Chapter 6 #2
Ramona shook her head and added the pasta. “No, not even close.”
“Don’t witches usually live with their covens?” Zara asked, handing Ramona a wooden spoon from the utensil holder.
“Well, not us. Felix left his old conservative coven after he transitioned. I don’t think Posey ever had a coven, and Kashvi doesn’t talk much about hers. We all kind of ended up here after—” She stopped and shrugged. “After things didn’t work out the way we planned.”
“You’re kind of a coven of misfits.”
“We’re just roommates who happen to share a kitchen and occasionally help each other with spellwork.” Ramona stirred the pasta more aggressively than necessary. “And Cammie.”
“Hmm, and Cammie. Of course,” Zara said. “Sounds suspiciously like a coven.”
“Had no idea demons had such romantic notions of roommate dynamics,” Ramona joked.
“What do your roommates do for work?” Zara asked.
“Kashvi is a librarian, Posey works at a plant nursery, Cammie works at a café, and Felix works at some tech company but I’m not exactly sure what he does. Some kind of coding?” Ramona said.
“You’ve lived with these people for years and you don’t know what they do all day at work?” Zara asked. She muttered something about unfeeling mortals under her breath.
Ramona raised an eyebrow. “Okay, first of all, not everyone lives to work like the demonic realm. Second, we are roommates out of desperation, not best friendship. In case you didn’t realize, this group is surviving, not thriving.”
Zara’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but she didn’t press further.
The pasta cooked. Ramona heated up the sauce in the microwave, found two clean bowls in the cabinet, served them both portions that were definitely too large. She set the bowls on the small kitchen table and grabbed forks from the drawer.
Zara sat, summoning a spoon out of thin air, and proceeded to eat spaghetti with the most formal, precise table manners Ramona had ever witnessed.
She twirled exactly three strands of pasta at a time around her fork. Cut nothing. Made no sound while chewing. Dabbed at her mouth with a napkin after every third bite, even though there was nothing to dab. Kept her left hand in her lap when not in use. Sat with perfect posture.
It was deeply unsettling.
“You eat like you’re at a state dinner,” Ramona said.
“I’ve been to several state dinners.” Zara took another perfect bite. “This is how one eats pasta.”
“This is how the Queen eats pasta.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never dined with royalty.” Zara paused. “Politicians, yes. Plenty of them. But royalty is far above my pay grade.”
Ramona snorted in amusement, then watched as Zara’s mouth quirked in a small smile, too.
They ate in silence for a moment. Ramona watched Zara navigate the spaghetti with the kind of precision usually reserved for surgical procedures. Three strands. Twist. Lift. Chew. Dab.
“Does Hell have etiquette classes?” Ramona asked.
“Mandatory. First decade of service.” Zara twirled another perfect forkful. “Dining, dancing, diplomatic protocol. You never know when you’ll be required to attend a formal function in your role as a representative of the Infernal Bureaucracy.”
“Representative of the Infernal Bureaucracy.” Ramona shook her head.
“It’s a very important position.”
Ramona tried to emulate the way Zara spun her fork, her own pasta flopping in general disagreement. She slurped her spaghetti, wiping at her mouth with her fingers. “And you’re in Temptation and Minor Inconveniences.”
“Which occasionally requires formal representation.” Zara took a sip of water with the same deliberate precision. “Last year I attended a conference on ethical soul-collection practices that had a black-tie gala to close. Very tedious.”
“What do demons wear to black-tie galas? Ball gowns?” Ramona asked.
Zara looked at her flatly, blinking twice. “Tuxedos, Mortal.”
Ramona tried to picture it — Zara in a neatly pressed tux, networking with other demons over canapés and existential dread. The image was both absurd and somehow entirely believable.
“Was there at least an open bar?” Ramona asked.
Zara nodded. “Obviously. How else would anyone survive four days of PowerPoint presentations on damnation reform?”
Despite everything, Ramona laughed. Actual laughter, surprising herself. Zara’s expression shifted — something that might have been pleasure, or satisfaction, or just acknowledgment that she’d made a joke and it had landed.
They finished eating. Ramona cleared the bowls, washing them hastily in the sink. Zara stood by the table, clearly uncertain whether to help or stay out of the way.
“You can just—” Ramona gestured vaguely. “Sit. I’ve got it.”
“I could assist.”
“You’re a guest. Or, like a guest-prisoner, I guess.” Ramona grimaced.
“Maybe we could just say I’m here for a while,” Zara said, wiping the table with a napkin.
Ramona washed the bowls, the forks, the pot. Simple, mindless tasks. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of running water and the distant hum of traffic outside. Zara had moved to the window, looking out at the street below.
It felt almost normal to have a meal together, talking and laughing. Almost domestic.
Ramona shoved that thought away so hard it probably bruised.
“We should test the tether,” Ramona said, drying her hands on a dish towel that had seen better days. “Properly. While no one’s home.”
“Good idea.” Zara turned from the window. “Where do you want to start?”
“The living room?” Ramona gestured to the couch and TV area across the open-concept great room. “Then we’ll try the other rooms, see how far we can push it.”
They started in the living room, Zara standing by the front door with her phone out, that red glow illuminating her face as she pulled up some kind of measuring app on her HellBerry. Ramona walked backward toward the hallway, counting her steps.
“Tell me when you feel it,” Zara said.
At twenty feet, nothing. At forty feet, a slight tightness in her chest like she’d taken a breath and held it too long. At fifty feet, the tightness became uncomfortable.
“It’s pretty strong right now,” Ramona said, stopping.
“Fifty-two feet.” Zara made a note. “Keep going.”
Ramona took another step. The discomfort increased, a pressure building behind her ribs. Another step. The pressure turned sharp, insistent.
“Fifty-nine feet,” she said, her voice strained.
“Farther,” Zara said.
Ramona grimaced, rubbing at her sternum. “Do I have to?”
“We need to know the limits.”
Ramona took two more steps, and suddenly it wasn’t just discomfort — it was pain. Real, visceral pain, like someone had wrapped a cord around her lungs and was pulling it tight. Her vision blurred at the edges.
She stumbled back, and immediately the pain eased. Zara was moving toward her, crossing the distance in a few long strides.
“Mortal—”
“I’m fine.” Ramona caught her breath, leaning against the wall. “Just… I guess that’s the limit before it really hurts.”
“Noted.” Zara’s hand was on her elbow, steadying. “We’ll try other directions.”
Ramona glanced down to Zara’s hand on her arm. Her touch was blazing hot, her skin soft. Her black nails were trimmed short, but some kind of illusion darkened the tips of her fingers, like she’d wrapped her hand in shadows.
Zara let go of Ramona, taking a step back, and Ramona stared at the invisible demonic handprint on her arm where Zara had touched her.
She hadn’t expected Zara to feel so hot to the touch, but perhaps that was just a demon thing?
Her eyes flicked up to meet Zara’s, finding an expectant and impatient expression there. Ramona straightened, focusing.
They mapped it out systematically, seeing if varying angles or paths changed anything.
Each time, Ramona pushed until she felt the pain, and each time, Zara was there with her phone, noting measurements with clinical precision.
It should have felt invasive — being studied like a lab experiment, her discomfort quantified and recorded.
Instead, it felt like Zara was trying to understand. Trying to help.
Which was somehow worse.
They were in the hallway, testing the distance to the front door, when they heard footsteps on the stairs outside.
Zara’s expression shifted immediately, careful neutrality sliding into place like a mask. “Cammie.”
Ramona looked at Zara with a frown of confusion. “How do you—”
The key turned in the lock. The door opened.
Cammie stepped inside, still in her café uniform, her hair pulled back, her face tired. She halted when she saw them standing in the hallway, Zara holding her phone, Ramona leaning against the wall like she’d just run a marathon.
“Hey,” Cammie said slowly. Her gaze moved between them, clearly trying to figure out what she’d just walked into.
“Hey,” Ramona said, too brightly. “How was work?”
“Long.” Cammie set her bag down by the door. “How was yours?”
Cammie looked at Zara. Zara looked back, her expression dark and guarded in a way that Ramona hadn’t seen with anyone else.
“Yeah, same.” Ramona said, anxious to break whatever awkward feeling had settled over them. “There’s a bit of leftover spaghetti on the stove if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” Cammie said. “I’ll eat it after I shower. Hey, Zara, do you watch Love Potion?””
“No,” Zara said flatly, then took a few steps, disappearing into Ramona’s bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Ramona stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door, then glanced back at Cammie. “Sorry. Jet lag is making her grumpy,” she said by way of excuse for Zara’s odd behavior.
Cammie shrugged. “No worries.” She disappeared into the bathroom.
Ramona took a breath, counted to five, and opened her bedroom door.
Zara was standing by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the alley below. She didn’t turn when Ramona entered.
“Are you okay?” Ramona asked, closing the door behind her.
Zara turned. Her expression was carefully blank. “It’s been a long day.” There was something in her voice — something Ramona couldn’t quite identify but could feel in her own body. Discomfort? Anxiety?
“Okay,” Ramona said slowly. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
They stood there in silence. The room felt smaller than usual, more crowded. Outside, Ramona could hear the shower running, the pipes groaning. The building settling into its evening routine.
“So,” Ramona said. “As far as the bed tonight—”
Zara sat down in the creaking chair, the seat groaning in surrender as it slowly lowered. “This is fine.”
“You can’t sleep in that chair every night,” Ramona protested.
“I don’t require as much sleep as humans.” Zara made a show of stretching and settling her body. “I’ll be fine, Mortal.” She said the name slowly, emphasizing their difference in that moment.
“That’s—” Ramona began, then paused. Took a breath. “Look, Demon. That chair is terrible. You’re going to destroy your back.”
Zara sniffed in annoyance. “I don’t have a conventional spine.”
Ramona paused. “What holds up your… most of you, then?” She gestured toward Zara’s torso region.
Zara shrugged. “Mine is more of a conceptual spine.”
“That doesn’t make it better!” Ramona rubbed her temples. This conversation was giving her a headache. “I’m going to go get a water for bed. Do you need one?”
Zara tilted her head. “A water? For… bed?”
Ramona scrubbed a hand down her face. “Just… stay here. I’ll be right back.”