care how hot you are!”

  “Rowe, stop.” Owen scrambles around the desk and leaps in front of the exit to block my way. “Listen to me.”

  Snapping back my arm, I punch the dead man straight in the face.

  Pain shoots up my arm as his head snaps back and blood bursts from his nose.

  “Ow, ow, ow.” Clutching my injured hand to my chest, I bend over it, trying to ease the pain. “Why is your face so hard?”

  “Why did you punch me?” he demands, his words garbled through all the blood as he cups his hand over his face.

  Tris whines and licks my face in a slobbery attempt to comfort me.

  “Magic kisses aren’t working, buddy,” I whimper as my knuckles throb. “I think I broke something.”

  “Here, let me see.” Sheriff Haut steps in front of Owen, blocking my view of his very live looking blood. Gently, Haut takes my hand and tries to straighten my fingers. “Does this hurt?”

  Pain flares up my arm.

  “Ow!” I wail up at him.

  “Can you move them?” he asks gruffly. “Try to wiggle them.”

  I do, bringing on a fresh wave of pain, but at least they move. I glare at him for the added hurt. “You’re back on my meany list.”

  “That’s okay.” His eyes simmer as he lifts my throbbing hand to his lips. “I know how to get back on the friend list.”

  My knees tremble as his mouth brushes over my aching knuckles, making me forget the pain.

  Smirking, he presses a kiss to my racing pulse, and I suddenly can’t remember why we’re not still on his desk, ripping each other’s clothes off.

  Damn, this man does things to me. Good, good things.

  “Don’t touch her!” Owen shouts and yanks the sheriff away from me.

  Oh, yeah. There’s a cold splash of reminder right there.

  The two men growl at each other, looking ready to brawl again.

  “Gods save me from rutting pups,” Deputy Arden mutters.

  I spin to glare at him. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means we have a back door, if you’re looking to escape this nonsense.” He points back the way I came, and I don’t hesitate to sprint toward escape.

  “What are you doing?” the sheriff thunders, followed by a thump and cursing.

  “Sorry, boss,” the deputy says in a bored tone. “Didn’t mean to get in your way. Let me help you up.”

  “Just get out of the way!” Haut snaps.

  He’s too late, though. I already spotted the back door, and I throw it open, escaping into a manicured backyard.

  Low bushes line a fence off in the distance, and the grass looks green and lush, obviously tended to with care. Flowers provide bright pops of color, drawing my eyes to the dozens of headstones that fill the yard.

  Oh, crap. Sheriff Haut was serious when he said he’d bury me out back.

  No level of chemistry is worth that.

  Panic hurries my feet as I dodge left and cut along the back of the building, before something catches my eye and I slow.

  Tris, ahead of me, runs a few more steps before he turns back and whines.

  I ignore him as I step closer to the nearest headstone, my eyes fixed on the name.

  Sara Wendall. Nov. 13th 1835 - Aug. 25th 1896.

  Frowning, I back up a pace to the headstone behind it.

  Agatha Wendall. Jun. 13th 1811 - Dec. 2nd 1883.

  Next to that is Valentina Wendall. Mar. 13th 1786 - June 13th 1811.

  The backdoor bangs open, and Tris catches my sleeve, tugging on it to get me moving, but I brush him off, my attention catching on the headstone in the next row back.

  Charlene Wendall. My grandma. Sheriff Haut wasn’t lying. He buried her almost exactly a year ago.

  Slowly, I look at the headstone next to it.

  Rosaline Wendell, my mom, dead fifteen years ago now.

  The one next to it is fancier than the others, with a chub
by angel engraved at the top, and below it—

  White noise fills my ears, and I have to pick the letters out one by one before the words will form. Rowe Wendell, with the same death date as my mom.

  The Yard of Bones

  A hysterical laugh escapes me, and I point at the headstone. “Look, Tris, I’m dead.”

  He whines, his ears going flat.

  “Ms. Branning.” Sheriff Haut’s footsteps come up behind me. “Come back inside.”

  Twisting, I grin manically up at him. “Look, Haut. I’m dead.”

  He winces and holds his hands out. “Rowe—”

  “What’s your first name?” I interrupt.

  He looks startled for a minute before he says, “Grayson.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Are you?”

  He blinks in confusion. “Am I what?”

  “The son of Gray.”

  “I suppose I am,” he says after a moment.

  “Rowe means Renowned Wolf.” I look back at my headstone. “I think my mom knew I’d become best friends with Tris.”

  Haut walks closer. “I don’t think that’s why she named you Rowe.”

  I lower my voice. “When I named Tris, I thought he was a girl. Trish for noble.”

  Tris snorts in disgust.

  “He had on a pink collar,” I add in self-defense.

  Haut glances at the poor guy. “You didn’t think the balls were obvious enough? You should get him neutered, by the way.”

  Tris growls his opinion of that.

  I shrug. “I filled out the paperwork before we got friendly.”

  Haut gives me a bemused look, which is starting to be all too familiar on his face. “So, legally, his name is Trish?”

  “Shh.” I lift a finger to my lips. “He’s sensitive about it.”

  The sheriff reaches out a hand. “Come back insi—”

  I dodge out of reach. “Why are all the women in my family buried in your backyard?”

  His shoulders square. “It’s not my backyard. It’s the backyard of the sheriff station.”

  Disbelief takes me back another step. “The police in Hartford Cove like to gather up the bones of the women in my family?”

  “No, it’s not like that,” he protests.

  But the headstones in the yard paint another picture. A confusing, weird picture that’s super hazy but definitely disturbing.

  “Come on, Tris.” I back farther away from the sexy but probably psychotic sheriff. “Let’s get out of this crazy-ass town.”

  Tris barks in agreement.

  “You can’t leave, Rowe,” a voice says from behind me.

  Yelping, I spin and almost fall as my sneakers slip on the damp grass. A broad hand catches me, pulling me against an even broader chest, and Haut’s delightful scent surrounds me.

  Owen, the questionably dead, carefully walks through the headstones from the opposite end of the yard. He probably ran out the front door to block me from escaping to my car.

  As he nears, I shove back against Haut, who might be a psycho, but at least he’s not the walking dead. Or a very solid ghost.

  With a frustrated shake of his head, Owen halts with a yard still between us. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Why aren’t you buried?” My eyes jump back to my gravestone. “Why am I dead and you’re not?”

  Owen takes a slow step forward. “I can explain. Let’s just all go—”

  “Why are you alive and my family isn’t?” I shout, lunging forward, my fingers hooking into claws.

  Owen stumbles back, his eyes wide with pain. Not physical pain, though, as Haut catches me around the waist before I can reach Owen and lifts me from the ground, turning in the process.

  I flail against his hold, trying to get at my childhood friend. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  “I’m so sorry, Rowe.” Owen’s voice breaks on the words. “I wish I were. I wish—”

  I push at Haut’s arms, but the damn man feels like he’s made of steel. “It was your idea to go into the woods! You’re the reason my mom died!”

  Haut freezes, but his hold on me doesn’t loosen as he growls, “What?”

  I brace my feet against Haut’s thighs in a vain attempt to push free of his hold. I’ve spent so long trying to forget what happened. So many visits to therapists talking through the trauma and the delusions brought on by watching my mom and my friend slaughtered. People say I’m crazy because of what happened, and now, here Owen is, saying those memories are faulty, that the tragedy in my childhood was—at least partially—a lie.

  “You’re really Charlene’s granddaughter.” Haut’s arms tighten around me until I squeak with protest. Ducking his head, he finds the pulse in my neck and inhales deeply before straightening. “Impossible.”

  “It’s true,” Own says for me since—you know—I can’t breathe to speak for myself. “I would know Rowe anywhere.”

  “We’re going to go back inside and talk about this.” Decision made, Haut marches to the back door, taking me with him.

  “I can’t—” I gasp and reach back to slap at his head. “Air!”

  Without pausing, he shifts me in his arms, turning me so I face him and hooking my legs around his waist.

  I glare right into his eyes, which is a novel experience for someone of my height. “I have feet.”

  “I prefer knowing you can’t run,” he grunts as he leans forward to open the door, and I throw my arms around his neck to stop myself from tipping backward. “Besides, I like you like this. Feels good.”

  Behind him, Owen growls, but Haut ignores the warning.

  I poke Haut’s scruffy cheek. “What if I don’t like this?”

  His head shifts to the side, and he nips my finger. “Don’t you?”

  Heart racing, I snatch my hand back. “Maybe. I really shouldn’t though. I’m not usually swayed by hotness.”

  Owen growls again and glares daggers at Haut’s back. He looks ready to murder the bigger man and probably would have tried if I wasn’t riding the sheriff like a backward pony.

  Is he using me as a preventative against another fight? Not sure how I feel about being a human shield. Haut should want to hold me just because he’s overwhelmed by my sexy self, the same way I’m overwhelmed by him.

  I snort at that thought, then shove Haut’s face forward when he dares to witness me amusing myself.

  Instead of returning to the interrogation room, Haut leads us back to his office and pauses at the door. “Deputy!”

  I twist toward the front of the office as Deputy Arden pops into view at the end of the hall. “Boss?”

  “How’s that background check coming?” Haut demands.

  He glances back toward his desk. “Just sending it to you now.”

  Haut grunts. “And the pills?”

  “Waiting to hear back from Maria.”

  I rear back as far as Haut’s hold will allow. “You stole my pills?”

  The corner of his mouth ticks. “Confiscated evidence.”

  I poke his dimple. “Thief.”

  His head turns, and he snaps at my finger.

  I snatch my hand back once more. “Bad wolf.”

  Behind him, Owen stumbles a step, his eyes darting from me to the sheriff. “You told—”

  “Shut up, Owen,” Haut snaps as we walk into his office.

  Owen pulls his shoulders back as he strides in after us. “Do I need to remind you I’m the mayor of this town?”

  “Your name is on the damn sign. We’re all aware you’re the mayor.” Derision fills Haut’s voice, solidifying the feeling these two men butt heads on a regular basis and not just when Owen walks in on us tearing each other’s clothes off.

  A blush rushes to my cheeks at the reminder, and my face only heats more when Haut pulls back his chair and sets me in it before perching on the top of the desk, his body angled toward the couch. Tris pads over and sits on my opposite side, blocking me in with way too much growly alphaness.

  Owen takes the hint an
d sits on the couch, all by himself, us against him. Another thing I’m not sure I like.

  I’d rather it be me and Tris against them. Stealthily, I try to scoot the chair away from Haut, but his foot hooks around the leg, foiling my plans.

  “So, you’re saying this”—Haut points at me while addressing Owen—“is Rowe Wendall.”

  I slap his hand away. “That’s what I said!”

  “Yes,” Owen confirms as both men ignore me.

  “Now, see, that’s a problem I’m having trouble wrapping my head around.” Haut reaches over and grabs his hat off the edge of the desk, sliding it back on so he once more resembles the hardass I first met. “You see, I was here when Rosaline and Rowe were buried. So, if this is Rowe, whose grave did I help dig out back?”

  Too Tired For Shock

  I search Sheriff Haut’s face for any sense of familiarity.

  He’s not that much older than me. At least, I don’t think he is. And there weren’t a lot of kids my age in Hartford Cove. I played with everyone available during the long visits to my grandma’s house. She was a town favorite, known for always having pies and cakes ready for anyone who stopped by.

  But I don’t remember Haut from back then. And I would. I know I would. Even if the rest of him had grown up, those eyes would stick in my memory.

  Crinkles form around those eyes as he smiles, and I suddenly realize I’m less than a foot away from his too attractive face.

  Rearing back, I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re not from Hartford Cove, and you certainly weren’t here when my mom died. I’d remember you.”

  His smile fades. “My father was called in to hunt down a rabid…wolf. We arrived the day after the attack, too late to save Mrs. Wendall’s family.”

  The memory of blood and terror wash over me, the sound of screaming ringing in my ears.

  “Rowe…” Owen reaches out to touch my arm, and I jerk away, seeing his bloody, childish face overlaying his adult one once more.