Thorne crossed her arms, her gaze never leaving the fixture. “Well, Bernard better behave, or I’m bringing sage and an aggressively cheerful exorcist.”
“You’ll hurt his feelings,” I warned.
“Then he can file a complaint with the Dearly Departed HR Department.”
Was that a real thing? Best not to ask.
Thorne moved deeper inside, hopping over what might have once been a barstool. Now, it resembled a pile of broken firewood.
“Well, there’s potential,” she said, clearly hunting for something nice to say. “And you’re serious about renovating this place?”
“That’s the idea. I want to rebrand it. Clean it up. Remove the…viscera.”
She took another turn around the room, her eyes sparking with what I imagined was interest. “I mean, the bar’s massive. The windows are charming in a ‘please don’t break’ kind of way. And that little alcove in the back? That’d make a killer stage for live music.”
Intrigue had my head cocking. “You think I could pull off live music?”
Thorne turned in a slow circle, eyes roving the ceiling like she was already hearing the echo of a band tuning up. “Absolutely. You’ve got the bones for it—good acoustics, moody lighting potential, and just enough grit to make the whole thing feel edgy instead of pretentious.”
She paused near the alcove and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Picture it—Friday nights with enchanted jazz trios, spellbound lighting that syncs to the rhythm, maybe a bartender who flings flaming garnishes with unnecessary flair. The kind of place that caters to all, not just the rich and influential.”
Mischief tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Plus, I’ve already decided on my table. I want the one with the crooked sconce and prime view of the stage. I’m calling dibs now so when this becomes the venue, I can say, ‘Oh yes, I knew Izzy back when the chandelier still tried to murder people.’”
“Bernard hasn’t tried to murder anyone,” I countered.
“Yet.” She winked at me. “Eternity Falls is full of talent, and even if our residents couldn’t sing, our witches could certainly enchant the instruments to perform for us. Give us a stage, a mic, and a place that doesn’t smell quite so…formaldehydey, and you’ll have a line out the door waiting to get in.”
I exhaled slowly, feeling a flicker of something dangerously close to hope. “Well, that’s the dream.”
She glanced back at me, then smiled. “We can make it a reality, Izzy.”
I froze, then shot her a glance. “We?”
Thorne grinned. “Was that presumptuous? I just thought, you know, seeing as how I’ve already named the stage in my mind and am mentally booking our grand opening, I might as well make it official.”
Make what official, exactly? I narrowed my eyes and studied the sneaky werewolf a little more closely. “You didn’t come here just for a tour, did you?”
Thorne’s expression blanked. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, come on,” I said, waving a hand between us. “You just happened to run into me on your morning jog? In the square? At exactly the right moment for a friendly chat and a casual inspection of my haunted bar?”
She opened her mouth like she might protest, then smiled—wide, unapologetic, and a little wicked. “Fine. You caught me. I went out jogging with the intention of bumping into you.”
My lips flattened. “So, this was all a setup.”
“Of course it was,” she said breezily. “Izzy, you’re not exactly a subtle arrival. I already told you word spread before you even arrived in town. And when you purchased this hellhole, I saw an opportunity.”
Before I could ask about this supposed opportunity, she stepped back and dipped into a mock-curtsy so theatrical, it might have earned polite applause in another century. “Allow me to formally introduce myself, since I so rudely neglected to give you the full details earlier.”
I pursed my mouth, already bracing myself.
She stepped onto what remained of a broken table, lifted her chin, and placed her hand over her chest. “My name,” she declared, “is Theodora Wren Wolfe. Though”—she raised a single finger, halting my inevitable response when I sucked in a shocked breath—“I warn you now not to call me Theodora. The last person to call me that was my etiquette tutor, and I set her handbag on fire. Chanel, I think. Absolutely wretched. It was an accident, of course.”
The wicked glint in her eye told me it was not an accident. “Theodora Wolfe,” I repeated, wondering how this waif of a werewolf managed to pull the wool over my eyes.
“My mother told me I could go by Theo or Dora. So, naturally, I chose Thorne. It has bite.” She clicked her teeth together.
All right, that made me chuckle.
