Headless Hollow—a name that sounded like it belonged to a horror story—was, ironically, one of the coziest villages I had ever set foot in.

The cobblestone streets wound lazily through clusters of charming, lopsided cottages, their chimneys puffing out oddly colored smoke that smelled of cinnamon and brimstone.

It wasn’t hard to tell the locals from the tourists.

The tourists, still rigidly clinging to their human forms, shuffled about in wide-eyed wonder, cameras poised and mouths agape.

Meanwhile, the residents embraced their monstrous selves without an ounce of hesitation, not the slightest bit worried about a human accidentally wandering in and rallying the nearest pitchfork-wielding mob.

I spent the morning in a constant state of awe.

A nearly nine-foot-tall sasquatch, her mahogany fur so silky she could have starred in a luxury shampoo ad, handed me a cup of coffee with a nonchalant, “Careful, it’s hot, hon.

” A dazzling water nymph, her skin shifting between hues of blue and silver depending on how the sunlight kissed her, flashed me a radiant smile as she pointed me toward the nearest tourist shop―I hoped the ghost would accept a Samhain-themed trinket as an apology.

Even the law enforcement had its own peculiar flair. A hulking ogre was crammed into a comically undersized patrol car, his beefy hands gripping the wheel like he was about to tear it off. His eyes narrowed in on the newcomers, a silent warning that he saw everything .

But as much as I could explore the town for days, I had some groveling to do. And so, just as the sun was setting over the lake, I found myself once again standing in front of the haunted cabin.

Nothing stirred as I approached. No angry slamming of shutters. No banging of doors. Not even a single flicker of candlelight from beyond the windows. The silence was unnerving .

“... Uh, ghost?”

A loud clanking noise broke the stillness, and then, with a crack , a wooden sign materialized on the door. In bold, blocky letters, it read: NO VACANCIES .

“I know there are no vacancies,” I said dryly, “because I’m the one who booked this place for the next two weeks.” Or, technically, Jasper’s packmate Cassandra had. I briefly wondered how his groveling was going, considering she’d been stuck on the waitlist for years.

The bedsheet ghost appeared in the window, arms crossed and cutout-eyes narrowed. It glared at me for a moment, then angrily jabbed a sheeted arm at the sign.

Sighing, I ran my fingers sheepishly through my hair. “I’m sorry for punching you, buddy.”

The ghost brought a finger to its face and issued a silent shhhhh .

In a much quieter voice, I continued, “I got a present for you to show how sorry I am.” The ghost seemed totally disinterested in my peace offering and turned its back to me. “Please?” I practically begged. “Help an incubus demon out?”

The ghost slowly turned to face me, its head tilted in curiosity.

It flicked its eyes upward, as if it could see into the rooms above, then slowly brought its creepy gaze back down to meet mine.

A second later, the sign disappeared, and the front door creaked open.

For a long moment, the ghost looked me up and down.

Finally, its eyes softened, and it floated backward, allowing me inside, its hands raised out in front of it expectantly.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the novelty Samhain-themed snow globe—a tiny, grinning sheet-ghost floating amid swirling, viscous glitter. With careful deliberation, I set it into the ghost’s outstretched hand.

For a long moment, the ghost simply stared at it, before suddenly clutching it to its chest and quivering with excitement. The ghost zoomed up the stairs and a second later, I heard the door to the attic squeak open as the ghost presumably stashed its new possession away.

I exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief. At least I’d have a roof over my head for another night.

A fire crackled merrily in the woodstove, filling the room with the rich, resinous scent of smoldering pine.

The warmth seeped into my skin as I sank into the couch, lazily scanning the pile of board games stashed beneath the coffee table.

Unfortunately, they were all designed for a family-sized group, and none suitable for a bored, single demon.

I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, the weight of boredom settling in.

Had I had the foresight, I would have stopped by the Sinclair Bookshop I’d spotted earlier to pick up a smutty romance to sink my teeth into.

But I’d been too distracted, and now I was stuck in a house that, for all its eerie charm, didn’t even have a TV to mindlessly rot my brain with.

The sound of running water broke through my boredom, pulling my attention toward the hallway.

I frowned. Was the ghost... running a bath for me?

Pushing off the couch, I made my way toward the bathroom, curiosity getting the better of me. As I stepped through the doorway, I froze.

The ghost stood proudly in the center of the room, its arm outstretched and urging me inside.

The large clawfoot tub was already full, the water rich with soft, glistening bubbles.

Ghostly wisps of steam curled into the air, carrying the scent of lavender, a faint scent of amber and jasmine lingering in the air.

Tiny candles flickered in a perfect circle around the tub, their golden light casting gentle shadows that danced along the tiled walls.

A hand-carved wooden tray was balanced neatly across the tub, holding a single candle, a glass of deep red wine, and. .. a notebook.

I raised an eyebrow, my gaze flicking from the ghost to the notebook and back again. “Did you... want me to write something for you?”

Even though it wasn’t physically possible, I could feel the ghost rolling its eyes at me.

With a sharp wave of its sheeted arm, the notebook vanished from the tray, only to reappear in my hands a second later.

The cover was smooth, worn soft with age, and beneath my fingertips, it thrummed faintly with an energy I couldn’t quite place.

Curiosity piqued, I made my way across the room and perched on the edge of the tub, the heat from the steaming water curling around me. I flipped open the notebook, skimming the first page.

“ Knot Your Average Witch ,” I read aloud.

A flicker of excitement danced over my skin. A romance novel—or at least a draft of one. And with a title like that? Yeah, I definitely would’ve picked it off a shelf.

“Draft One, Jen Myers.”

The moment the name left my lips, the ghost gave a visible shudder, practically vibrating with pride.

A grin tugged at my lips. “So, you’re a fan of this Jen Myers, huh?”

The ghost clasped its hands to where a heart would be and nodded its head.

“Is she a guest who left this behind?” I asked.

The ghost raised a hand in front of it and wobbled it back and forth in the universal sign of eh, kinda .

I ran my finger over the name, and an odd sensation of familiarity washed over me.

The sensation was fleeting, vanishing before I could grasp it.

I wondered if I’d read any of her other books before.

The name didn’t immediately ring a bell, but something about it itched at the back of my mind.

I made a mental note to ask Jasper if he could help me hunt down the author to return her notes to her.

The ghost glided to the door, turned, and made a get-on-with-it gesture with its sheet arms, before gliding out of the room.

I didn’t move until I heard the attic latch click shut.

With a sigh, I stripped out of my clothes, folding each piece neatly before stepping into the bath.

The moment I sank into the steaming water, a low, guttural moan slipped past my lips.

The temperature was perfect , the water wrapping around me like silk, coaxing the knots from my muscles.

Steam curled in lazy tendrils around me, the scent of lavender lingering in the air, along with that delicious undercurrent of amber and jasmine. I let my head tip back against the cool cast iron edge, willing myself to just relax, but my mind wouldn’t still.

I was supposed to be finding a date.

But instead of spending my afternoon in a bar, trying to find a kindred soul, I was shopping for snow globes to bribe the ghost. In fact, the thought of seeking out a potential partner hadn’t even crossed my mind today.

I swirled a hand through the water absently.

I guess I’d have to start in earnest tomorrow.

For most people, mortals and monsters alike, dating seemed effortless.

A casual comment which turns into a conversation.

A right swipe which turns into a spark. But for an incubus demon, every encounter was transactional.

Not once had I ever sat across from someone, unguarded.

Not once had I shared a moment with no ulterior motive, no expectation lurking beneath the surface.

I was built for seduction, not dating.

And what would I even say? “Hi, I’m Devlin, an incubus who wants to take it slow and get to know the real you. So, tell me—what’s your favorite book?”

I sank lower into the bath, letting the water creep up to my neck.

My gaze drifted to the notebook resting on the wooden tray. Would Jen Myers have any dating advice buried in her novel?

Most likely not. But at least it promised knotting.

***

I was in love.

If someone had cracked open my skull and plucked out the fantasy of my ideal mate, they would have created Mina Moonspire.

Confident, clever, awkwardly hilarious—Mina had it all.

Throw in a tragic backstory, and her raw vulnerability had me longing to pull her from the pages and wrap my arms around her in comfort.

Exiled from her coven, Mina is derailed from getting her life back on track by a local pack of wolf shifters who needed a discreet witch to help them find a missing, cursed pack member.