Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 26

Chapter 26: Kids Say the Darndest Things

The first victim’s address is a small, two-story home in a subdivision where all the houses are copies and pastes of each other.

It’s a quiet neighborhood. Penelope’s yellow Jeep stands out among the subdued hues of sedans, minivans, and large SUVs.

The most terrifying thing in the neighborhood is the children riding their bikes, without a single adult outside to watch them. No stray vampires. No evidence of creatures. Not a single shimmer or glimmer in the air to warn of any magical auras in the area.

Not a single activated wardstone.

"Isn’t this supposed to be a crime scene?" Penelope mutters, pulling into the driveway.

"There’s a for sale sign. They must have finished their investigations." But even when a house is put up for sale, they don’t take the wardstones.

Maybe they’ve deactivated them?

As I step out of the conspicuous yellow Jeep, a sense of calm washes over me. This is my element. The familiar routine of inspecting properties for magical security measures settles my nerves, pushing aside the chaos of recent events.

"Wait here," I tell Penelope. "I’ll do a quick sweep."

She nods, settling back into her seat. I turn my attention to the house, my eyes already scanning for the telltale signs of wardstone placement.

The front yard is immaculate, almost too perfect. Not a blade of grass out of place. It’s the kind of yard that screams ’model home’ rather than ’lived-in space’. Like an entire crime scene investigation wasn’t made here.

There’s no way someone was murdered and investigators didn’t walk around in the grass. It’s impossible. There should be damage to the lawn, even if it isn’t extensive. I might not know that much about crime, but I’m not an idiot; I’ve seen enough crime documentaries to know that a house is going to have technicians crawling all over it like ants if someone’s found dead.

I circle the perimeter, my fingers brushing against the siding as I search for the subtle vibrations of active wards.

Nothing.

Frowning, I move to the backyard. The space is more lived-in here, with a small garden patch and a weathered swing set. A tiny, faded pink bucket with little plastic tools for kiddie gardening is tucked to the side of the garden. Still, no trace of magical energy.

I glance around, making sure no nosy neighbors are peering out their windows. Satisfied I’m alone, I duck behind a cluster of trees. Here, hidden from view, I close my eyes and open my magical senses, keeping it as low as possible. I don’t need to glow up the entire neighborhood.

A trickle of power flows through me, just enough to detect basic wardstones. It’s a familiar sensation, like dipping my toes into a cool stream. I let the energy spread out, probing the area for any hint of magical residue.

Seconds tick by. Then minutes. My frown deepens as I come up empty-handed. Not only are there no active wards, but there’s also no trace that any were ever here. It’s as if the very ground has been scrubbed clean of all magical imprints.

This can’t be right.

I pull out the installation paperwork, scanning the details. According to this, we installed a full set of perimeter wards, against three subsets of supernaturals. Vampires, shifters, and magical beasts. My eyes narrow as I double-check the listed locations.

Moving methodically around the yard, I search each spot. At a few points, I find shallow indentations in the soil—perfect circles where wardstones might have sat. But there’s no lingering magical signature, no trace of the intricate arrays that should have been etched into the earth to anchor the wards.

It’s as if someone came along and plucked out not just the stones, but every last whisper of magic we left behind. Assuming any were here in the first place.

"What the hell?" I mutter, crouching to examine one of the indentations more closely. My fingers trace the edge of the circle, searching for any remnant of power. Nothing.

My heart leaps into my throat as a small voice pipes up behind me. "What are you doing, lady?"

I whirl around, nearly losing my balance. A little girl, no more than seven or eight, stands there, her bright pink pony helmet slightly askew on her head. Her wide eyes stare up at me, a mixture of curiosity and wariness in their depths.

The girl tilts her head, her gaze moving from me to the house and back again. "Are you buying the haunted house?"

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