Chapter Fourteen
DEVLIN
If ever I believed my celebrity was a given, that the presence of my company was an experience for which people would offer up a firstborn child, the good folks of Pumpkinville have thoroughly disabused me of that notion.
Talk about a swift kick to the nether regions.
By the third day of my Kettle and Cauldron mascot-ship, the bloom has fallen off the rose. I’m no longer the sexy spectacle for the locals I once was—in fact, they’re all treating me as if I’m one of them, nothing to see here, moving right along, which is appalling on at least six different levels—and the tourists have flocked back to Mean Beans, leaving the café a veritable ghost town.
What’s worse, since I haven’t been posting on my own channels, the views and engagement metrics are down across the board, and Finn and Azazel are threatening to obliterate each other over party planning creative differences. If I have to field one more inquiry about wrangling live lawn flamingos…
“Fucking disaster,” I mutter, scrolling through the social media footage from last night’s event. My home is a mess (lawn flamingos left un-wrangled will do that), the guests leave much to be desired, and although I adore my best mate… Ugh. When it comes to playing the playboy host-with-the-most, there’s just no besting the original.
“I wouldn’t call it a disaster, exactly.” Violet flops onto the café couch next to me, her curls bouncing. “More like an apocalyptic wasteland.”
“I was speaking of something else, mushroom. The Kettle and Cauldron is neither disaster nor wasteland. Just a bit slow.”
“It was fun while it lasted, huh?” In the absence of human witnesses, she flicks her fingers toward the fireplace, calling the smoldering flames back to life. “I wish Mean Beans would disappear. I’ll never understand why places like that are so popular.”
“People are drawn to the comforts of sameness and predictability. At Mean Beans, they know what to expect, whether they’re halfway across the world or right in their own backyards.”
“That’s what’s so crazy to me. Why travel anywhere if you’re just going to do the same things you do at home? If I took a trip somewhere—even just one town over—I’d want to try all new foods, all new places, talk to new people.”
“Not everyone is as adventurous as you.”
“I’m the opposite of adventurous, which is why I don’t take many trips.” She laughs. “Not since I was a kid, anyway. Guess I like predictability in my old age too.”
“Says the woman who summoned the Devil.”
“Oh my goddess! Stop!” She gives me a playful smack on the thigh. “I told you! You were supposed to be a—”
“Pivot table, yes, I recall.”
“Not to brag, but I’m actually known as the spreadsheet queen among my sisters. When I’m not drinking, obviously. Just wait until I show you my inventory and budget sheets—prepare to be impressed.”
“I’m already impressed.” I wink and drain my third cup of tea of the day, each one even better than the last, improving my mood in ways that alcohol, orgies, and social media stardom never quite can. “Mean Beans is just a bump in the road. This tea is too divine to fail—mark my words.”
“I keep trying to tell myself that, too. But honestly?” Her face falls, the teasing sparkle dimming from her eyes. Even her curls seem to droop. “It’s not just the coffee chain, Devlin. I’ve been struggling to stay open for a long time now. Even if I tripled the business overnight and kept it steady for months, it wouldn’t be enough. For whatever reason, I don’t seem to have what the customers ultimately want. I don’t know… maybe my teas aren’t that special after all.”
“Do you really believe that? Wait, don’t answer.” I rise from the couch and extend a hand. “Time for an experiment.”
Her gaze narrows, but she takes my hand and allows me to lead her behind the counter.
“A request, if you please.” I turn toward the impressive wall of teas and spices behind us. “May I—just this once for demonstrative purposes only—fondle your canisters?”
“What? Why?”
That doesn’t sound like a no, exactly, so onward we march.
“I’d like to give this tea blending thing a whirl. Special brew, never before attempted in this realm or the next, it’ll be all the rage.” I grab the black tea and scan the shelves for some additional inspiration, ignoring her tut-tuts of protest. “Violet, be a dear and put the kettle on, will you?”
“Excuse me, sir. I don’t know how they did it in your time, way back before dinosaurs roamed the earth, but these days the craft of tea blending is a bit more involved than pouring a pot of water over some leaves.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, as my advanced, advanced age might be ushering in a bit of hearing and/or memory loss, but I could’ve sworn you just said your teas are, and I quote, ‘not that special after all.’ If that’s true, then it stands to reason any know-nothing twat off the street ought to be able to cobble together a brew, and here I am, far from a know-nothing, farther still from a twat. Now stand aside and let me work.”
She leans back against the counter, arms folded across her chest. “Point made.”
“Not yet. Put on the kettle.”
“Devlin, seriously.” She grabs the tea, tucks it back into its cubby. “Go back by the fire and relax. I’ve got this.”
“Really. You’ve got this.” I remove the tea once more, undeterred by her huffing and puffing. “Is that why you’ve had four customers in the last two hours, one of whom you didn’t even charge, despite the fact that he had tea and two muffins?”
“Mr. Moriarty is on a fixed income!”
“Keep it up and you’ll be on a zero income.”
She glares at me, nostrils flaring. I glare right back, letting my horns show, my irises glowing red.
The mushroom rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll allow this little experiment, but there are rules, Devlin.”
“Of course there are.”
“First, you need to wash your hands. With soap. And put on an apron. I don’t care how much it clashes with that expensive suit, either, which, by the way… Who wears a thousand-dollar suit to hang out in a tea café all day?” She reaches under the counter and fishes one out for me, which I dutifully tie around my hips, poor fashion statement be damned. “Oh, and be sure to put back each ingredient exactly where you found it, jars clean of smudges and debris, facing forwards.”
“Ten thousand-dollar suit, and are you, perchance, a Virgo?”
“And proud of it. So watch your tone, or I’ll put Mr. 10K Suit in a fifty-cent hairnet.”
“It’s dreadful of you to even suggest such a thing. Now please, for the last time, go put on the kettle.”
One more huff, another pointed glare, the stamp of a small but determined foot, and she’s off to the kitchen, leaving me to follow the whims of my muse.
Black tea, check. Pink Peppercorns… hmm. Fairly certain that’s the name of a woman Finn once dated, very keen on sharing as I recall, so we’ll toss some of those in as well. Dried cherries, grated ginger, oh yes this is going to be perfect. And, ah! How could I forget, king of all spices both magical and mundane, cinnamon!
“You’re getting fingerprints on the bottles!” she cries.
“I’ll polish them all once my masterpiece is complete.” I locate the cardamom pods, pop a few of those into the mix, then back to the cinnamon for another go.
“Devlin! You can’t just add things willy-nilly like that! You’re using too much cinnamon!”
“You know, you’re right. I should try the cayenne pepper instead.” I find the bottle and add copious amounts of that too. “When it comes to spice, more is always more, am I right?”
“No! You’re not right! You’re so not right, just standing next to you is giving me an anxiety attack!”
“Then take a few calming breaths and go stand over there.” I nod toward the exit. “Problem solved.”
“That’s it. We are done!” She marches to the front of the shop, peers out the window in both directions, sighs mightily, then locks the door and flips on the Be Back After Lunch! sign.
She’s clearly a witch on a mission, stomping back behind the counter and nudging me and my super-brew out of the way without so much as a word, grabbing teas and tinctures and herbs off the shelves, muttering spells and curses under her breath—hellspawn this, chain-breaker that—as she sprinkles and dashes and pours things into a fresh pot, working so fast a veritable dust cloud forms around her.
The kitchen kettle hasn’t yet boiled, and I watch in shocked silence as she pours the barely steamed water over the foulest-smelling concoction this side of the River Styx, her face blotchy with anger, curls trembling, lips still muttering who knows what.
Just as I’m beginning to fear the fumes alone will peel the paint from the walls, she gives it a swirl, strains it into a cup, and shoves it toward me.
“Drink this.”
I take a step back, hands up. “Never have I ever intentionally ingested something handed off by an angry, beautiful woman and preceded by the words, ‘drink this.’ Just a personal policy honed over centuries of hard lessons learned, thanks.”
She rolls her pretty blue eyes. “I’m not trying to poison you, Devlin. Just trying one more thing to break our invisible chains. Hail Mary, down the hatch.”
“Have we learned nothing from last night’s ill-informed dance on the dark side?”
“That was a banishing spell, which is not—admittedly—my forte. This is tea. Totally different situation.”
“I see.” I give the brew a tentative whiff—bad idea on my part. “And what is the name of this one, may I ask, and also, may I have a shot of something stronger to chase it?”
”Devil Be Gone. Smells awful, but ultimately harmless.” She flashes a wide smile, glasses slipping down her nose. “Just like you.”
“I’m far from smelly or harmless.” Holding my breath, I close my eyes and lift the mug to my lips. Down the hatch it goes, because for some reason I trust this witch, which is an entirely new level of fuckery I didn’t realize existed before today, yet here we are. Tea-brewing. Witch-trusting. What’s next? Doing good deeds? Giving up drinking? Going to church? Apparently, anything goes in the topsy-turvy world of Pumpkinville!
The brew slithers down my throat and settles uncomfortably in my stomach much in the same way I imagine straight battery acid would.
“Well?” she demands. “Anything?”
“Tell me I’ve vanished,” I say, eyes still closed. “Tell me I’m back in the bowels of Hell, for there’s no other reason such a culinary calamity should ever be endured.”
“Damn it.”
“I’m serious, mushroom. I feel as though I’ve spent the better part of the week licking a camel’s arsehole—an ill-advised trend I swore off for good after the dark ages.”
“Okay, first of all? You need therapy. Second of all… ugh. I need therapy too, because my tea didn’t work and you’re still here and now you’re talking about dark-age camel butts and I’m just in a very fragile state so if you don’t mind, I’d—”
The door chimes, and a male voice cuts through the bickering.
“Vi? You open, babe?”
What. In the ever-loving. Fuck.