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Chapter Four

ISADORA

“So,” Thorne said as we turned onto my street, “is it too soon to ask for a tour of your haunted abode, or should I wait until your ghosts have had their coffee?”

I chuckled. “Sure, why not? Just don’t blame me for their bad manners.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dah-ling ,” Thorne said, laughing.

We stopped in front of the bar, which—bless its decrepit soul—looked even more tragic by daylight.

The siding was less ‘shabby chic’ and more ‘abandoned railway station.’ The awning sagged as if it, too, had given up on its dreams. And a rogue vine had claimed the left-hand shutter like it was preparing to star in its own gothic romance.

“Wow,” Thorne said, eyes wide. “It’s even worse than I remember.”

I smiled serenely. “Isn’t it just dreadful? I feel like I should rename it Wuthering Pub. The ambience certainly matches.”

“It looks like it might collapse if someone breathes too hard near it,” Thorne whispered, as though afraid she might offend the building itself. Who knew, maybe she would?

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I intend to transform her. We won’t even recognize her when I’m finished. She just needs a glow-up.”

Thorne stepped inside, then froze just past the threshold.

I couldn’t blame her. I’d slept here last night and even I was still a little shocked by the state of the place. It certainly didn’t help that the weather had cleared, too. Now the grimy windows were lit from the outside, highlighting every sorry detail inside.

There was so much to fix in this place. Cracked plaster.

Warped floorboards. A stain in the center of the room that I’d deliberately chosen not to investigate for the sake of my sanity.

In one corner, a broken barstool lay belly-up like a dead bug.

Next to that, a door—possibly storage?—hung crooked on its hinges, and swayed back and forth with zero encouragement from us.

The place was a disaster wrapped in a catastrophe.

“Oh my gods,” Thorne whispered.

“Right?” I said. “You can practically smell the despair.”

“No, I mean—seriously. Is that…blood on the wall?”

I peered at the dark smear near the corner booth. “Hard to say. Could be blood. Could be wine. Could be a deeply unfortunate jam accident. We may never know.”

Thorne made a face but continued her inspection.

Above us, the chandelier gave a dramatic, wailing groan and began to sway with theatrical menace.

I sighed. “That’s Bernard.”

Thorne stared at the swaying fixture, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “You named your chandelier?”

“No. I named the ghost who haunts it. I met him last night. But he refuses to show himself or tell me his name. He just…moans. So, I named him Bernard. It felt appropriate. He didn’t complain, so.”

She squinted. “You’re serious.”

“As death.”

The chandelier gave an extra creak, as if in agreement.

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.

“Bet you weren’t expecting this from the girl in ratty sneakers and leggings.”

“Not even remotely,” I said. “I feel I should tell you, Claude told me of your family too. He said?—”

“We’re scandalous, semi-feral, and constantly gossiped about,” she offered. “Yes, that’s us. But I’m the boring one, I promise. I don’t brawl in public, nor do I sleep with council members— anymore —and I haven’t been arrested in…what month is it?”

Laughter unwittingly bubbled out of my throat. “You’re joking.”

“Partly,” she said. “Just trying to break the tension. Wolfe women tend not to come in my packaging. We tend to lean more murderous vixen than mischievous jogger. But I assure you, I am the full pedigree, and I come with a dusty bank account that’s teeming with money I haven’t touched in decades.”

I raised a brow. “And now you want to invest in a haunted bar with a disgraced Laurent? How very avant-garde of you.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” Thorne said, flashing a grin.

“There’s this charming little blood feud between my family and the St. Germains, and I’ve made it my personal mission to be the glitter in their casket.

So, when I heard a disgraced Laurent bought a bar two blocks from Lucien’s ego palace?

Honestly, Izzy, how could I not get involved? ”

“Because of your family rivalry,” I said, half to myself.

“Because of the opportunity ,” Thorne corrected. “Because sticking it to the St. Germains while building something of my own is just good business.”

I studied her again. The casual confidence. The gleam of ambition under the charm. The perfect blend of chaos and calculation.

She moved like someone used to being underestimated—used to turning that underestimation into leverage.

I’d seen it before at midnight salons, at coven councils, at gilded galas where people forged alliances over poisoned wine and polite threats.

Women who smiled while setting entire legacies ablaze behind their backs.

She wasn’t trying to impress me. She was laying groundwork, framing the pitch, measuring me for how far I’d let her in.

And the worst part?

It was working.

I could already see it. Thorne behind the scenes with her glittering Rolodex of morally ambiguous contacts. Me playing the sharp-tongued figurehead, all fangs and flash. The town wouldn’t know what hit it. And maybe—for the first time in a long time—I wouldn’t be going at it alone.

“Remind me never to play poker with you,” I said.

She laughed, then pivoted on her heel and walked a slow circle around the bar, like a woman inspecting treasure. She touched everything, the broken barstools, the counter, the cracked bottles, as though familiarizing herself with the place.

“Here’s what I see,” she said. “This place has history. It’s also charming and in a great location.

Not to mention, a literal ghost story built into the walls themselves.

And while it may currently look like the set of a low-budget vampire soap opera, all that means is the expectations are low.

Which gives us room to impress. I’m thinking reclaimed decadence.

Velvet booths, candlelight enchantments, an actual functioning stage for live acts, and drinks that aren’t just alcoholic, but dramatic.

I’m talking cocktails that smoke and-or glitter. ”

“Sounds…unique?” I offered.

“Sounds memorable ,” she countered. “And this town runs on reputation. We give them a place that’s indulgent without being intimidating, eccentric without being a circus—and suddenly, everyone wants in.

Not just the legacy families and their lapdogs, but the independents.

The misfits. The ones who are tired of curtsying every time Lucien St. Germain lifts an eyebrow. ”

Thorne turned back to me. “This is a deal you want to take,” she said.

“Not only do I have the funds you so desperately need, but I also have the connections. Many owe me favors. I’ll handle the money.

You handle the war with Lucien. You’re the vamp, after all, as you so helpfully pointed out.

You’ve got the heritage, the fangs, the bite—and let’s be honest, half the town is already watching to see if you fail.

So, why not give them a performance they’ll never forget?

The more drama you spark, the more excitement for your grand opening. ”

A slow smile spread across my face.

I’d chosen Eternity Falls because it was a small town far, far away from my family, my ex-mate, and all the societal pressures and expectations.

I’d never considered that this place might actually appeal to me.

I was also starting to realize that Lucien St. Germain might not be the town’s only sociopath.

No.

Theodora Wolfe was an entirely different breed of menace. The kind no one ever saw coming. The kind that utterly upended your life without anyone realizing she was the one pulling the strings in the first place.

And I adored her for it. An hour in her company, and I already suspected she and I were going to be the best of friends.

Because that menace? The danger simmering beneath the surface?

I was intimately familiar with it. I saw it every time I looked in the mirror—not that I had a reflection to actually admire.

My grin turned sly, and I leaned against the dilapidated counter. “And if I say no?”

Thorne merely glanced at me, her insufferable expression making me laugh.

“Please. We both know you’re not that boring,” she said. “You didn’t claw your way out of scandal just to open a sad little pub with nothing but ghost drama and gumption. By buying this bar, you started a war. And I’m here to provide you with the artillery.”

I huffed a laugh, low and dry. “For fifty percent profits, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, chuckling. “Come on. Say yes. We’ll toast to chaos and paint the town something far more interesting than red.”

I lifted an empty hand, as though raising a toast. “To mutually beneficial disasters?”

She clinked her imaginary glass against mine with a grin. “The very best kind.”