Chapter Three
VIOLET
“Locusts. That’s what the situation calls for. A plague of locusts.” Olivy’s standing at the window shooting daggers at the neighbors who’ve turned up for seconds at Mean Beans, all rocking their free hats from earlier.
Salt in the wound, but anyway.
“We’ll need a jar of crushed beetles,” she continues. “Six rusty nails, broken glass, a handful of graveyard dirt, two vials of blood, and—”
“Locusts are too old-world.” Darla sets down the notebook she’s been scribbling in and taps her chin with the pencil. “Bedbugs could work, though. Ooh! Should I write that down?”
“No!” All of us practically screech. As a writing witch, Darla has a way with words. A magical, mystical, open-to-interpretation way that more often than not ends in disaster, bless her clever heart.
“What about a flood?” This from Emmilou, of Emmilou’s Sweet-N-Savories, who’s never resorted to violence a day in her life (other than at last year’s Haunted Halloween Ball when she catapulted a dozen homemade powdered donuts at my ex, but that was a well-deserved pelting).
“A flood, yes!” Fiona’s stormy gray eyes widen over the lemons she’s cutting up for drinks, and an explosive burst of lightning makes the lights over her head flicker. Peak Fiona, psychic witch and drama queen extraordinaire. “I can see it now. The screaming, the running, the repenting… Very biblical, Vi.”
“Girls.” I toss my spent apron and dishtowels into the wash pile and sigh. “No one is cursing Mean Beans with locusts, bedbugs, floods, or any other deluge, apocalyptic or mundane. Darla, drop the pen. Olivy, put that jar back. Those are black caraway seeds, not beetles.”
“You never let us have any fun,” Olivy pouts, reluctantly replacing the jar. “And Peen Beans isn’t going to eliminate itself. Be proactive.”
“Excellent point, Olivy,” Darla says. “Isn’t that what Aunt Joslyn’s always on about? Magic helps those who help themselves?”
Exhaustion settling in bone-deep, I flick my fingers at the open sign, and off it goes. “Right now I’d kinda like to help myself to a—”
“Magic Mojito Lemonito!” Fiona passes me a glass mug filled with something slushy, cheerfully yellow, and piping hot, garnished with mint leaves and a sugared lemon slice.
How she managed to make a hot slushy is beyond me, but hey. Magic. Hell of a thing.
“I was going to say a bubble bath and a German chocolate cupcake,” I reply, “but this looks even better.”
“Witch-N-Bitch Happy Hour is officially in session.” She gestures for the others to grab a slushy. “And you guys are going to love this. Trust me—it’s written in the stars.”
“You would know.” I wink at my sister and take the offered mug, my bath-and-cupcake pity party plans evaporating.
That’s okay, though. I’m glad my coven sisters are here—their particular brand of whimsy with a sprinkle of crazy is just what I need. They showed up right after I got my letter of doom, which is unsurprising. The five of us aren’t related by blood, but our connection runs deep. Whenever one of us is in trouble, we all sense it. More accurately, Fiona senses it—a disturbance in the force, as she describes it—and immediately tells the others. Our very own witchy phone tree.
Thankfully, my sister’s psychic abilities never reveal the specifics of those disturbances. Exhibit A: my nastygram from Nathan.
Beneath the counter, shoved behind the stack of clean aprons, his letter lingers. It’s tucked out of sight, but I can still feel it, every word embedded in my mind, blinking at me like a big flashing sign: Failure! Failure! Failure!
“Here’s to a better tomorrow,” Fiona says, and we all raise a mug to that. “And to Peen Beans getting shut down for unspecified, non-apocalyptic health code violations and/or a flood of terrible online reviews Darla and I may or may not know something and/or nothing about.”
“Here, here.” I tip the mug back, and down the hatch it goes.
The drink is sweet and citrusy with just the right amount of mint and far too much alcohol, the rum hitting me hard and fast. After just a few sips, the sting of today’s disaster starts to dull.
“She’s smiling, everyone,” Fiona says, and the lights flicker again, this time sending Grumpy and Sunshine bolting back upstairs. We all hoot and holler at that, relocating our happy-hour adventures to the two velvet couches in the back, right near the fireplace.
The darkness snuck up on us early tonight, the storm casting Main Street in an ominous black shimmer. But here inside Kettle and Cauldron, After-Hours Edition, the fire crackles, the familiar laughter of my favorite witches filling the café, soothing me in a way no spell or even a cup of my special tea ever could. This kind of magic is something else entirely. Love and friendship and sisterhood, pure and simple. The balm that heals all wounds.
I didn’t realize how much I needed it until now.
“Don’t worry, Vi.” Emmie pulls me in for a side hug. “After a few days, the newness will wear off, the free hats will be gone, and things will be right back to normal over here.”
Her declaration is met with a chorus of nods and affirmations, and I smile and nod right along with them. But through all their encouragement, through all the laughs and Peen Bean jokes, my stomach churns with anxiety. “Right back to normal” is no longer good enough. Not the kind of good enough that can bring in $100,000 in a month’s time.
“Besides,” Olivy adds with a cool confidence I only wish I possessed, “if anyone can handle a little competition, it’s Violet Fucking Pepperdine.”
“You have to say that,” I reply. “You’re my sisters.”
“We say it because it’s true.” Emmie squeezes my cheeks. “Don’t let this cute face fool you, friends. Behind the big glasses and shy smile, our girl is a witchy, formidable, tea-slinging badass.”
“At least one of those things, anyway.” I laugh and swat her hand away, then reach for my mug, surprised to find it empty, one of Gigi’s Tarot cards stuck to the bottom.
“Who is it this time?” Darla wants to know.
Glancing at the figure on the card—a beautiful nude woman with long silver hair kneeling beside a stream, a bright seven-pointed star illuminating the landscape—I smile. “The Star.”
“Your favorite,” Darla says softly. “See? Even the cards know you’re going to be okay.”
I want to believe it, too. That the card heralds a time of healing and renewal, of inspiration, the guiding light and north star of my heart. But when I close my eyes and brush my fingertips along the card’s border now, I hear only a faint whisper…
If you don’t believe in yourself, Violet Pepperdine, how can anyone else?
“Um, Violet?” Olivy says. “Looks like your Star brought a plus-one.”
Damn it. I know who it is before I even look at him.
“Didn’t we talk about this?” I open my eyes and glare at the late-arriving Devil, all swagger and shine, horns gleaming.
You haven’t told them yet, my intuition nags. You can’t run from this forever…
“Clearly we need more booze.” Fiona heads back to the kitchen to whip up another batch of Lemonitos, and for the moment, the conversation fades to a comfortable silence, all of us momentarily seduced by the heady mix of the autumn night—the dance of the golden flames, the scent of fallen leaves and candle wax and vanilla tea floating in the air, the cozy Celtic harp on my latest café playlist.
Safe and warm in my favorite place, surrounded by my favorite people, part of me wishes I could tell them the truth. About my crushing debt, Nathan’s deadline, all the stupid mistakes I made that landed me in this pickle.
About the new competition across the street being just the tip of the shitstorm iceberg, and how I’ve been ignoring the Devil for days because he knows all the things I’m not ready to admit to myself, let alone to the people I love most.
But how can I tell them that Violet Fucking Pepperdine, the so-called witchy, formidable, tea-slinging badass, is currently sitting in the driver’s seat of the Red Hot Mess Express, one more blind curve away from driving it straight off a cliff?
If they find out how dire my situation is, they’ll feel obligated to bail me out. Loans I’ll never be able to pay back—loans they’ll insist are gifts. Picking up shifts at the café, refusing to let me pay them for the work. Sacrificing time and energy they should be pouring into their own businesses and big dreams, not someone else’s.
Help is a tricky thing. What starts off as generosity can easily turn into obligation and resentment. And no matter how genuine and well-meaning everyone is at the start, that’s precisely the kind of stuff that destroys relationships.
Tears glaze my eyes. I love these witches far too much to become a burden to them. To risk it for even a single day.
This is my hot mess. I got myself into it, so it’s on me to dig my way out.
“Give me that.” I grab the Lemonito pitcher out of Fiona’s hands, filling up my mug and downing half of it in one go.
“Good goddess, she’s mainlining,” says Olivy.
“Slow down, Violet!” Fiona reaches for the mug. “Remember what happened last time you overdid it with the booze?”
“Which part?” I ask.
“The part where you chipped a tooth making out with Ol’ Aggie,” Darla says. “And begged us to let you sleep under the maple tree with her.”
Oh, right. Ol’ Aggie being the cast-iron statue of Agatha Wayward, the witch who sacrificed the last of her magic to protect the Bay from malevolent forces back in Ye Olden Times. To read the human history books, her three cousins (men, of course) were the real heroes, planting the trees and laying the bricks and brokering trade agreements with the neighboring villages that allowed Wayward Bay to thrive.
But Aggie worked tirelessly on another front, ensuring that women could vote and run for local office, that we could hold property in our own names and work outside the home without permission from husbands or fathers. That’s the bit that finally earned her the statue in Founders’ Grove in the town hall courtyard, along with the official title as a founder, a hundred years after her male counterparts had received the same accolades.
But the witches here… We know the rest of Aggie’s story, too. The magical battles she fought. The secret coven she united, the rituals they cast beneath the very maple trees that protect her statue now, ensuring our town would always be a safe haven for witches and other magical folk.
Her magic is still here with us, buzzing through every tree and rock, heard in the caw of every crow. It calls us here, from all the various places we’ve come. It reminds us that no matter how lonely we may feel, as long as we’re true to ourselves as women of the craft, we’re never really alone.
Aggie’s statue was just dedicated last year.
Hence the upwelling of love I felt on that particular occasion.
“I wasn’t making out with her,” I clarify now. “Just showing my appreciation.”
Olivy laughs. “You literally threw yourself at her like a common hussy. I’ve got the video to prove it.”
“In my defense, it was faerie wine.” I down the last sip, my head swimming pleasantly, money worries fading away. “Someone should’ve warned me.”
“Everyone warned you,” says Emmie. “Including both grooms, the entire wedding party, us, the fae bartender, and the waiver you signed before ordering a drink off the ‘special’ menu.”
“Consider me warned anew.” I hold up my mug. “No more making out with statues. I promise.”
“You sure?” Fiona’s brow crinkles with concern, the humor fading from her gray eyes.
“I’m sure.” Ignoring the Star and the Devil both, I nod for Fiona to load me up, liquid courage for the win. “Unless you’re suggesting Violet Fucking Pepperdine, slayer of the competition and glasses-wearing badass, can’t handle one more drink.”