Chapter Twelve
DEVLIN
An hour later, the bitter taste of crushing disappointment is eclipsed by the sweet-and-spicy deliciousness of a bucket of hot wings and a barbecued ham-and-pineapple pizza (yes, pineapple absolutely does belong on a pizza, I shall die on this hill, and this particular pie is doing the goddess’ work in redeeming the town of Pumpkinville as a quality establishment in my eyes).
After excavating a halfway decent Cabernet from an old holiday gift basket, we load up two plates and settle in side-by-side on her living room couch, me in my favorite black silk pajama pants and smoking jacket (me being fond of the finer things), Violet in an oversized sweatshirt featuring a gnome picking dandelions (her being fond of the woodland realms).
It happens so naturally, this sitting side-by-side thing, it almost feels like we’ve been doing it for years. Like we’re one of those adorably sickening couples who have things like “pizza night” and “our show” and trade food from each other’s plates—you can have my olives, I’ll take your extra pickle, save the extra sauce for me.
I dare say it’s almost nice. If the Devil were allowed to want nice things of the sort money can’t buy, which I’m not. And don’t. Ever.
Anyway.
Midway through the pizza and the television episode both, I chance a quick glance at her, surprised to find she’s already watching me. Assessing, in that curious way of hers. Wild auburn curls falling out of the bun to frame her face, the enormous glasses magnifying all the shades of blue in her eyes.
The sudden desire to hug her is strong and nearly overpowering, which is obviously not something I can act on, nice things not falling within the Devil's purview, see above.
I return my attention to the pizza, peeling off a pineapple ring and popping it into my mouth. “I’m sorry the spell didn’t work. For what it’s worth, I really believed you’d be rid of me tonight.”
Violet sighs her cute sigh, shoulders slumping. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, however misplaced it may be.”
“Faith in your abilities is never misplaced. Just because it didn’t work out this time doesn’t mean you don’t have the skill or talent.”
Her cheeks darken, the hint of a smile playing on her lips, but I can tell she’s still out of sorts. Still sad, her small frame swimming in her too-big sweatshirt, hot sauce staining the corner of her mouth, chamomile flowers clinging tenaciously to her hair.
Plucking another one loose, I say softly, “You claim your heart’s desire is to save Kettle and Cauldron. Is that all you wish for? Truly?”
She sighs again, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. I resist the urge to smooth it away with my thumb.
“It’s the only thing I’ve got that’s all mine,” she says, emotion filling her eyes. “My dream, my sweat equity, my magic. The money I’ve invested so far, for all the good it did. I know I made some big missteps, got in way over my head. But I just… I can’t lose this, Devlin. The Kettle and Cauldron… it’s everything to me.”
I reach for my wine, give it a swirl. Down it. Conversations like this… I’m not used to them. The honesty. The vulnerability.
I’ve spent the last several centuries doing my damndest to encourage people to give in to their baser instincts. To follow their darkest urges right off the cliff, straight into the fires of Hell.
Because my father made it a condition of my return. Because I’m good at it. Because some dark, depraved part of me fucking revels in it.
Then a witch ensnares me in her trap—accidental, sure, but absolutely grounds for a good smiting. Yet somehow, all I can think about is helping her. Not because I’m bound to it, not because I’m getting something out of it, not because it brings me some twisted sense of pleasure.
But because I genuinely want to.
“If I’m to help you do this,” I say now, forcing myself to meet her eyes, to see the pain and hope in them and not shrink away from either, “without my Hell magic or influence, as your sister instructed us, I need to understand what we’re dealing with. I need to see you at work, Violet. You can’t just lock me away upstairs and hope for the best.”
A smile finally dawns. “Clearly that was not the best, as you so demonstrated with your naked day-drinking victory speech.”
“Not the best? The ladies of Wayward Bay would beg to differ.”
“At least one of them will be begging for a new bra. Lingerie is not cheap.”
“I’m well aware.”
The wrinkle appears once more, and Violet rises from the couch, heading into the kitchen for another slice. She returns with one for me as well, takes her seat, and un-pauses the show.
At the end of the episode, she finally turns to me and says, “Here’s the deal. You can hang out at the shop and take a few notes, maybe give me some pointers. From a safe, non-distracting, non-annoying distance.”
“Excellent. I’ll be on my very best behavior.”
“Fully clothed,” she hastens to add, which is smart on her part, loopholes being the Devil's love language. “And before you even ask? No, leather chaps don’t count as fully clothed. Same for gray sweatpants.”
“What? They’re both perfectly—”
“Fully. Clothed.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll have Finn portal in with some additional selections from my wardrobe.”
“Normal selections,” she says, gesturing at my current ensemble. “Not this creepy-old-man-lurking-about-the-billiards-room getup you’ve got going on here.”
“Excuse me, but this is imported silk from—”
“No cameras, no lighting, no social media.”
“Cut off my right arm, why don’t you?”
“There will also be no touching or rearranging of my ingredients. They need to stay in their appointed receptacles on their designated shelves at all times, to be removed and distributed only by me as needed.”
“No touching your jugs—I mean, your appointed receptacles. Got it.”
“And no critiquing my tea blends or playlists.”
I raise my hands in surrender.
“And above all else,” she states firmly, eyes blazing, “no fraternizing with the customers.”
“Not even a friendly hello?”
“No. Especially not a friendly hello. I’ve seen your version of a friendly hello, and I have no interest in starting a catch-and-release program for renegade fangirl bras.”
“You really are quite the stickler.” I steal the last chicken wing from her plate—a well-deserved bit of thievery, in my opinion. “Well, I can’t promise I won’t greet the customers, Violet. They’ll be expecting me after my balcony announcement today. But I can promise I’ll keep it all above board.”
“Fine.”
“Is that all, then?”
“For now. But I reserve the right to amend the list at any time without notice.”
I blow out a breath, cheeks puffing. “Is there a handbook? I feel like there should be a handbook.”
“Devlin, I’m not in the mood—”
“You’ve got a lot of rules, is what I’m saying. I prefer not to get written up on my first day on the job. Sets a bad tone for the whole relationship, don’t you think?”
“If you can’t take this seriously, the deal is off.”
“Oh, I’m quite serious. As you recall, I’m as desperate to get back to Los Angeles as you are to make me go poof, neither of which can happen until we save your café. Any shenanigans at this stage would be akin to mutually assured destruction.” I gnaw the wing down to the bone and toss the spent carcass on my plate. Then, spreading my hands like the little mushroom just scored the deal of the century, I say, “You won’t even know I’m there.”