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  How to Sell a Haunted House

  Haunted Properties Book One

  Magic and Mayhem Universe

  Angela Roquet

  Copyright

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 ANGELA ROQUET

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is coincidental.

  This book contains content that may not be suitable for young readers 17 and under.

  The Author of this Book has been granted permission by Robyn Peterman to use the copyrighted characters and/or worlds created by Robyn Peterman in this book. All copyright protection to the original characters and/or worlds of the Magic and Mayhem series is retained by Robyn Peterman.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Acknowledgements

  More Books by Angela Roquet

  About the Author

  FOREWORD

  BLAST OFF WITH US INTO the Magic and Mayhem Universe!

  I’m Robyn Peterman, the creator of the Magic and Mayhem Series, and I’d like to invite you to my Magic and Mayhem Universe.

  What is the Magic and Mayhem Universe, you may ask?

  Well, let me explain...

  It’s basically authorized fan fiction written by some amazing authors that I stalked and blackmailed! KIDDING! I was lucky and blessed to have some brilliant authors say yes! They have written brand new stories using my world and some of my characters. And let me tell you...the results are hilarious!

  So here it is! Blast off with us into the hilarious Magic and Mayhem Universe. Side-splitting books by fantabulous authors! Check out each and every one. You will laugh your way to a magical HEA!

  For all the stories, go to https://magicandmayhemuniverse.com Grab your copy today!

  How to Sell a Haunted House

  Chapter 1

  MY ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENT in Assjacket, West Virginia, wasn’t much to write home about. Not that I was the kind to write home. And not that my family was the kind to care how I was faring since I’d left Kansas on a jet stream, riding my gran’s hand-me-down broom.

  Still, if I’d known Mr. Holloway, the weasel Shifter president of the sole bank in town, was going to request a video conference call, I would have tidied the place up beforehand. Instead, I attempted the feat mid-way through his rambling.

  As the dust in the room vanished from existence, my lashes fluttered against the tops of my cheekbones. I’d acquired the magical twitch in my youth, thanks to my warlock father’s stress-inducing lessons. Unfortunately, no amount of fear could unveil a magical gift that just wasn’t there. I never progressed past domestic arts. I was nothing more than a twitchy, witchy Martha Stewart.

  “Are you...winking at me, Ms. West?” Mr. Holloway squinted and leaned forward, his face filling my computer monitor.

  “No,” I blurted, a bit more harshly than intended, and quickly back-peddled with a giggle and a business-card smile. “I have something in my eye.”

  I blinked a few more times, taking the opportunity to finish what I’d started. In the corner of my computer screen, where my camera’s feed was reflected, I watched the framed castle painting on the wall behind me level itself. Then, the junk mail sitting on the corner of the table floated off on an invisible breeze that carried it to the waste basket in the kitchen.

  Much better.

  “As I was saying,” Mr. Holloway continued, smoothing his casual-Friday, golf ball-print tie. “You’re going to have a difficult time selling the Hernández house.”

  I nodded, annoyed that he assumed I hadn’t been listening. “Yes, the bats in the attic—”

  “Belfry,” he corrected. “The house was originally a church, until it was condemned.”

  “—and the alleged ghosts.” Assjacket was a...unique town, but in my experience, rumored ghosts often turned out to be the typical creaks and drafts found in any old home. Not that I didn’t believe in ghosts—they were just rarer than most believed.

  Mr. Holloway sighed and gave me a patronizing frown. “Dylan Hernández inherited an upside-down mortgage on the biggest eyesore in a hundred-mile radius. It would be in his best interest to let the bank take this burden off his hands.”

  “Burden?” I snorted. “The Hernández house is a crucial piece of this town’s history.”

  “It’s dilapidated.”

  “It’s a fixer-upper. A handyman special. A great project for a local historical society,” I rattled off, trying to decide which one I would use for the ad copy. “A charming relic in need of a little TLC...”

  “Ms. West—Margo,” Mr. Holloway said, giving me a long face. “Do you really intend to take advantage of the bereaved for the sake of a tempting—if highly unlikely—commission?”

  “Me?” I gasped, completely floored by his audacity. We’d done half a dozen closings together. He knew me better than that, though maybe not well enough to be using my first name. Especially if he was going to start hurling insults. “You think I’m the one trying to take advantage here, Arnold?”

  “Now, now,” he said, holding up a shaky hand as my face flushed.

  I pointed a finger at the computer as if I would hex him right through the monitor. I might have, too. If I’d known how to do such a thing. Luckily, he—and most everyone else in town—had no idea that I was the least wicked witch in the West family. That was the beauty of moving halfway across the country.

  “I’ve been here long enough to know that the Hernández house happens to be on the outskirts of a coveted neighborhood, smackdab in the middle of a block that dog of a developer has been eyeballing,” I said, tilting my chin up as Mr. Holloway blanched. “Don’t think for one second that I don’t see what you’re trying to do, Arnold Bartholomew Holloway!”

  I’m not sure if it was my finger waving around all willy-nilly or my wide eyes that did it for him, but the screen went black as Mr. Holloway abruptly ended the call.

  Good riddance.

  I peeled off my blazer and threw it over the back of the couch before kicking my fluffy bunny slippers up on the coffee table beside my laptop. Working from home did have its perks. Besides, Assjacket was too small of a town to warrant paying rent on a big, fancy office in addition to my apartment.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Holloway was right about one thing. Selling the Hernández house would be a challenge. Not just because of bats, or ghost stories, or all the repairs it likely needed. I would have to find a cash buyer willing to shell out more than the place was probably worth.

  The weasel banker was only one lender, but there wasn’t another bank out there brave enough to finance a condemned house in this strange little town. Certainly not one so overpriced and allegedly haunted.

  Dylan Hernández had contacted me earlier in the morning to set up a late afternoon appointment. Word traveled fast around here, but before the call from President Asshat, I’d done all the usual public records research.

  The history of the Hernández family and their home was mysterious and tragic. Drew, Dylan’s late broth
er, had inherited the house from their cousin George just the year before. Death by honey badger, according to Roger, the town gossip and shrink. Drew’s death certificate had stated natural causes, which was super vague. But natural or not, there were a lot of Hernández men who had died far too young.

  Maybe a rare cancer? Or heart disease? It was hard not to speculate. Just as hard not to sympathize, despite my own shitty family and their tendency to live for hundreds of years.

  I couldn’t lie. A decent commission would have been nice. Maybe nice enough to get me out of the apartment and into a house of my very own. One with a dedicated office to meet clients in. But, alas, I’d be cutting Dylan a break.

  Not a totally pro-bono deal—hey, witches gotta eat too—but if I managed to sell the place in the first month, I could at least cover my advertising expenses and pay the stack of bills piling up on the corner of my coffee table without dipping into my savings.

  Thinking of food, I blinked at my refrigerator and then the oven. A cheesy, potato casserole materialized on the stovetop a second later, steam rising from the crispy toppings. Fast food had nothing on me. I blinked again, cuing a spatula and dinner plate to serve me a slice while I clicked away on my laptop.

  Most witches could have pulled the fixings out of thin air, but I wasn’t most witches. I had to track down actual ingredients. Zapping them the few feet between appliances was taxing enough. I was just lucky that Zelda, the local healer and a fellow witch, had clued me in on the back-room stash at the otherwise atrocious grocery.

  The town did not care for humans, and they had all kinds of tricks for dissuading tourists. From what I could tell, most of the residents were Shifters of some sort or another. I hadn’t known that when my gran’s broom—Broomzilla, as I affectionately referred to her—had dropped me flat on my ass in the middle of town square, next to a horrifying statue of a bear missing half its head.

  I’d made my way to the tiny gas station across the street. A sign in the window announced that they were fresh out of gas. Luckily, Broomzilla ran on my late gran’s wicked mojo. Of course, her bristly highness had a mind of her own, and she’d decided this weird-ass town was where we needed to be.

  When the owner of the gas station spotted me in the parking lot, engaged in a vulgar shouting match with my uncooperative steed, he quickly pointed me toward the Assjacket Diner where Zelda and her wolfy mate were chowing down.

  Zelda and I went way back. Our equally vile mothers had run in the same witchy circles. Zelda’s mother had resented her daughter’s power. Mine was humiliated that I had so little. Still, we were both survivors of dysfunctional families, united by our traumatic childhoods.

  Fast-forward six months after our fateful reunion, and here I was, tidying up old houses and selling them to Shifters. Which is exactly what I intended to do for Dylan Hernández. If I could just find a few properties that were even remotely similar for comparison.

  The only house that came close was the one Zelda had inherited from her aunt. But it had been renovated and maintained—and it had never been condemned or infested by bats. And the only appraisal on file was ancient. The real estate market was a whole different animal these days.

  I stuffed a forkful of casserole into my mouth as I switched from the property database I’d created for Shifter Central to one of the human property search sites. Maybe I’d have better luck there—as long as I found the comp homes in similarly small towns in West Virginia.

  A cheesy chunk of potato dropped from my fork to the floor, but before I could clean it up, Broomzilla swished to the rescue. I glared at her from the corner of my eye.

  “I’m still not talking to you.”

  Her handle drooped, and her bristles hissed sullenly against the hardwood floor as she retreated to her corner in the kitchen.

  Last week, I’d flown across town to meet with a client at their home. Broomzilla had dumped me in their rose bushes and then proceeded to swat a raccoon off the lid of a trash can, only to discover that the raccoon was my client.

  Working in a town full of Shifters was tricky that way. Luckily, Zelda had been able to heal the racoon’s bruised backside. He was no longer interested in selling his home, naturally. Not after my graceless arrival and Broomzilla’s rude interruption of his lunch.

  I supposed I was at least a little to blame. I didn’t like asking folks what they shifted into when they weren’t wearing their human skins. It felt too intimate. Like asking if the carpet matched the drapes.

  So, needless to say, I wasn’t taking Broomzilla with me to meet Dylan Hernández. No matter how much she sulked.

  I finished my casserole and then brushed my teeth before touching up my lipstick. The deep red was a bit much against my pale skin, but it matched the blouse I’d chosen to wear with my black skirt and blazer. With my inky curls, I looked like Morticia campaigning for president of an HOA.

  As I gathered up my clipboard and purse and headed for the door, Broomzilla swept a pair of pumps into my path. I glanced down at my fluffy bunny slippers and decided that maybe she wasn’t trying to sabotage me after all.

  “I’m still not taking you with me,” I said, swapping out the footwear. “But if this goes well, you can come tomorrow and help clean the place up.”

  The broom did a little jig in the middle of the living room, bouncing on her bristles, handle bobbing back and forth, as I hurried off to my appointment.

  Chapter 2

  I COULD CERTAINLY UNDERSTAND why the Hernández house inspired so many ghost stories. The shadow of the three-story home—four if I counted the attic-formerly-known-as-a-belfry—swallowed me whole as I crossed the street. It sent an unnerving chill up my spine.

  Ivy vines had taken over the front porch, growing through the busted boards and clinging to the stucco façade. Several of the windows were broken, and the paint on the front door was so faded, it was anyone’s guess what the original color had been. At least the deadbolt lock looked new. I climbed the uneven porch steps and wrapped my hand around the doorknob, trying to determine if a lockbox would fit over it.

  “It’s open,” a deep voice said from behind me.

  “Flying monkeys!” I squeaked and spun around, wielding my ink pen like a wand.

  “Easy there.”

  The man was a demigod. He had to be. They weren’t that gorgeous by accident. His sweep of raven hair hung just past his brows, shadowing dark eyes lined with even darker lashes. Strong, calloused hands rose in surrender.

  “Dylan Hernández,” he said, eyes fixed on my pen. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Sorry.” I winced and lowered the pen. “Didn’t you see there.”

  He gave me a skeptical frown, taking in my heels and the clipboard I held in front of me like a shield. “A little jumpy for a witch, aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t expecting you for another twenty minutes, and there isn’t a car in the driveway,” I said defensively.

  Dylan shrugged. “I flew in this morning.”

  “I wasn’t aware this town had an airport.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Oh? Oh!” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I didn’t realize you were a warlock.”

  “I’m not.”

  Winged Shifter it was then. Not that he was in any big hurry to spell out what kind.

  “Oookay.” I loosed a nervous giggle, unable to summon a more dignified response, especially with my mouth going dry at the sight of him.

  Sun-kissed skin covered his muscular arms, and more muscles pressed through his thin, snug, white tee shirt. He was the kind of guy girls threw themselves at after a single shot of tequila. Hell, he was the kind of guy most girls would beg to strip so they could drink the shot off his washboard abs.

  As I stared at Dylan’s stomach, envisioning doing just that, he cleared his throat.

  “Sorry, what?” I asked.

  “You are Ms. West, right? The real estate agent?” he said, sounding less than impressed.

  “Yes! Absolutely.” I tuc
ked the clipboard under my arm and descended the porch steps with my hand outstretched for a shake. Hopefully, it would help us start over on the right foot. I made it all the way to the second-to-last step before the toe of my high heel snapped through a rotten board.

  Next thing I knew, my face smooshed into my new client’s chiseled-from-stone chest. My purse flew through the air, ejecting makeup and random knickknacks, and my clipboard clattered to the sidewalk. I pawed at Dylan’s arms, trying to regain my footing until he took hold of my shoulders and lifted me upright.

  “I’ve been meaning to fix that step,” he said apologetically. Then his eyes twinkled with amusement. He feigned a cough, but I heard the whisper of laughter beneath it. “Your, um... You might want to”—he pressed a finger into the pillow of his bottom lip, momentarily distracting me, until he turned the finger at my mouth and made a twirling gesture—“fix your face.”

  I blinked and glanced down at the front of his shirt. A ruby red smear cut across the white cotton. “Toto shitting in a cyclone,” I grumbled and squatted down to collect the contents of my purse from the sidewalk, searching for a tissue in the process. “Sorry about your shirt,” I added over my shoulder.

  “It’s fine. I have a dozen more just like it.” Dylan bent over to fetch my rogue tube of mascara and handed it to me. I accepted it without looking up at him, too embarrassed by what I assumed my face must look like after our collision.

  Nervous desperation was not a great way to put clients at ease, but a man like Dylan Hernández was probably used to women throwing themselves at him—though maybe not quite so literally.

  A second later, I found a wad of tissue and quickly wiped it over my mouth and cheeks. I inspected the slapdash job in the mirror of my powder compact before gathering up my purse and clipboard. Then I stood and turned to face Dylan again, sans lipstick. Only a shimmery, pink residue remained on my skin, and while it still drew his attention, he seemed less tickled by it.