Chapter 19
nineteen
MERRICK
“One, two, three!”
The witch slams a hand on the bar and downs the shot in what can only be described as a well-practiced ballet.
I try to keep up, but after three attempts—the salt, the lime, the tequila, I can never recall which goes first or why humans enjoy this ridiculous sport—I’m beginning to lose both my fine motor skills and my judgment.
Pouting at her now empty shot glass, Miss Bonnivarde flags the bartender and orders us a round of beers.
Well.
In what can only be a direct violation of the laws of physics attributable to some bit of subtle witchcraft performed without my knowledge, the witch seems to be holding her liquor better than I.
A shameful admission, but one I’m bound by my profession to note for later analysis.
Alone. In my bed. Where I can lose myself in the indulgent fantasy where I’m still human and she’s not my student but something else entirely.
Something requiring less alcohol and fewer articles of clothing and—
“Dr. Sutherland? You know that whole in vino veritas thing? I guess it applies to tequila too, because suddenly I have a confession to make.”
Oh, no.
I turn my sticky barstool to face her, knees inadvertently brushing her leg. She doesn’t draw back. For once, neither do I. It’s not touching, exactly, but it’s close enough, and the warmth of it ties my stomach in knots in a way that’s terrifying yet not altogether unpleasant.
Again, further analysis needed.
She brushes the hair from her face and gazes up at me, open and earnest, eyes slightly glassy from the effects of the alcohol. “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?”
“I shall endeavor not to.”
“No! No endeavoring. You have to promise me.”
“I can not make a promise based on such limited information. Perhaps you’re going to confess you’d like to murder me when my back is turned, or you’re planning to overthrow Hell with your magical wily ways, or maybe—”
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you. Just… don’t look at me.”
Barely containing the urge to roll my eyes, I close them. “Happy?”
I hear her long exhale. Feel the ghost of her breath on my hand.
Then she says, “This is super weird but… Okay. Here goes. I sort of have a teensy, tiny, infinitesimal, minuscule, pea-sized, microscopic—”
“Yes, I, too, own a thesaurus. Please get on with it.”
“—crush on you.” She pauses. I wait for her to explain. She doesn’t. “You can open your eyes now.”
I return my attention to her. She’s still gazing at me, her cheeks that lovely shade of crimson, her eyes sincere.
Then she laughs and says, “I mean, don’t take it personally, God!”
“Okay?”
“It’s just… I think I have authority issues? And you’re very… authoritative. In a good way. Like, that whole Emperor card thing the other day?”
“Ah, yes. When you called me—let me see if I can recall the precise words—a dick, Professor Jerkface, and the demon responsible for your late-emergent so-called ‘daddy issues.’ Surely you meant those as compliments.”
The bartender delivers our beers, and I gratefully grab them both and nod toward a nearby table, hoping that’s the end of it.
“But they are compliments!” She bounces along behind me. “You have this… this way about you. It’s very firm and commanding and—”
“And perhaps I’ll spare us both a future eternity of awkward moments by swiftly redirecting this conversation.” I set down the beers and pull out her chair. “Have a seat. Would you like some water? I’ll get us some water. Perhaps a snack as well. Stay right here.”
“As you command, Professor.” She laughs, but that look in her eyes…
Fuck. Me.
Something dark and desirous simmers in them now, stirring an answering heat deep in my chest. And further south, which is rather inconvenient, to say the least.
I head back for the bar before the problem becomes any more… pronounced.
A crush. Hellfire.
In the short time it takes me to fetch the waters and return to the table, Miss Bonnivarde has somehow vanished. After a spike of panic and a frantic search, I finally spot her by the jukebox.
In the arms of another man.
An elderly chap, but still. A chap nevertheless. A chap who is not me—the demon who’s been devoting his waking hours to her education and betterment. The demon who allows himself to be berated with names like Professor Jerkface.
The demon she, by her own words, has a crush on.
I set down our waters, march over to the entwined couple, and glare.
“Uh oh,” the old man says with a snicker. “Looks like your boyfriend’s back. Guess I should skedaddle.”
“Off you go,” I say, at the same time Miss Bonnivarde says, “He’s not my boyfriend.”
The old man chuckles again. “I’ll let you two figure it out. My prostate’s acting up again, anyway. Thanks for the dance, sweet cheeks.”
“Any time!” She waves at him, then pops her hands on her hips, glaring right back at me. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You chased off my dance partner. During a good song, at that.”
“And?”
“The gentlemanly thing would be to offer to take his place.”
“Dancing requires touching. Actual touching. An activity we will not be engaging in. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d really like for us to return to our table and properly hydrate and sit in complete silence so that I might gather my thoughts and my composure, in that order, preventing an emotional outburst that results in me transforming into my demonic form and terrorizing every last elderly man in this bar from ever asking you for a dance again. ”
“Ohh!” She claps, bouncing excitedly on her toes. “That would be the highlight of my whole freaking year. You’re even more sexy when you monster out. But, I didn’t peg you as the jealous type, Professor. I’m flattered.”
For fuck’s sake, that was the wrong tack.
“I’m not jealous. I’m merely…” I search for the word. Draw nothing but blanks. “Just come back to the table, would you?”
“Whatever you say, Professor Jerkface.” She laughs, and winks, and totters over to our table, leaving a trail of her sweet and floral scent for me to follow.
I never, ever should have walked out that door with her tonight.
“Drink,” I demand, shoving the water toward her. And let us hope neither of us remembers this interaction come tomorrow…
She finally, finally does as I ask. “Happy now?”
“No. You need food in your stomach, too. I ordered us something called a nacho.”
Laughter bubbles up. “A nacho! Oh my god, that’s adorable.”
“It’s a food selection. It received top billing on the limited, uninspiring menu and seems to be a popular choice.”
“Nachos, professor. Always plural. It’s literally impossible to eat only one.
” Her eyes widen with some new realization.
“Oh! I bet my house—well, my mother’s house—could make nachos.
I’ve never asked, but it makes a killer breakfast spread.
Dinner too. No luck with drugs, though.” She shrugs.
“I’m guessing that’s a judgment call. Helena told me the house provides what we most need in the moment, which doesn’t always align with our desires, so—”
“If that were empirically true, the house would’ve provided me with a ready excuse to avoid this outing. And yet!” I look to the bar, hoping for a sign of the nacho. Rather, nachos. No luck.
Miss Bonnivarde shrugs. “There are always loopholes. We should probably explore them. You can take notes. Draw diagrams if you want. But… not tonight. Tonight is for fun! Right?”
“I think we’ve reached our fun quota for the next ten years.
” I flag the bartender to bring some more waters.
Soon after, the plural nachos arrive, and Miss Bonnivarde tucks into them with nearly as much gusto as she approaches her magical studies and her dancing with elderly men, and I relax.
I even enjoy a few of the nachos myself.
“It seems you’re right, Miss Bonnivarde,” I say, by way of an olive branch, and shovel a few more nachos onto my plate. “It is literally impossible to eat just one.”
She smiles, but it’s dim by comparison. She’s gone quiet on me. The wild haze of the alcohol seems to be receding.
We finish the meal in silence, and I head up and settle the bill. Good timing; the bar is getting crowded. Far too many warm bodies in tight quarters for my liking.
We’ve just gotten outside when the witch turns to me, her face a bit green.
“Miss Bonnivarde? Are you all right?”
“I don’t feel so hot. I think—and I don’t say this lightly, because I don’t remember this ever happening before—I think I had a little too much to drink.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’m sorry. I really wanted you to have fun tonight, and I ruined it.” She huffs out a long sigh.
“Come now, you’ve done no such thing. I had a perfectly enjoyable evening. Mostly on account of the nachos, but—”
“Hey!” She laughs, some of the sparkle returning to her eyes. But she’s still unsteady on her feet, and I don’t like her coloring. Not at all.
The decision is made before I have time to overanalyze it.
“Come on,” I say, nodding up ahead. “I’m taking you home.”
“I don’t think I can walk that far.”
“To my cottage in town, Miss Bonnivarde. I’m not leaving your side tonight, lest you become ill, or cast some poorly writ spell in your drunken stupor and fall into a demonic realm from which I can not retrieve you.”
“Aww! That’s so sweet of you, Dr. Sutherland. Thank you.” She reaches out a hand to steady herself, but then jerks back before she makes contact. “Sorry. I forgot you don’t like—shit!”
She misjudged; the sudden movement throws her off balance.
I catch her, an instant before she falls to the ground, scooping her into my arms and hauling her against my chest… and keeping her there.
I’m not sure which of us is more surprised. My heart thunders, my skin electrified. Every one of my nerve endings is standing at attention. I can barely contain my breathing.
I can’t recall the last time I’ve held a woman. Felt the warmth of her.
Wanted it.
She loops her arms around my neck, gazing up at me with something I might mistakenly identify, if she were not drunk and the street not dark and my mind not overloaded with all the sensations I’m feeling right now, as adoration.
“My demon knight in shining spectacles,” she whispers.
“Yes, well. Let’s not make too big a fuss. I can’t very well leave you in the street, causing a scene.”
She nods as if she understands. Mutters one more apology for the road.
Then she turns her head, vomits upon the pavement, and passes out in my arms.