Chapter Eight
DEVLIN
I storm out the café door and onto the rain-slicked sidewalk, where—like a swift kick to the nether regions—I’m immediately confronted by the painful reality of my situation.
A three-part awakening, if you will.
One, I have no cell phone. Must’ve dropped it when the witch zapped me from my study.
Two, I have no pants, and it’s bloody cold here, the rain and late hour not helping in that department.
Three, perhaps most tragic of all, this charming greeting card of a town has recently suffered a senseless attack from a roving band of Fall Vibes vigilantes, who’ve vomited upon every storefront and residential window a nauseating mix of twinkle lights, faux autumn leaves, and your basic Spooky Halloween Starter pack of rubber bats, plastic spiders, and tissue-paper ghosts.
Superb. Not only am I bound to the most annoying witch this side of the veil, but I’m stuck in Pumpkinville.
“Wait up!” Mushroom follows me outside, leaving ol’ Caped and Creepy behind, probably to whip up a batch of poison apples for the local schoolchildren. How these two are sisters is a mystery—one I have no interest in solving.
Right now, my only interest lies in procuring copious amounts of alcohol and a suitable pair of pants. Prime directive.
Most of the shops look buttoned up for the night, but I spy a golden light shining like a beacon a couple of blocks down and head off in that direction. Hope springs fucking eternal.
My newly acquired shadow is right on my heels. “Where are you going?”
“To find a purveyor of wine and spirits that caters to someone other than a coven of barely legal sorority sisters who should never be allowed to practice magic under the influence. Or practice magic at all, really, given the apparent carelessness with which you bandy about your spells. Does the goddess Hecate know what you lot are up to? In my day, she had laws governing this sort of thing. With appropriate magical punishments, eternal damnation being a perennial favorite.”
Violet stops dead in her tracks. “Eternal damnation?”
Ignoring her, I keep walking. And fuming. And walking some more. Only to slam into an invisible wall and be yanked backward by an equally invisible leash.
Ah. So the whole “bound together” bit is literal, then. Well. The hits just keep on coming!
I turn back to find her standing on the sidewalk beneath a streetlamp, sleeves pulled down over her hands, glasses misting up, halo of dark frizz circling her head. Instinct has me reaching for my robe, wanting to take it off and drape it over her shoulders.
I resist the urge.
“Come here,” I demand.
She takes a few tentative steps forward. I hold up a hand to stop her, then take a few steps back. Hit that blasted boundary again.
Math isn’t my strong suit, but… Thirty feet, give or take. Maybe thirty-five. That’s all we’ve got.
“Bleeding skies, you’ve really got me wrapped around your finger now, don’t you? A man can’t even go out for a nightcap without his witch attached at the hip.”
She rushes toward me. Attempts another one of those crampy apologetic smiles, made more crampy by the chattering teeth. “I’ll c-c-come with you. It’s fine. I d-d-don’t mind.”
“Really? And what about when I sleep? Or use the facilities? Will you come with me then?” I lean in close, drop my voice to a seductive whisper. Some things can’t be helped, this being one of them. “What about when I shower? Do you have any idea the sort of debauchery I can get up to in there with naught but a bottle of shower gel, hot water streaming down my chest, one hand gripping my wet, hard—”
“Doors!” she practically yelps. “I’ve got plenty of d-d-doors. Lots of sturdy, well-made, closable doors to ensure privacy at all times, even if we’ve got a limited range.”
“Good to know, and by the way, I was talking about my hard back scrubber.”
She peers up at me over the rims of her glasses—lashes dark from the lingering drizzle, her eyes even more intensely blue up close—and laughs.
The mushroom laughs.
It’s like a song, like a poem, like the chiming of fairy bells… capped by a ridiculously awkward snort, which only sets her off again, both hands clamped over her mouth to try to hold it at bay, no use. The laughter echoes down the empty street, and that thing inside my chest kicks me in the ribs again, Taco Tuesday back to haunt me, and suddenly I want to make her laugh like that all over again.
Which also makes me want to set my own arsehole on fire because wake the fuck up, Devlin. This isn’t some quaint little rom-com sidequest. I’m trapped here. Which means I’m not in Los Angeles, fulfilling my duties to my father. Proving my worth. Earning my right to sit upon the throne I lost so long ago. My right to go back home.
Rage simmers anew.
Turning back toward that golden light, my last hope, I march onward.
So does she. No longer laughing. No longer snorting. Teeth chattering all over the place.
“When I get a hold of Hecate,” I grumble, “we’re going to have words about this… this… what in the bleeding orifices do you call this town again?”
“Wayward Bay?”
“Yes. That. Exactly that. Well, I suppose it does what it says on the tin, doesn’t it? Because I’ve already met two of its resident miscreants, and—oh, Hello, darling. Now this looks promising.”
Saints and Sinners Fine Wine and Spirits. Source of the golden light and my new lease on life. Never have I ever been so happy to see a liquor store display window (its over-reliance on haystacks and plastic ghost lights as decorative accents notwithstanding).
“Demon-owned,” Violet informs me. “Well, demon and fae, but Maleek set up shop and picked the name before he met Jovahn.”
“Demon and fae? Hmm. Are there any regular humans in this town?”
“Of course. We just have a higher population of magical beings than most other places in the States. One of the town founders was a witch—Agatha Wayward. Her magic is what draws a lot of us here.”
I file that knowledge away for later.
“Their wedding was pretty amazing, actually,” she continues.
“Agatha Wayward’s?”
“No, Maleek and Jovahn. They had all this food from Jovahn’s fae court, but his family cast a spell on it so it wouldn’t trap anyone in their home realm—fae have weird rules about that sort of thing. The wine was really intense, though. I made the mistake of drinking it too fast, and I ended up—”
“Mushroom? As fascinating as the cautionary tales of your casual alcoholism may be, which is to say not at all, let’s adopt a new policy.” I open the door and usher her inside. “Less talking, more helping me find another liquid coping mechanism.”
The shop is small but well-appointed, carrying enough of a selection of higher-end bourbons to meet my immediate needs. I select a bottle (or seven) while Violet greets the demon manning the register—Maleek, I presume.
A wave and a smile for the fine proprietor, then I’m off.
Or… not.
“Um, excuse you?” Violet stares at me, hand on her hip like I’m about to get a scolding, which I’d gladly submit to under different circumstances, but since we’re both wearing too many clothes for that, I merely scowl at her.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she says.
“Am I? Oh! Wait! You’re right. Thank you.” Shuffling the bourbon bottles over to one arm, I grab a handful of nips from the counter—mixed bag, mostly cheap vodka and flavored whiskeys, but one can never be too prepared for a good time. “Clearly, my head isn’t screwed on straight tonight. All set now. Shall we?”
I nod toward the door for her to exit ahead of me, but she doesn’t move. She and her demon pal are just standing about gaping at me, brows furrowed, eyes wide.
After a long, awkward stare-off, it finally occurs to me that these two are not actually constipated. They’re… expecting me to pay for these spirits.
Fuck. I haven’t had to do my own shopping in decades. My staff always handles these things, cashing in one favor or another. I wasn’t lying to the witch about my lack of legal tender.
Well. Olivy warned me not to use my influence to help save the shop. Purloining alcohol is not saving the shop. Ergo…
“Maleek,” I say hypnotically, gazing into his eyes. “You—”
“Holy shit,” he gasps, recognition dawning before I’ve even had the chance to put the whammy on him. “It’s you.”
“Holy shit indeed.” I grin, basking in his starry-eyed wonderment.
“I… I can’t believe you’re here,” he stammers. “In Wayward Bay. With Violet. This is just… Wow. Well, anything you need, sir. Help yourself.”
“You know him?” Violet asks the man.
“He’s a demon, Mushroom,” I explain. “Of course he knows me.”
“Yeah, but—oh, goddess. You’re his boss.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, but I prefer more of an informal, hands-off approach. You know what they say—an empowered demon is an effective demon. Especially when he knows exactly what his boss most needs.”
“A calming blend of lavender, chamomile, and lemon balm,” the witch says, going a bit starry-eyed herself, though not over me, which is off-putting. “With a fine dusting of cane sugar and a spritz of rose quartz essence. I call it my STFU and CTFD Tea. Works wonders for anger issues.”
“Just hearing you talk about it as if it’s your long-lost soulmate is giving me anger issues, so I’ll go ahead and take a pass on that. Maleek, thank you for your service, the spirits are exactly what I need.”
Maleek nods, some of his earlier bewilderment fading. “How do you two know each other again?”
I feel Violet tense beside me, and when I glance over and catch her eye, she gives me a nearly imperceptible shake of the head.
Right. She doesn’t want anyone else to know about her financial woes. A thing that should not concern me, and yet…
“I’m helping Violet with some marketing plans for her shop,” I say, keeping the summoning snafu to myself for some unnamed reason I don’t care to explore while sober.
“Oh, right!” Maleek says. “I heard you’re kind of a big deal on social media these days.”
“The biggest.”
“Seriously?” Violet asks, that happy twinkle returning to her eyes. “The Devil is on MySpace? What will they think of next?”
“MySpace?” Maleek laughs. “Oh my word, aren’t you adorable? Babe, come out front!” he calls toward the back of the store. “You have to meet this time-traveling witch! She just got here all the way from 2007!”
“Very funny, Maleek.” Violet turns to smile at a fae male exiting the back storeroom. “Jovahn’s here tonight too?”
“He’s helping me with inventory—we’re finalizing the liquor order for the Haunted Halloween Ball. Mayor Singh has been checking in twice a day to make sure we’ve got it covered.”
“Don’t tell me Fiona ran out of rum already!” The fae—Jovan—gathers Violet into a hug, which sets my teeth on edge—again, completely baffling. Again, won’t be examining until I’m thoroughly inebriated.
“Fiona had more than enough rum. Ask me how I know.” Violet tries to laugh, but it quickly shatters into a sigh, her body slumping against his chest, and without being prompted, without being asked, without being invited or permitted, he rubs a hand up and down her back and asks if she’s feeling okay.
Un-fucking-believable.
Before I have the opportunity to explain to this handsy, helps-himself-to-hugs-and-backrubs fae that yes, the witch is feeling just fine—that I’m the injured party here, and by the way, why are you still touching her?—the door whooshes open and ushers in another demon.
One I’ve never before been so happy to see.
“There you are! Bloody Hell, Dev.” Finn pulls me aside, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been calling in every favor we’ve got left trying to track you down. Took some doing, but we finally traced the magical signature.” He hands over my blessed phone. “I thought we’d lost you for good. You literally vanished into thin air.”
Relief washes over me at the sight of my friend. And my phone. Not necessarily in that order. “Thank you.”
“How the fuck did you end up here, of all places?”
“My services were… urgently requested.”
“By whom?”
I make a vague gesture in the direction of the mushroom, who escaped the fae’s embrace and is now trying—adorably but unsuccessfully—to hide behind a display of regional wines and plastic fall foliage.
Finn’s jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding you?”
“He’s not much of a kidder.” Violet peeks out from behind the wines, taking in the sight of the new demon. “Welcome to Wayward Bay! I really, really hope you’re not another Devil. But if you are, forget I said that. Actually, forget I said anything, other than the welcome part, because I genuinely—”
“Violet?” I sigh. There’s a fine line between adorable and annoying, and she’s definitely trampling over it. “We talked about this.”
“We… we did?”
I make a zipping-my-lips motion. The slightly more polite version of the shut-the-hell-up motion, which I mostly reserve for Finn.
“Oh! That. Right. Less talking, more drinking. Got it.” She mimics the lip-zipping motion, then grabs a bottle from the wine display and pretends to drink, giggling at her own antics.
The corner of my mouth twitches with the flicker of a laugh, but I lock that nonsense down tout de suite.
“A word, Highness?” Finn says through clenched teeth. “In private, if we may?”