Chapter Eleven
VIOLET
This morning’s rush is about as non-rushy as it was yesterday, the difference being that yesterday I was merely anxious with a chance of panic, and today I’m a wild storm of frayed nerves and fizzy insides who can barely hold a teacup without dropping it.
An hour until closing time, Mean Beans is still the hottest ticket in town, I’ve had less than a dozen customers, burned myself four times, misplaced all my mint and had to call Aunt Althea to bring some from the Three Sisters gardens, and somehow—defying all laws of physics—spilled chamomile flowers in my hair.
Also, Olivy keeps sending me texts that I can’t figure out how to answer because my phone keeps locking me out, and anyway, I don’t speak emoji.
So, given the humdinger of a day, I probably should’ve known something was up when I didn’t hear a peep from Devlin upstairs—not my television or the old record player, not the pitter-patter of two feral cats chasing dust motes, not even the creak of a floorboard on the old hardwoods above.
It’s not until Mayor Singh bustles in with a big smile and the energy of a proud mama bear that I realize there’s some serious Devil-induced trouble afoot.
“You’ve got quite a crowd back there!” She presses a hand to her chest, nearly breathless. “Oh, Violet. I just knew business would pick up today! Sometimes you just have to wait out the storm, right?”
“Crowd?”
“I was worried there’d be a line out the door and I wouldn’t be able to get my daily dose! Which I’m in dire need of, by the way. Your brew did the trick on my sore throat yesterday, but now I’m so exhausted from all the budget presentations, I need a big shot of something lively. You wouldn’t believe these bean counters, Violet. I swear they schedule meetings just for an excuse to impress us all with their ability to do math on command. And Brandt Remington? Who in their right mind put that windbag in charge of the town financials…”
She chatters on animatedly about the budget stuff, but all I can think about is this mysterious back-door crowd.
I’ve just finished mixing the black tea, cocoa nibs, cayenne pepper, cinnamon, and ginger for her Kick in the Pants brew when the Six of Wands card appears in the cubby where I keep the cinnamon. In it, a man wearing a victory crown rides high atop his horse before a crowd of adoring onlookers.
Hoping she doesn’t notice my shaking hands, I hand over her tea. “Where did you say that crowd was, exactly?”
“Right out back. I walked past and figured you were handing out free samples. Maybe it’s just tourists—I thought I saw cameras, too.” She frowns as she slides a ten across the counter. “I’m sorry, Violet. I really thought it was for Kettle and Cauldron.”
“Not this time.” I collect her payment, my mind racing. Crowds? Cameras? There’s another building across the small parking lot behind us—a paint-your-own pottery studio called Glaze for Days—but they never seem all that busy. Other than that, there’s just my service entrance, and—
Oh, no. My apartment balcony.
A fiery pit of dread opens up in my chest. I usher the mayor out as quickly as I can without being rude, then bolt out through the service entrance to find my parking lot packed with…
Nope, not customers who’ve forgotten where the entrance is.
Not suppliers mixing up our delivery schedule.
Not school kids on a field trip of all the town’s historic buildings.
This gathering is composed entirely of women. Dozens of them. All waving and smiling and yes, taking pictures.
Of the man holding court in a lounge chair on the balcony above.
Freshly showered, wet hair curling around his ears, bare chest gleaming in the sun. I can’t see what he’s wearing on the bottom from this angle, but knowing him, it’s probably just a towel.
“Has anyone ever told you,” Devlin calls down to his adoring fans, raising a glass in cheers, “that the women of Wayward Bay are among the most beautiful in the world? Take it from someone who’s seen the world. You’re all just so kind and lovely. Truly. I couldn’t be more humbled—”
“We love you, Devlin Pierce!” a random fangirl shouts.
“Devlin’s my Daddy!” shouts another—yes, definitely a humbling experience for Devlin.
He responds by blowing a kiss and tossing down a handful of white roses. My white roses, carelessly plucked from the arrangement I bought myself to brighten up my space two days ago.
That fiery dread inside me explodes into an inferno of rage.
Leaving the shop completely unattended—a thing I never do—I rush upstairs and beeline for the balcony. Where I find, in no particular order:
Two traitorous cats sunning themselves on the railing, tails swishing, not a care in the world.
Three empty bottles that once contained bourbon.
One and a half empty bottles that once contained the remnants of my summer wine stash, kept on hand for guests.
The vase containing what’s left of my poor roses.
Two of those umbrella lighting thingies they have at photography studios.
A video camera mounted on a tripod, red light flashing, recording in progress.
And the Devil.
Not—as I initially feared—draped in a towel.
No. He’s draped in nothing. Nothing at all. Everything he possesses is just… out there. Really out there. Taking up space in the world. A lot of space. Holy shit. I can’t breathe.
“Ah, Violet!” He smiles when he finally sees me. A genuine smile, like he’s really glad I’m here, and his energy matches. Playful, excited, lighthearted. “Home for an early dinner, darling? Care to join me on the veranda?”
Fully aware of the ever-growing crowd below, and the recording equipment, I grit my teeth into a fake smile and whisper-shout, “What in the five elements of witchkind are you doing?”
He presses his fingertips to his chest, jaw dropping, like, moi? Whatever do you mean?
My mouth opens and closes, opens and closes, but no words are coming out. I blame the shock.
“Wait… do you mean the Chardonnay?” He holds up the glass of golden wine, sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight. “I know it’s gauche, but it was all I could find inside. You really should consider stocking alternate options. A pinot grigio at the very least, but reds are a much better choice this time of year. I’d assumed your palate was a bit more sophisticated given the penchant for tea blending, but perhaps not.”
I still can’t speak. Can’t breathe. My heart is about one more beat from exploding into a pile of red goo.
“Violet? Are you all right? Oh, and don’t mind the camera. We’re not live. Finn portaled some of my things over, and I decided to shoot some B-roll. I may be on the road, but the show must go on, as ever.”
“B-roll? B-roll!” I’m pretty sure literal steam is pouring out of my ears, cartoon teakettle style, but the Devil keeps on staring at me like I’m the one who’s lost the plot. “Devlin! You’re naked! On my balcony! Where people can walk right by and see you! Where people are seeing you! Right this very minute!”
He sets the glass on the patio table and glances down at himself, at the people still lingering below, at the camera, at the whole freaking spectacle of it.
Then he just… shrugs.
Shrugs! With that stupid beautiful smile and freshly washed hair and eyes like sun-warmed tea and abs so perfect they have to be airbrushed.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” I demand.
“In my defense, Violet, it’s an unseasonably warm day and you told me to make myself at home.”
“Right. Because you often sit around the fires of Hell naked with a glass of wine in the middle of the day, holding court for the ladies?”
“Hell? Not since I was asked to leave. But in Los Angeles, yes, naked day-drinking is high on my go-to activities list, right up there with getting stoned with Finn, adult movie night, adult swim, and roaming from one room to the next without so much as a stitch of clothing to slow me down. In fact, when all this is over, you should visit the estate. I’d love to show you around, clothing optional, of course.”
Devlin’s energy shifts, his earlier excitement dimming.
Still trying to follow what might very well be the most insane conversation of my life, I finally process what he said. No, not the naked-romping-around-the-estate part. The earlier bit.
“Someone asked you to leave Hell?” I ask, my inner rage notching down from inferno to crackling bonfire. “But… who could do that? I thought you were large-and-in-charge down there.”
He clams up, a new feeling flooding his energy—one I’m quite familiar with.
Shame.
“Ugh! Long story, very boring, moving on.” Devlin downs the last of his wine and turns back to me with another smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The point being, yes, I have been known to appreciate the fruits of the vine in the nude, especially when I’m in the excellent company of beautiful women and good lighting and—oh, goodness! How utterly rude of me! I completely neglected to offer you a glass. Of your own wine, no less.” He laughs, shaking his head in self-admonishment. “No wonder you’re scolding me like an errant schoolboy caught masturbating in the teacher’s lounge.”
“What?”
With his typical fluid grace, he rises from the lounge chair, his glorious physique on full display—a display I can objectively appreciate as an objective appreciator of fine craftsmanship in general, which should always be appreciated, whether in the form of a marble sculpture, human being, immortal Devil or otherwise.
But still. Not appropriate. Whatsoever.
“Devlin!” I whisper-shout again, making a vague gesture toward the crowd.
“Oh, right! Wow, I’m really off my game today.” He waltzes over to the edge of the balcony, the view of his lower half thankfully shielded by a row of my potted lemon balm, and tosses down the rest of the roses. “Thank you all so much for popping by. I hope to see you all patronizing Kettle and Cauldron in the coming weeks!”
The adoring fans cheer and whistle and shout out their phone numbers. Someone launches something onto the balcony… pretty sure it’s a black lace bra, but I can’t bring myself to look too closely.
Because all I can see right now is the tattoo on his backside. The left side, specifically. Firm, rounded, and inked, impossible to miss.
I narrow my eyes and scrutinize, since that’s clearly what the situation calls for. “Is that a… a pitchfork?”
Devlin chuckles and turns to face me, still just airing it all out like nobody’s business. “Admiring my body art, are you?”
It takes me a minute to catch my breath again.
Is my blood sugar crashing? Do I need more tea? Why am I so light-headed?
Goddess damn it!
“Admiring?” I scoff, averting my eyes. “Hardly. It’s just impossible not to see it when you’re flashing it all around like a… a… a big flasher… guy. Who flashes everything.”
“As big flasher guys are wont to do.”
“I can’t believe you have a pitchfork tattooed on your butt cheek.”
“It’s ironic.”
“It’s tacky.”
“Fine line, Mushroom, and I’ve been known to walk it on more than one occasion. That in itself is a skill. Highly underrated, if you ask me, this line-walking business. In fact, I’m rather—”
“Inside.” Still not meeting his eyes, or any other part of his body, I jab my finger toward the apartment door. “Now.”
He huffs and puffs and waltzes into the apartment, pausing only to smile and pluck a bit of chamomile out of my hair before heading straight for the kitchen, where he proceeds to rifle through my pantry, cupboards, and fridge.
All without placing so much as a dishtowel over his dangling bits.
“You are literally a walking health code violation right now!” I follow him inside, Grumpy and Sunshine slinking in behind me because when it comes to the Devil's antics, somehow my formerly antisocial cats have come down with a case of FOMO and can’t leave his side. “I can’t believe you were out there naked in front of all those people!”
“Perhaps next time you’ll reconsider inviting me to observe at the tea shop. Which, by the way, is a thing I’ll need to do if I’m to help devise a plan to save it. And you. Goodness, what’s gotten into your hair?”
I shake out a bit more chamomile. “Just work on devising a plan for the money. Leave the day-to-day tea shop business to me.”
“The two are intricately bound, Mushroom. Just like us.” He grins again, then leans his hip against my kitchen counter and glances down at his fingernails, as if he’s contemplating a manicure. “Ah, fate. Such a cruel mistress, is she not? Anyway, back to this health code business—take a breath, love. This isn’t a restaurant. And thank the Devil for that, since you have not one appetizing thing to offer. No canapés, no caviar, not an imported cheese wedge in sight. Tell me. How are you not starving?”
“Sorry my palate isn’t as refined as yours. Next time I’ll be sure to have some gourmet options flown in from the coast, along with some pants, because for whatever reason you seem to be completely allergic to the ones you have!”
“Your palate isn’t the issue, nor is my lack of pants. The issue is your abject refusal to expand your mind and color outside the lines.”
“Really? Really?” My insides are boiling again, full steam ahead. “You want to see coloring outside the lines? Fine. Buckle up, buttercup. Here we freaking go.”
Without waiting for a reply, I stomp off to the spare room that houses the bulk of my non-tea witchy supplies and make a few selections. Bag of salt, black candles, matches, loaded pin cushion, athame, a scrap of black cotton, and a small obsidian bowl. I also grab the vinegar from the kitchen.
Back in the living room, with the naked-ass, tattooed-ass, obstinate-ass Devil watching me in amused silence, I yank the drapes closed and roll up the braided rug, revealing the bare hardwoods beneath. I draw a pentagram in salt, then place a candle at every point and light it. The obsidian bowl goes smack dab in the center.
Grumpy and Sunshine pad over to me, my familiars finally remembering that their mama exists, and together we sit in front of one of the candles.
“You,” I point at Devlin. “On the floor directly across from us.”
“Care to let me know what game we’re playing now?”
“The game where we banish you.”
Devlin nearly chokes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Olivy said we can’t reverse the spell, but maybe there’s a way to just… poof! Send you away. With a different spell. Like, a spell on top of a spell, not breaking the first spell, so it’s not cheating. Right? Right. Sit down, please.”
“I have questions, Mushroom. Many, many questions. Namely, how is an empathic tea witch going to banish the Devil? Isn’t that a bit of a stretch outside the ol’ comfort zone?”
“All witches have inherent magic for things like banishing, summoning, hexing, healing, growing, and manifesting. Depending on where our skills and talents lie, and how we’re raised, we’re naturally drawn to more specialized areas over time. Now sit down and give me your hand. Oh! I also need a lock of hair.”
“But where, exactly, are you banishing me to? And no, poof is not an acceptable answer.”
“Away. The exact GPS coordinates are not my concern.”
“Pardon me for prodding, but they’re very much mine.”
“If I send you away, and it works, that means our magical bind is broken. So from there, you’ll be free to return to… wherever. Now, sit down and give me that hand!”
His energy flares with worry, but he does as I ask, sitting across from me and stretching his hand out to the center of the salt pentagram. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Totally. Hold still—just a little prick.”
“That is a lie! Happy to give you another glimpse if you need proof of—”
“Do not move.” I grip his wrist, skin hot to the touch, and press the point of the athame to the center of his palm. A quick slice, and the blood wells up. I blot it with the black cloth and drop it into the bowl along with seven straight pins from the cushion.
“Now the hair,” I say, handing him the athame.
“No offense, mushroom, as I’m sure you’re a skilled witch in almost all endeavors, botched summoning spell and financial mismanagement notwithstanding, but… Isn’t the whole blood-and-banishing gig Olivy’s area of expertise?”
“I’ve seen her perform banishing rituals before, so I know the routine. And I’ve read a lot of books.” I’ve also watched a lot of Charmed and Supernatural, which are now serving as the basis for my dark-magic mojo, but Devlin doesn’t need to know that.
Reluctance mingles with the worry in his energy field, but again, he does as I ask, slicing off a small hank of hair and dropping it into the bowl.
I add the vinegar, filling it until the contents are completely submerged.
“Just close your eyes,” I tell him. “Take a few deep breaths and relax. And don’t make a sound until you’re gone.”
“Poof?”
“Poof.”
He holds my gaze another beat, brow furrowed, but finally, his eyes snap shut.
I strike another match. Take a few deep breaths of my own. And visualize a magical cord connecting us across the pentagram, then fraying, bit by bit until it’s completely severed and Devlin finally vanishes.
Holding the image in mind, I recite my spell:
I call on the darkness, I call on the night
I call on this magic to set things to rights
By salt and by fire, his blood shall now burn
Be gone from here, Devil—to home, you return!
On the final word, I drop the lit match into the bowl. It ignites at once, a red flame that spirals outward from the center, then explodes in a bright red starburst with a blast so intense it extinguishes the candles, blows away the salt, knocks me flat on my back, and sends the cats racing halfway up the drapes, clinging for dear life.
Red and black smoke fills the apartment but quickly dissipates, leaving behind the scent of candle wax and burned hair.
I wait for my heart to stop racing, my breathing to return to normal. After a few tense moments, the cats finally return to investigate, prodding me with curious noses and flicking tails and the general air of superiority cats have perfected over the ages.
“No worries, boys,” I say softly. “Mama’s A-okay. Did our banishing spell do the trick and send the mean ol’ Devil packing?”
I sit up slowly, hope rising quickly. A slight ringing in my ears makes it hard to focus, but there across the dim space…
A dark shape takes form.
Well, less of a dark shape, and more of a flesh-colored one. With shiny black hair and broad shoulders and a shamelessly wicked grin.
“Oh, no,” I whisper.
“Oh, yes. You know, Mushroom, far be it from me to hellsplain dark magic to a witch, but I’m fairly certain when you call upon the magic of the darkness and the night, it helps if you do it when it’s actually night. Furthermore, while I appreciate a fireworks show as much as the next bloke, I really am quite famished, and my glass has been empty for far too long.” He rises from the floor in a graceful movement that defies physics, dangling bits a-danglin’ in a way that does not defy physics, and heads back to the kitchen. “Let’s take another look at this paltry wine selection, shall we? See if you’ve got something that pairs well with the bitter taste of crushing disappointment.”