The Devil Made Me Brew It (The Witches of Wayward Bay #1)

Chapter One

VIOLET

It’s official. The Devil is stalking me.

It started last night with a drop-in at the dinner table that nearly ruined my grilled cheese and tomato soup. I chased him off with a menacing wave of the spatula, only to suffer a second interruption when he crashed my Charmed re-watch.

Then, the ultimate sin: the jerk shows up in my bed, barging in on some much-needed quality time with my emotional support vibrator Mr. Wiggles, who voiced his displeasure by conking out at the worst possible moment.

Unforgivable!

Which brings us to this morning’s invasion at my magical tea shop, Kettle and Cauldron. At five a.m. On what’s supposed to be a capital-B Big day that I can not afford to screw up. Not unless I want to lose all the caffeine-jonesing customers of Wayward Bay to Mean Beans, the soulless new coffee chain opening across the street.

But does the Devil care about my plight? Nope.

I’ve just flicked on the lights when I catch him lounging on the counter with that glint in his eyes, his wicked grin as much a warning as it is an invitation. One this witch will not be accepting, thankyouverymuch.

“Sir, for the last time.” I shoot the insolent Tarot card a glare that could shrivel testicles if I concentrated hard enough. “Whatever you’re pedaling, I’m not interested.”

Not yet, Violet Pepperdine, comes the ominous whisper of my intuition. But you will be…

A chill skitters down my spine, but I refuse to cower. Fear is the Devil’s language, not mine. My language is tea. Tea that needs to make a big splash today if we’ve got any chance of surviving Mean Beans mania, T-minus two hours and counting.

“Any more out of you,” I warn the Devil, “and I’ll incinerate your ass.”

That shuts him up, but the silence is temporary. He’s part of my late grandmother Gigi’s Tarot deck, a beautiful set of magical, hand-painted cards that vanished under mysterious circumstances when she died. But a few weeks after her funeral, the cards started popping up again in the most random places: the pocket of a hand-me-down coat. Tucked between the pages of a library book. Bottom of the kitchen junk drawer at my latest foster home, beneath a mountain of pens, twist ties, and half-spent packs of Marlboros.

It’s been sixteen years since Gigi’s passing, and the cards have only grown more insistent, pestering me until I heed their every message, whether I want to or not.

Today, I most assuredly do not. All that devilish doom-and-gloom cluttering up my mind? Hard pass. I already know I’m an obsessive, anxious, over-thinking hyper-perfectionist trapped in a prison of my own making. Not exactly breaking news, my guy!

So, turning my back on his maddening smirk, I scan the shelves of teas, spices, and magical ingredients behind the counter, making sure everything’s in perfect order.

I came in early to get a jump on things before my nemesis Hoovers up all the pedestrian traffic, but it seems they’re already well ahead of me. Peering out my windows, I spy a small army of rosy-cheeked, green-aproned baristas buzzing around like brainwashed bees, ensuring the walkways are swept, the windows Windexed, the grand-opening banner hung straight.

Free hat with every purchase! it proclaims. Today only!

Guess they’re expecting big crowds. Bigger than poor old Mr. Corto ever got before Beans swindled him out of his lease, forcing him to shutter Corto’s Curiosities. Now he’s living with his daughter in Phoenix and there’s nowhere within a hundred miles to buy powdered dragon scales or a lock of hair from a haunted doll.

Goddess, it’s enough to crank my simmering anxiety to a full-on boil. The woman who rents me the café space and the adorable apartment above it is an absolute saint, but I’ve fallen so far behind on rent, not even my unlimited-tea-and-scones promissory notes can save me.

Especially when she’s got her pick of big-city chains swooping in with offers to buy at twice the market value and a smarmy realtor nephew eager to make a name for himself. He’s the reason Curiosities went kaput. See also: Second Chance Romance, the former book store now pushing trendy wines and linen towels embroidered with such witticisms as It’s Wine O’clock! and My Blood Type is Merlot! He even tried to trick my sweet old aunts into selling their historic Three Sisters B&B, but they ran him off the property with a not-so-subtle threat about turning him into a wart on a toad’s dick, which is absolutely a thing they can do, unbeknownst to him.

With its quaint, tree-lined streets, gorgeous Victorian architecture, and all-around small-town charm, everyone wants a piece of Wayward Bay and he knows it. He makes sure I know it, too—reminds me every week, waltzing in on his aunt’s heels and whisper-shouting in her ear while she orders her tea and gives me apologetic smiles. Things like, “The family agrees about selling, Aunt Beverly,” and “It’s too much for you to manage at your age,” and—my favorite chestnut, always accompanied by a pointed glare in my direction—“It’s bad business to let tenants take advantage of your naivety.”

It’s those special times I like to remind myself that harming people just because you don’t like them is against the rules of magic and decency both. Lucky for him.

You can’t ignore this mess forever, Violet…

The Devil pings my intuition again, raising the hairs on the back of my neck and super pissing me off.

“Hey. Dickhead. No means no.” I don’t wait for a response. Just snap my fingers and incinerate him.

Then I smile, because that trick never gets old.

My familiars agree. As the burned-sugar-and-bourbon scent of my magic fills the air, the cats—a sleek black tabby named Grumpy and a fat orange floofball named Sunshine—bolt out from the storage room and pounce on the counter, pawing through the ashes.

“Aww, we love making things go poof, don’t we?” I scoop them up for a snuggle—a ritual Sunshine adores and Grumpy pretends to hate because he’s got a reputation to uphold. “How are Mama’s favorite troublemakers today? As mischievous as you are handsome? Yes, I agree. Way more handsome than that mean ol’ Devil!”

They indulge me for three whole seconds before leaping out of my arms and bounding up the back stairs to our apartment, where they’ll hide out until closing time. Sociable cats, they’re not.

With a sense of deep satisfaction, I sweep the Devil’s ashes into the bin and scour the counter with sage-and-lemon-balm cleansing spray. The Devil will return—Gigi’s magic Tarot cards always do—but for now, I’m a witch on a mission.

I may not have a team of sign-hanging, window-washing minions, but I do have magic. From the well-stocked shelves, I select my ingredients—peppermint leaves, cinnamon, grated orange peel, vanilla bean—and stir them into a cauldron of water charged under a waxing moon. Bringing the mixture to a gentle simmer, I close my eyes and envision the café jam-packed with happy customers.

Then I recite the prosperity spell Gigi taught me nearly two decades ago:

Luck and good fortune, I call upon thee

To bless me with wealth and prosperity

My door is open, the hearth is aglow

My wishes are granted, above and below

The invigorating scent of the brew mingles with the sugary haze of my magic, infusing me with confidence as I continue the morning prep: bakery order from Emmilou’s Sweet-N-Savories arranged in the case. Overstuffed velvet couches freshly fluffed. Fall vibes playlist floating through the speakers. Flames crackling in the stone hearth along the back wall.

And me, tea witch extraordinaire, ready to rock the fuzzy fall socks off anyone who sets foot inside. Not with your garden-variety, ho-hum brews, mind you. I’m talking about the real-deal, perfection-in-a-cup wonderdrinks that taste like liquid happiness and cure just about anything from the common cold to a broken heart. And thanks to my empathic magic, I always know which blend a customer needs.

Out on Main Street, the ancient oak and maple trees are aflame with the reds and golds that make upstate New York so enchanting this time of year, the autumn air sweet with the scent of apples, everything bursting with promise and potential. I couldn’t have asked for a better day to set my intention for success.

So, trusting the magic, I tighten my apron strings, turn on the OPEN sign, and wait.

I continue to wait, even as the customers line up outside Mean Beans an hour before they’re set to open.

I wait some more, spotting a few of my regulars in the crowd.

The minutes pass. The commotion outside grows louder as the chain opens its doors for the inaugural customers. There is much cheering and photo-snapping and free-hat-distributing.

More people arrive by the minute—tourists and residents both.

I give my prosperity cauldron another stir.

Send a quick prayer to the goddess.

And try desperately not to fret as minutes turn to hours and dark clouds gather in the sky and the line outside Mean Beans wraps around the entire freaking block, impervious to the brewing storm.

By lunchtime, even the cats have wandered back downstairs, certain there won’t be a single visitor to disturb them. I’m about ready to call it a day and queue up another Charmed episode when I finally spot a friendly face outside.

A hypochondriac germaphobe with a smile that can light up a room and a laugh that makes even the most brutal town council meetings fun, Mayor Amalie Singh is one of my favorite humans and K&C regulars.

If she bails on me for Mean Beans…

I suck in a steadying breath. Call upon the magic of my prosperity spell, and—

“Hello hello helloooo!” comes the chipper call and the tinkling of the chimes over my door. “I’ve got a tickle in my throat, Violet. Did my assistant tell you? Was it that obvious in the staff meeting?” She flutters her fingers over her neck and makes a delicate coughing sound. “Oh, no… it’s progressed from a tickle to a scratch. I’m in back-to-back budget meetings for the rest of the month! I can’t afford to be cooped up in the hospital!” She pulls a tissue from her purse and sneezes. “Do you think it’s cancer? Oh, dear. It’s probably cancer.”

“It’s probably seasonal allergies, and I’ve got you covered.”

“Oh, honey. You always do.” Relief floods her energy field as I get to work on her brew, scanning the shelves until I feel the intuitive tug that tells me I’ve got the right blend in mind—green tea, lemon verbena, peppermint leaves, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, fresh grated ginger root, and crushed dried pineapple to sweeten the brew. I’m also adding some essence of blue kyanite to encourage clear communication—that should help with her throat issues.

A pinch of this, a dollop of that, a whispered incantation to lock in the medicinal properties and maximize their potency, and voilà! Behold the marvelous magic of tea.

It is, as my coven sister Olivy says, my witchy zone of genius. And since her witchy zone of genius is dark magic and blood curses, I generally make it a point to agree with her in all matters.

Unfortunately, in a town where the majority of the population doesn’t know magic exists and the equally uninitiated tourists would rather drink the generic sludge from Mean Beans, I fear my witchy zone of genius is cursed to remain an undiscovered gem.

“Are you all right, Violet?” Mayor Singh asks, her own troubles momentarily forgotten. “You seem… out of sorts.”

“What? No. I’m good. Fine. Perfectly good and perfectly fine.”

She arches a quizzical eyebrow.

“Just… trying to get used to the new neighbors,” I admit. “Business has been slow today. You’re my first customer, actually.”

“Oh, good heavens.” She glances out at the mob across the street and frowns. “I’d really hoped some of the overflow would find their way over here.”

Forcing a smile, I top off the tea with a web of elderberry-infused honey, pop on the lid, and hand it over. “Sip it slowly and let it work its magic. You’ll be back to full capacity before you know it.”

“I feel better already.” She slides a ten across the counter and winks, her energy warm and genuine. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks, Mayor Singh. Good luck with the budget meetings.”

At the door, she stops suddenly, turning back with a grave look in her eyes. A wave of regret pulses outward, taking me by surprise. Despite her constant fretting, I’ve never known the mayor to be so somber.

“You’re one of the good ones, Violet Pepperdine. Wayward Bay is lucky to have you. Whatever the future holds, remember that.”

She’s out the door before I can even formulate a response.

One of the good ones? Whatever the future holds? What is she talking about? Sure, Beans is putting a crimp in my style—a big one—but I can weather this storm.

Can’t I?

A flash of silver and black on the counter, and I turn to find my stalker grinning up at me once again, like this is all a big cosmic joke and he can’t wait to deliver the punchline.

Ignoring this will only make it worse. Haven’t you learned that by now?

“No. I haven’t learned it, obviously.” I snatch up the card, ignoring the uncomfortable buzz of magic prickling my fingertips.

Trouble is brewing, Violet…

“You wanna know what’s brewing? I’ll tell you what’s brewing. Coffee. At Mean Beans. Which is apparently the place to be, since all the usual tea-sipping, scone-gobbling customers are lining up around the block for a free hat and an uninspired half-caf, low-foam, cappu-latte sugar bomb made from an industrial-sized container of powdered chemicals, and I’m standing around with a broomstick up my butt just praying to the goddess I don’t lose my business and get cast out into the cold, cold world like last week’s stinky fish—fish everyone will trample on as they sprint over to Mean Beans. So as you can see, I have enough to worry about without you turning up every five minutes with your creepy grin and your ominous warnings and your stupidly handsome face and—”

Movement outside the door catches my eye.

The card evaporates, and I dust off my apron, double-checking there’s no trace of the Devil clinging to the fabric. But when I glance up again, there’s no customer at the threshold.

Just an official-looking envelope carelessly shoved under the door.

The moment I see it, the energy in the room turns cold and unpleasant, like stepping into a winter slush puddle wearing nothing but socks.

And I know exactly who left it for me.

Nathan Pike, realtor from Hell.

No wonder the Devil keeps showing up. Nathan isn’t just a passive-aggressive twatwaffle. He’s evil incarnate, ready to carve up Wayward Bay and sell it off to the highest bidders, piece by piece.

I pluck the envelope from the floor and tear into it, my heart sinking as the words take shape. No, I wasn’t expecting a birthday party invite or thank-you note for the free scones he pilfers from his aunt, but this?

It steals the breath from my lungs—a full accounting of my past-due rent, plus compounding interest and late fees, followed by several paragraphs detailing his plan to bring in potential buyers and convince Beverly to sell. Failing that, he’s working on getting power of attorney over his aunt’s holdings, since she’s clearly not of sound mind.

Thinking about him criticizing that sweet old woman—sharp as a tack and one of the kindest non-magical souls in Wayward Bay—makes my blood boil.

But Nathan’s not done twisting the knife just yet.

There, at the very bottom, shouting at me in all-caps, multiple-exclamation-points glory:

PAYMENT DUE IN FULL!!!! 30 DAYS OR EVICTION PROCEEDINGS WILL COMMENCE!!!!

I waver on my feet, the room spinning.

Thirty days?

Even accounting for the monthly catch-up payments I’ve already arranged with Beverly, the added interest and fees push my debt into five-figure territory. And while I might be able to scrape together the cash to clear that particular slate, I’m also paying off a hefty small-business loan and back taxes, not to mention a maxed-out credit card. Realistically speaking, I’m probably going to have to hire some help too—especially if I want to compete with Beans.

Which puts the cost of keeping Kettle and Cauldron afloat somewhere in the range of…

$100,000.

Tears sting my eyes, blurring the cozy café into a black smudge.

Crafting magical tea isn’t just my job, it’s my life’s dream. A natural expression of the goddess-given empathic magic that lives and breathes inside me.

It’s also my grandmother’s legacy.

Gigi raised me from birth when no one else wanted the job. She helped me through school bullies and unrequited love and my first bumbling attempts at spellwork. Then, she taught me to harness and hone my magic until it was my very own. The one thing no one else could do quite like me. The one thing I’ve always come back to.

More than my memories of our time together, more than her mysterious Tarot cards and the spells she bequeathed to me, tea magic is what connects us. What keeps her close, even in death.

I named Kettle and Cauldron for my favorite things from her kitchen—her floral teakettle and the cast-iron cauldron always simmering on the stove, the orange-and-cardamom scent of her magic welcoming me home after a long day.

And now, after just two years in business, I’m on the verge of losing it. The one thing I swore I’d never, ever screw up.

Outside, the first few drops of rain hit the pavement and a cold breeze shakes the leaves from the trees, whipping them into a red-and-gold frenzy. A flock of tourists exits Mean Beans, smiles wide as they pose for a group selfie in the rain, their matching ball caps adorned with the chain’s infamous logo: a cartoon coffee bean punching another bean in the face.

I sink down onto a stool, head in my hands. Nathan’s letter spirals to the floor.

Thirty days. Thirty days to find a hundred grand, or my life’s dream will go the way of the Devil card and poof! right out of existence.