Chapter Six
DEVLIN
Fire and brimstone. Smoke and ash. My body disintegrates as the universe collapses and reforms, scattering the dust of my bones through time and space and realms unending, through the dawn of demonkind and the end of the human age, then back again, a kaleidoscope of light and dark, life and death, beginnings and endings and beginnings anew, and—
Merciful Hell, I need to lay off the hard drugs.
Where in the seventy-eight lower regions of Hades am I?
I take a whiff, trying to get my bearings. The scent of magic is everywhere, like burned cotton candy laced with expensive bourbon. Not altogether unpleasant, but I learned long ago not to trust the sweet seductions of witchcraft.
Bones thankfully intact, the ground solid beneath me once more, I gingerly rise to my full height. A thick haze of blue smoke slowly dissipates, revealing some sort of… restaurant?
Velvet couches in purple and red, the spent embers of a recent fire in the hearth. Framed artwork covers nearly every wall—moon phases here, diagrams of plants over there, far too many paintings of small woodland animals sipping from fancy teacups.
Not your typical evil-witch-from-the-primordial-swamp aesthetic, I’ll give you that. But I won’t be fooled again. The dark ones can hide amongst the trappings of humdrum human lives until the end of time, but the Devil waits for no enemy.
“Show yourself, dark sorceress!” I command. “And prepare to meet your end.”
A yowling screech and a bright orange and black blur from the shadows is my only answer, and I brace myself for the onslaught, calling upon my last reserves of hellfire. The flame grows bright between my palms, eager to cut through anyone who dare threaten me.
But this is no witch attack. It’s… cats.
Two of them. One orange, one black. Both circling me like predators, hissing but wisely keeping their distance.
I hiss right back at them, making their fur stand on end.
“Grumpy, no!” A battle cry cuts through the darkness, soft but mighty, definitely female, followed by a stumble and the felling of several countertop stools. “Damn it,” the female mutters. Then, “Run, boys! Run! Save yourselves!”
I follow the sound and the fury to its source. There, tumbling out from behind the fallen stools—a tiny sprite of a girl dressed in denim overalls and a black shirt covered in red-and-white polka-dotted mushrooms. From beneath a cloud of auburn curls that may have once been a bun and a pair of glasses too large for her delicate face, she blinks up at me, blue eyes wide and terrified. Magic emanates from her in faint shimmery waves.
Damn it.
Another witch, then. Likely an apprentice. Clearly not a professional by any stretch.
“P-please don’t hurt my familiars,” she stammers, crouching down to gather the offending beasts into her arms.
“Where is she?” I cross the distance between us in three quick steps, my shadow falling across her face. “Answer me!”
The two feral felines bolt, vanishing into the darkness behind the counter. Still crouched on the floor, the sprite says nothing. Just trembles, those big blue eyes peering up at me, lip quivering.
Well. The delicate flower act won’t fly with me. I need answers. Now.
I hook my fingers through her overall straps and haul her up, setting her on her feet. She’s even smaller than I presumed, the top of her head just barely grazing my collarbone, her narrow shoulders rounding as she hugs herself to fight off a shiver.
My heart gives an unexpected thud, my blood roaring with a fierce and inexplicable need to… protect her?
Damn it. Again.
More witchcraft, no doubt. How these women live with themselves is beyond me. Bloody unconscionable.
“Speak!” I command.
“We’re… we’re closed,” she squeaks out, taking a step backward, then another, tilting her head back so she can meet my eyes.
“Then un-close and give me what I need.” I close in on her once more. “Or suffer the consequences.”
“I… I can’t. Everything’s already shut down for the night.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re welcome to come back tomorrow. We open at seven. I can help you then.” She takes another step backward, gracelessly tripping over the fallen stools. I dart forward and scoop her into my arms right before she lands and breaks something vital.
She blinks up at me, bewildered, the glasses askew, her heart jackhammering so hard I can feel it. That damnable need to protect her rises anew.
Shaking my head to rid myself of her annoying magic, I give her my most intimidating glare. Exhale loudly through my nose. Set her back on her feet. “Try. Again.”
She straightens her glasses and offers what’s probably supposed to be an accommodating smile, but looks more like the face you make when you’ve got a terrible cramp in a very sensitive place. “I suppose I can put the kettle back on, fix you up a little something? Tea, or perhaps a magic mojito lemonito, if you’d like?” She gestures toward a glass pitcher of orange-yellow slush abandoned on the counter, half empty. “Though I should warn you, it’s a lot stronger than it—”
“What I’d like is for you to stop babbling and answer my question before I lose my temper and blast this entire town to Hell.”
“No! No blasting. I’ll answer your question. Any question. I’m just… what was it, again? The question?”
For fuck’s sake. “Where is she?!”
“Where is who?”
“The evil witch queen who summoned me!”
“Evil witch queen? I… I’m certain I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“And I’m certain you do.” Ignoring her baffled expression, I step around her and peek behind the counter—empty. I head into the kitchen and scan the space—a couple of small ovens and a pantry, dried herbs hanging in bundles over a stainless-steel counter, teakettles on every blasted burner, an orange tail peeking out from behind a trash bin.
But no sign of the ancient witch.
“I know she’s in here somewhere, skulking about.” I lift the lid on the closest teakettle—a ceramic floral piece painted with roses and peonies—and peek inside. Empty. “Very likely biding her time until she can catch me unawares, but that is not going to happen tonight, I assure you.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong café.” Little Miss Mushroom Shirt is right on my heels, removing the teakettle lid from my grasp and setting it back in its proper place. “Or maybe the wrong witch?”
I lean in close, the air shimmering between us. Her wild curls seem to be reaching out for the lingering magic, like flowering vines longing for the sun.
“Are you asking me,” I say, ignoring the sudden urge to twine my fingers into that silky mess of auburn curls, “or telling me?”
“I don’t… know?”
“For fuck’s sake. You’re a witch, are you not?”
“What?” she laughs, as if my asking is the most preposterous thing that’s happened tonight. “No!”
I take a deep whiff of her scent. “I can smell the magic on you, woman.”
“You can? Right. Of course you can. Okay, fine. Yes, I’m a witch. Technically. But not, like, a dark sorceress or evil queen or whatever. I’m just… just a tea witch. An empathic one, actually, and I’m sensing you are very angry right now, which I understand, because I’ve obviously interrupted your evening of…” She trails off, her gaze roaming the length of my smoking jacket, all the way down to my bare feet, then back up. “Something… super important. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“But maybe we should all just take a few cleansing breaths…” She nods and inhales deeply, exhales, gestures at me, does it again, just in case I’m unclear on the concept of breathing. “See? Better already. We’ll just calm down and talk this out like—”
“Calm down? A summoning is not a thing to be taken lightly or calmly. In fact, it’s forbidden dark magic, last I checked, punishable by… by…” A new scent wafts into the space, and I take another whiff, catching the sharp remnants of…
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
“Good goddess, woman. You’re drunk.”
“No lies detected.” Another nervous giggle bubbles out of her, then quickly turns into a hiccup.
“Excuse me?”
“I know! I didn’t didn’t mean to drink so much, or to drunk-dial you—sorry, drunk-summon you. But clearly something went awry tonight—a long line of somethings, actually—and I was hoping it would all just blow over, but then you stood up out of the magical darkness like, rawr, I’m the Devil, and—”
“You summoned me?”
A nod. Another hiccup. A crimson blush staining her cheeks.
I take in the sight of her again, the mushrooms dotting the shirt, the wild knot of hair making her look a bit like a mushroom too, sprouting up out of the ground as if we’re trapped in some sort of fairytale forest. It would all be quite whimsical and adorable, if I were in the mood for whimsy and adoration.
“That’s simply not possible,” I say.
“And yet, here you are. Summoned.” She spreads her hands before me and shrugs. Followed by another hiccup. “By me.”
“Only the most powerful witches can summon me. Ancient witches well-heeled in the dark arts. Which you are clearly not. ”
And if I don’t find the witch who is responsible for this, she’s certain to track me down and—
“Hate to rain on your know-it-all parade, sir, but I’m the only witch here (hiccup). So unless your all-powerful ancient well-heeled dark arts witch-person has a serious GPS problem (hiccup), this disaster is all mine.”
The inebriated little witch has the nerve to cross her arms and glare at me. Glare! As if I’m the wrongdoer here.
Unbelievable.
And yet… I do believe her. Earnestness shines through every fiber of her tiny being. And that scent—the sugar, the bourbon—it’s definitely her magic, no trace of anyone else’s.
I cast another glance around the café. Candle wax spilled across the countertop, a black scorch mark suggesting fire magic gone awry. A stack of witchcraft books teetering beside a laptop. The aforementioned half-spent pitcher of something alcoholic.
Her story checks out.
Ah, well. A break from the routine, I suppose, and no head-bashing required.
Alas, duty calls.
“Well then.” I flash a no-hard-feelings grin. “As lovely as it was to meet you—against my will and all the laws of witchcraft and sorcery, ancient and new and yet to be invented—I think it’s time we say goodnight. Farewell, tiny drunk one, and best of luck with your future spell-casting.”
She blows a few curls out of her eyes and offers a sad wave. Again, something inside my chest twinges.
Indigestion. Obviously. Mental note to speak to my chef about preparing a milder sauce for Taco Tuesdays.
“Well?” I demand. “What are you waiting for?”
“Um… for you to… leave?”
“Hellfire help me. You really are out of your league, aren’t you?” Crouching down so we’re eye to eye, I place my hands on her shoulders and speak slowly and clearly. “When a spellcaster summons the Devil, that spellcaster must un-cast in order to set him free.”
“Un-cast?”
“Release me from the spell. Sooner rather than later, if you don’t mind. There’s still a chance I might make my appointment with the twins.”
“What twins?”
“Neither here nor there. The un-casting, if you please.”
She nods once, face screwing into a look of pure determination that would put even the most brutal demons in Hell to shame, and sweeps her hands toward me several times. “Be gone, evil nightmare. Be gone!”
“What in the name of… Are you shooing me?”
“I’m… trying to banish you?”
“Try harder, because it’s not working.”
“Which means none of this is real. That’s the obvious answer.”
“It most certainly is real.”
“Nope. I’m dreaming. Nightmaring.”
“You’re really not.”
“I just need to wake up and this will all be over.” She presses her fingertips to her temples and closes her eyes, muttering to herself a string of inane promises about never drinking again, only tea and water, straight and narrow from here on out, she’ll even come clean about the money, whatever the bleeding skies any of it means, if only—if only!—the goddess will put an end to this crazy nightmare.
I let her go on about it, the temple-rubbing, the babbling and praying, the bargaining, the whole skit-and-skedoodle.
When she finally opens her eyes again, she has the audacity to look annoyed that I’m still here.
“You’re no more dreaming than I,” I tell her, Bearer of Bad News being one of my many titles.
“How do you know? Maybe this is your nightmare, and I’m trapped.”
“Trust me, I’ve had some fucked-up nocturnal encounters, typically under the influence, and this tête-à-tête blows them all out of the wacky waters.” I crowd into her space again, backing her against the wall and caging her in with my arms. “You and I have a serious problem, witch, and if you value your soul, I suggest you figure out how to fix it.”
“I… I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not even sure how it happened.”
A frisson of panic sparks to life in my chest, quickly giving way to fury. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”
“You,” comes the accusatory response, but it’s not from my little mushroom, who’s currently staring up at me with her very big, very blue eyes.
“Olivy!” she breathes more than speaks, then ducks out from under my arms in a mad dash for the doorway, where a black-haired witch clad in a deep indigo cape is unabashedly staring at me.
Recognition is clear in her sharp gaze.
Keeping her eyes locked on mine, she lowers her hood and says to the other one, “Are you all right? I was out for my midnight walk and heard shouting.”
“I… I sort of…” The little witch turns to me, then back to this Olivy woman.
“Go on.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Tell her how we met, mushroom.”
“He… Well… I was just sort of looking through my spells, and—”
“Drunk,” I add.
“A little drunk, yes. And then there was a flash and some fire and a lot of smoke, and when I looked up again, there he was.”
Olivy gasps, her eyes narrowing on me as though she’s just caught the scent of her prey and can’t wait to pounce. “Violet summoned you?”
“No, I just happened to get a midnight hankering for tea and decided to pop on over to the land of pumpkin spice, clear across the country, dressed in arseless leather chaps and a satin smoking robe and for the love of Hell, isn’t it obvious? Yes, she summoned me. And while we’re on that subject…” I turn my attention back to the spell caster. “Any particular reason, or just looking for some late-night company?”
“I didn’t mean to!” Exasperation darkens her cheeks. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! It was an accident!”
“Seriously?” the other woman says. “Violet. How can you summon the Devil by accident? It isn’t the sort of thing that just happens.”
“Thank you.” I grab the pitcher of yellow-orange slush she offered earlier. Looks terrible but smells enough like alcohol to get a pass. Desperate times, etcetera. “I’m glad one of you was paying attention at witch school.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Violet says, “because it did just happen.”
“Do you know how much magic a regular demonic summoning requires? And this is the Devil. The Devil!” Olivy again. Hand on hip, dark eyes probing. Kind of creepy, if you ask me. Not someone you’d be keen to meet in the proverbial dark alley. “Not to mention a willingness to break every rule of witchcraft in existence and risk your own life in the process. What the serious fuck, Vi?”
“Fair question.” I take a swig of the booze. Terrible, as expected, but strong. Into the win column it goes. “What in the very serious fuck indeed.”
“I can’t explain it!” she erupts, all fire and brimstone and wild curls. “You were supposed to be a pivot table!”
“A pivot table?” I try to recall the term. Not sure I’ve heard it before, but it sounds a bit like... “Oh! Is that a sexual device? The one with the leather straps and all the different notches for the—”
“It’s a spreadsheet function! Spreadsheets! My love language! How could I screw this up?”
“Spreadsheets?” Olivy grabs what I assume is the offending laptop, her eyes scanning the screen.
“This is all wrong,” Violet says, pacing. “Goddess, I knew I shouldn’t have had all those lemonitos. One minute I’m enjoying the citrusy-minty buzz, scrolling through my old digital spellbooks, fixing typos, updating ingredients with appropriate substitutions, highlighting rows and columns for future reference, organizing my pivot table, thinking that maybe—just maybe—my life isn’t such a shitshow after all.”
“Take a breather, Vi,” Olivy says. “I just need to get a better look at this spreadsheet mess and—”
“There I am, getting all high on life like maybe there’s actually some teeny, tiny shred of hope left to cling to,” Violet continues, ignoring her sister—wholly unaware of her sister, actually—“because the universe has my back and I’ve got magic in my blood, damn it, and if I put all these spells into a pivot table, I can sort and export and find precisely what I need, right? Because that’s how pivot tables work, right?”
Blank stare. It’s all I’ve got. “Is this a trick question, or—”
“But is that what happened? Is it? No, of course not! Because one minute I’m sorting and highlighting, happily pivoting, and all of a sudden, a cat and a flash and a fire and bim-bam-boom, the Devil. Really, Universe? The freaking Devil? The Aunts are going to murder me, and poor Gigi’s probably rolling over in her grave to make room for my soon-to-be-murdered corpse, but hey… bright side?” She whirls around to face me again, her eyes wild, more curls springing loose from the bun, a pint-sized Medusa on a rampage. “If I’m dead, at least I won’t have to deal with you.”
I raise a single eyebrow.
Deal with me? As if I’m the reason for this catastrophe? Oh, I think not.
I set down my rum slushy. Roll up my satin sleeves (not as easy as it looks). The gloves are officially off.
My skin turns hot, horns lengthening and twisting outward from my skull, shoulders broadening, a glimpse of my true form flashing beneath the civilized facade. This is the real me. The face of death I show my corrupted souls upon their very last breath, the precise moment they realize just how much they’ve signed away.
Time to show this troublemaker exactly who she’s dealing with now…
“Well, that depends, witch.” I take a step closer and grin down at her, feeling every bit the all-powerful monster the legends would have you believe. “Is your soul wholly untarnished? Nary a sin nor errant thought in that pretty little head? No lies or secrets, no shame or guilt, no past transgressions? Or…” I grip her quavering chin between my thumb and index finger, tilting her face up toward me, her eyes so wide with fright I can see my reflection in them—glowing red eyes, gnarled black horns, teeth as sharp as razor wire. “Might there be a special place in my domain reserved just for you?”
Her face pales enough that I almost feel guilty for intimidating her. Almost.
“Oh, goddess,” she whispers. “Oh goddess oh goddess oh—”
I press a finger to her lips. “Let’s not summon another all-powerful being to this soiree, shall we?”
“No, we shall not. Won’t not. Definitely not. Um. Olivy?” Darting away from me, she joins her sister at the laptop. “Do you have any valerian root on you? I ran out and my head is killing me.”
“Go sniff some lavender and calm your perky tits.” The dark witch cracks her knuckles and starts typing, eyes never leaving the screen. “You too, Satan.”
“I prefer you not use that term, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t care, does that count? Anyway, no use getting your Devil-drawers in a bunch until we know exactly what we’re dealing with and—oh, wait. Oh no…”
Fingers pause abruptly over the keys.
Gasps are gasped.
Curses are cursed.
“Is this the spell you cast?” Olivy asks, and the mushroom nods. “For the love of the goddess, Vi. You’re lucky the magical kickback didn’t disintegrate you.”
“Just tell me it’s reversible,” Violet says. “Please, please, please tell me the summoning spell is reversible.”
“It’s not your run-of-the-mill summoning spell, guys.”
I meet the woman’s eyes across the glow of the laptop screen, my last hopes for an easy fix evaporating. “On a scale of one to ten, just how fucked am I?”
“That depends.” She snaps the laptop closed. Folds her hands on top of it. Ponders. “Is one the most fucked or the least?”
“One is the low end of the spectrum. Best possible outcome.”
“In that case, you’re definitely a one… million.” The dark witch smirks at me as if this is the highlight of her week. “Completely, utterly, upside-down and sideways fucked with a broomstick, nary a bottle of lube in sight.”