2. The Worst, Worst Date Ever
The Worst, Worst Date Ever
Seth
One Week Later
Ismile tightly at the witch sitting across the table from me at Cuppa Kismet.
I’m starting to think this place is some kind of bad omen for my dating life.
A pang of longing shoots through me as I think about Ryn, the drop-dead gorgeous necromancer I fumbled miserably the last time I was here.
We’ve stayed in touch a bit since, but for the most part, it’s just her laugh reacting my crappy jokes.
I swear we had magnetic chemistry, but I let my insecurities get the better of me and practically swallowed my whole-ass leg, with how far I put my foot in my mouth.
She was refreshingly forward, and normally I’m just as quick with heavy flirting and innuendo, but I fucking tanked it.
I don’t really know what happened. She’s beautiful, and she made me fucking nervous.
And I wanted more, I think? I over-corrected and went too platonic.
The trouble is, now I have no idea how to steer us out of the friend-zone I stuck us in. Or if she’s even interested. Ugh.
Eleanor, the witch I’m currently on a date with, lets out a piercing laugh that sends a sharp pain through my head.
Sweet death, her laugh is fucking awful.
I’d literally rather listen to people die.
My eyes dart around the shop, catching the glares and wide eyes of the other patrons who are probably bemoaning the painful assault to their audio orifices.
“Oh, you’re just too funny!” Eleanor smiles brightly, and I try to relax my tense shoulders.
In all fairness, she is sweet and really pretty.
Her chestnut hair falls in ringlets around her shoulders.
Her eyes are made bigger by her large circular glasses, which rest just a bit too low on her cute little button nose.
She's got that cottage-core style going on, and it suits her. However, I'm fairly confident she’s far too docile for anything between us to ever work. I’m shocked that she seems genuinely interested.
Although I am wearing a very attractive glamour.
Instead of an exposed skull from the nose up, glowing blue orbs, and skin that swirls with shadow and magic, she sees a handsome Black man with pretty, bright blue eyes.
My mood dips a little knowing that she’d most likely lose all interest if she could really see me.
As a witch, she’ll know that I’m wearing a glamour, of course, but they’re fairly common for paranormals in human-friendly spaces.
A fissure of guilt slinks through my thoughts with the reminder that I set up this date under false pretenses.
Bad enough, I’m pumping her for information—I should have at least been honest about what I am.
All Eleanor knows is that I work for the Guild, which means I’m an undead being of some sort.
Ryn had known the whole truth, even if she hadn’t seen the real me.
She had known and still desired me. Before I put my foot in my mouth and fucked it up.
I rub my chest against an ever-present ache.
Fuck. I can’t leave another one of these meetings empty-handed, not when my friends are depending on me.
My shoulders set with determination as I focus my gaze on the little witch busily stirring her hot chocolate across from me.
“You’re too kind.” I smile, injecting as much charm as I can. “So, Eleanor, how long have you been with your current coven?”
A pretty blush stains her cheeks and enhances the smattering of freckles on her face. “Oh, since birth. It’s a really great group of gals. I really love gardening.”
“Wow, birth, huh? So, just a little while then.” I smile teasingly, “It’s awesome to find a place you belong and people you can share hobbies with.
” I clear my throat and lay it on thick with a conspiratorial inflection as I continue, “I have an old friend who was in your coven a few years back. Maybe you’d have met her? ”
“Oh, really? What’s her name? If I don’t recognize it, I’m sure my mom or aunts would!”
“Willa. Willa Wilde.” I try to keep the eagerness out of my voice.
I’ve been trying to help my ghost friend, Cian, break free from a spell that’s been holding him captive in his house for the past fifty years.
Ryn was supposed to be the key to that problem, but there was a slight change of plan.
Now Cian’s girlfriend, who turned out to be a witch and his mortal anchor to this world, Trissa, has some family stuff that might help us figure out a plan B.
I still helped Ryn with her permit, of course. I kind of owed her one after insinuating that she was a mass-murderer because she needed a rush permit for work. I almost wish we’d actually needed her help, if for nothing else but the excuse to be around her again.
“Oh! Wow!” Her face lights up with recognition, but then falls. “Terrible, what happened to her. She was so kind.”
I try my best to keep the frustration out of my voice as I carefully attempt to push her toward the sensitive answers I need.
“I’ve heard that some people think she was using blood magic, and her death wasn’t as much an accident as the community would like to believe.”
Shock distorts Eleanor’s features before she shakes her head firmly.
“No. Not, Willa.” Her lips thin as she rolls them into her mouth before shaking her head again, “Her daughter is still under the protection of our coven, of a sort. Their family has a long history of ties to our sisterhood. I’m sorry, but whoever told you that is just trying to stir up trouble.”
I sigh with relief and nod. If that’s true, there are some fairly large plot holes and a mystery we still have no clues for, but being able to rule out vengeful covens is definitely a good first step.
“Well, that’s good to hear. You don’t think any of the other local covens might have—”
“No.” She shakes her head vehemently, her curls bouncing around her. “No coven in Kismet Falls or the surrounding area would ever act violently toward another. Our presence is much too large and well-known for even the possibility of outlier covens to practice here.”
She smiles, her eyes glinting with a determination that I wouldn’t have believed possible from her if I hadn’t seen it myself.
“We may be mostly white magic wielders and garden witches, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t powerful.
We would know.” Her voice rings with a truth and finality that makes me take her word for it.
A grin curls my lips, and I lean back in my chair, folding my hands and resting them on my leather-studded belt.
“Well, thank you for clearing that up. You’ve really taken a weight off my shoulders.” I watch as Eleanor’s magnified green eyes dart down to my crotch, which I realize self-consciously is now highlighted thanks to my position.
A deep blush spreads across her cheeks, and I clear my throat awkwardly. “So, what’s your typical preference, Eleanor?” Her eyes swing up to meet mine. “Does tall, dark, and deadly do it for you? Or are you more the second breakfast type?”
I hold my smile in place, trying not to wince at the truly terrible comparison I just made between myself and a fucking Nazg?l like some Tolkien nerd. Never mind the fact that I am a Tolkien nerd, the reference was still cringe.
Over the decades, I’ve settled firmly into using humor as a scapegoat for pretty much everything—awkward silences, flirting, tension, pain and heartache.
I’ve always been ‘too much’ for the typical psychopomp.
Too emotional, too excitable, too loud—just excessively lively.
Which makes you an outcast when your species is known for being grim.
My chest pangs with a familiar ache, and I hold my breath, trying to push back against the awful tightness.
“Oh, well, you’re very—” her eyes widen impossibly before she blinks.
I tense as recognition of my joke finally flashes across her features, knowing what’s coming next. That fucking laugh.
My eyes bounce around the room again, snagging on an older woman about to take a bite of her cannoli.
Before I can process what’s happening, a Reaping timer appears above the cannoli lady’s head.
I look on in fascinated horror as she takes a fucking massive bite of the pastry, cream and powdered sugar smearing on her chin—then jump in my seat when the timer ticks down, at precisely the same time that Eleanor lets out a death knell.
I tilt my head and wonder briefly if she’s maybe part banshee, and that’s why her laugh sounds like a hyena chugging helium.
The piercing cackle stops abruptly when Eleanor realizes, along with the rest of the shop, that the cannoli lady bit off more than she could chew.
Poor Eleanor’s face crumples, and she stands abruptly, preparing to rush over to help.
Oliver, the shop owner and squonk cryptid I’ve known for years but only recently became friends with, runs over, hands flailing as he shouts, “Someone call 911! Sybil, oh Gods, Sybil!”
I glance up at Sybil’s timer and sigh, crossing my arms. Less than a minute now.
This place is definitely a bad omen for my dating life.
Eleanor lets out a little squeak as Oliver wraps his surprisingly well-muscled arms around Sybil and hauls her back against his front in an effort to administer the Heimlich.
My eyes widen. Fuck. If he’s holding her when the timer stops…
“Ollie, leave it.” I stand abruptly, walking toward him, my eyes on the clock.
His panicked eyes meet mine, and they bulge with shock and understanding right as Sybil slumps forward in his arms, dead. Oliver’s glamour shimmers, winking in and out because of his proximity to the now very dead Sybil. My own glamour vanishes in the presence of a soul ready to be harvested.