Page 17 of Of Magic and Murder

Max looks at Honey again. Whatever silent argument is passing between them, I think she wins because he lets out a long breath and rubs his hand over his face.

Then the sheriff of Moonburrow looks back at the body. His shoulders sag, and he makes a mistake of his own when he says in a frustrated tone: “There wasn’t supposed to be another murder with the wards locked down.”

Silence follows as everyone in the clearing—except, I notice, his fellow member of the Moonburrow Sheriff Department—realizes what he just said. Hell, even Olivia shuts up.

And then I ask in a tremulous voice, “Another murder?”

Max goes completely still. It’s obvious that he didn’t mean to say that, and there’s a pretty good reason for his reaction: Honey Lobo.

It all happens so quickly. One of the opossums makes a furious sound, somewhat like a hiss but worse. I understand that it’s Honey a split second later when she shifts on the spot. One moment, I have an opossum by my boot. The next? A naked blonde woman is striding toward her mate, fists clenched at her sides.

“Max!”

I get a good look at Honey’s backside, remember that shifters who come out of their skin don’t come with clothes, and whip around so quickly that I nearly trip over a tree root I didn’t see in the darkness.

Somewhere behind me, Olivia whistles.

“Well. That’s a surprise. The part-witch has a pretty nice ass.”

“Olivia!” I squeal, though the only saving grace is that I’m the only one who heard her say that.

“What?” the ghost asks, trying for innocence and failing miserably. “She does.”

We’re not the only ones taken aback by Honey’s sudden strip show.

“Honey,” Max growls. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out what my mate means when he said another murder? Another one, Max? And you didn’t tell me?”

There’s the sound of movement behind me, then Max says, “Put this on.”

“I don’t want your shirt. I want an answer.”

“Take one and I’ll give you the other.”

I stare very hard at a long, slender tree a few feet away while Honey grumbles under her breath.

“I wouldn’t turn around just yet,” Olivia advises me cheerily. “Although Max Lobo without a shirt is considerably better than Honey without one. Goddess. Look at his chest. But you have to remember it about these beasts… they’re very possessive. If you eyeball her tits, he might go for your eyes. But if you enjoy his sculpted chest, she might give you rabies.” She huffs. “I have it on good authority that shifters have super rabies. Don’t get bit, witchling. Not until you’ve solved my murder.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Must you be so difficult? I told you I’ll try my best.”

“I’m dead. Be respectful.”

Maybe if it wasn’t three in the morning, I’m standing by a corpse, and there’s a wolf Alpha way too close about to give in to a jealous rage because his mate decided it was better to return to her skin despite having an audience…

“Are we decent?” I call out after a moment.

“No,” says Olivia. “They’re beasts, Penelope.”

“Yes,” says Max at exactly the same time, and I decide to trust the sheriff is in charge and not the wolf.

I risk turning around, letting out a soft sigh when I see that Honey is wearing Max’s t-shirt, her hair wild and loose. It just about covers everything that counts as she glares over at her mate.

Uh-oh.

Her shirtless mate.

In my experience, shifters—especially predators—are a perfect male specimen; on the outside, at least. Max has a very nice chest. I admit that. I’m also getting a little hysterical following the events of the evening because the most inappropriate thought pops into my brain: