The Halloween Promise: Haven Harbor Book 2

Table of Contents

COVER

COPYRIGHT

TITLE PAGE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The Halloween Promise Copyright © 2019

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Jeanne Adams

Cover art: Dar Albert

ISBN: 978-0-9984611-3-7

The Halloween Promise

The Witches of Haven Harbor, Book #2

By

Jeanne Adams

PROLOGUE

Boston, Massachusetts

October, The Year of Our Lord, 2016

Goddamn dog, Turk cursed. Although the dog lay unconscious, maybe dead, Turk and his companion were bleeding from multiple bites. They’d incapacitated the dog, or so they thought. But even in his drugged state, the massive German Shepherd Dog had attacked.

Two of their companions finished in the back of the house and came out with their slight burden. With silent nods, they moved to the waiting SUV with it’s blacked out windows gleaming in the security lights mounted on the house.

In the cloudy dark of the October night, the sleek vehicle sped away with a little girl lying bound and unconscious on the back seat.

Throw the damn dog in the back of the van, Mick. Turk growled, keeping his voice low as he wrapped his arm with gauze and tape. Stupid drugs didn’t work.

The other man grunted at the dog’s weight. Or he didn’t eat all the meat.

Within minutes, they too had pulled away from the elegant home in Boston’s Back Bay. The nanny and the housekeeper, tied and drugged in the spotless kitchen, had never seen any of them. The gas they’d used had put the women out within seconds.

Let’s go, Turk said, climbing into the driver’s seat. We’re at time.

The op had been calculated down to the second. They’d built in ten minutes as a safety gap, but dealing with the fucking dog attack had eaten every minute of the margin.

It was a silent drive northward out of Boston’s upscale neighborhoods, and through the northern suburbs. Taking a quieter rural road, they maneuvered through late night traffic in Salem, and out into the emptiness of rural Massachusetts. On the dark, deserted road between Pennyfield and the Merrimack River, they stopped to dump the dog. This far from Boston, no one would connect the body of a stray dog, dead in the road, with the missing girl’s guard dog.

Mick snapped on a pair of rubber gloves then used his boot knife to neatly slice off the dog's collar. That, he tossed into the van. With a quick twist of his wrist, he cut off the end of the dog’s tail. Then, with a grunt, he lifted the dead weight of the German Shepherd.

Jesus, what the hell do they feed this dog, bricks?

Toldja he was heavy, Turk said, grinning from the driver’s seat.

The patter of rain on the windshield was a welcome helper. In fact, the storm was absolutely perfect. People didn’t look around when they drove in bad weather. The dog wouldn’t be found until morning, if then.

Mick laid the dog on the slick, black macadam in the middle of the northbound lane and ran back to the van.

He saw Turk look in the rearview mirror and checked behind them. Headlights were a faint wink in the distance. In a few minutes the Shepherd would be history, and he wouldn’t have to kill the dog.

He wasn’t squeamish about people, but animals weren’t on his hit list.

You're brilliant, Mick, Turk complimented with laugh.

Yeah. No blood in the van, no dog anywhere to be found. When the cars are through with him, all anyone will see is another flattened, road kill farm dog.

He dropped the bloody end of the dog’s tail into a Ziplock, and that into a FedEx envelope. Dr. Thomas Spradling, III, would receive the bloody tail in the morning. The ransom note would come in another FedEx, along with a lock of his daughter’s long blonde hair.

They were in the money now.

####

Adele rolled down the driver’s side window to let in the October wind. She was exhausted, and she needed the rush of air to stay awake.

She was grateful that her sturdy truck was easy to drive even on the rain-slick road, because she was exhausted. She’d been helping another vet in a neighboring county with a foaling draft horse in distress. The big mare hadn’t wanted the help, so Adele felt like she’d been playing football with the New England Patriots. Her back twinged, her arms felt like limp spaghetti and her legs and feet ached from standing so long.

She turned to get her bottle of water and fumbled for it in the dark. That was when she realized she had blood and hay stuck on her sleeve.

Dammit, I changed my shirt. Somehow she’d managed to mess up the clean shirt too. That meant she’d have to wash two shirts, and her pants, and probably the door of the truck. Ugh.

She couldn’t wait to get home to Haven Harbor. The vets up here in the upper, more rural, part of Massachusetts had a loose network amongst themselves. If any of them needed an extra hand, or coverage on a tough case, they supported one another. George Barrett had called her that afternoon, frantic that he might lose both the mare and the foal.

That was actually yesterday, Adele, she said, talking to herself to try and stay awake. Hell. Another night of short sleep. She and George had worked with the mare for almost nine hours, getting the foal turned. Adele, with her strong, but much narrower arms, had finally managed the feat, and the mare had effortlessly done the rest once that problem was solved. Veterinary medicine, she intoned, laughing at herself. Not for sissies. She grabbed her water bottle for a swig. The icy liquid helped keep her awake, but damn, bed was going to feel like heaven.

Off in the distance, she saw taillights, and wondered who else was out on the road this late. Her cell pinged with an incoming email. It popped up on the dashboard’s display.

Dan Nutter. He was reminding everyone about a Coven leadership meeting on Tuesday and the Coven meeting on Thursday.

Heat uncurled in her gut. She wasn’t sure what the hell she was going to do about her serious hankering for the quiet librarian. Gods, he was not only smart as hell, he was built like Adonis, straight out of a woman’s Chippendales fantasy. They’d shared a kiss at the Midsummer BBQ and she’d nearly melted in lust. They’d sidled around one another ever since. So much had happened with the Witches Walk, though, they hadn’t made a date.

She hoped he would ask, even as she questioned her attraction.

Why a librarian? What the hell was that about? Did she get the hots for a CEO or another small business owner? Oh no, not her. She got all googlie-eyed and hot and bothered over a director of libraries.

Get a grip, girl. It’s not like he’s working at Seven-Eleven or something. He so didn’t look like a book nerd, though. She knew he traveled regularly and he hung out with four of the most eligible bachelors in Haven Harbor. Make that three eligible guys––Mari Beecham had well and truly taken bachelor number one, Pere Hestworth, off the market.

Other than that, however, Dan, Dan the Librarian Man was a man of mystery.

She shifted in the seat, pumping the volume on her radio. C’mon, girl. You can make it. Quit blinking those sleepy eyes, she remonstrated with herself. With only a few more minutes to go before she got to the bridge and Haven Harbor, she wasn’t going to pull off the road for a nap. She wanted her own bed.

Adele rounded a curve and barely had time to slam the brakes on as her headlights picked out the still form in the road.

Effin bloody hell! she snarled as she fought the steering wheel. The tires squealed on the wet pavement and she shuddered to a stop, inches from the huge dog lying in the road.

In the glow of her headlamps she could see the dog was a big, healthy-looking German Shepherd. Cursing every unscrupulous dog owner in existence, she jumped out and ran to kneel by the unconscious animal. The male dog was still breathing. The respiration was shallow and slow, but it was still there. He was bleeding from somewhere, but in the darkness, she couldn’t tell where. She ran her hands over him, not feeling anything torn or broken.

Poor baby, she whispered, concentrating on the dog’s life energy. It was sluggish but steady. Underneath that temporary weakness was a deep well of fierce strength.

The sound of a car coming from the north alerted her. It slowed as it approached, pulling up right by her. She raised a hand to screen the glare