Chapter Twenty-Two
DEVLIN
The Wayward Bay Town Hall is only a few blocks away, and we take it on foot, happily dodging even more goblin-face children who are as eager for candy as my own party guests are for their multi-colored pills, and now I understand how it all begins, peanut butter cups being the obvious gateway drug.
Inside, the rotunda has been transformed into a veritable All Hallow’s Eve extravaganza, vendors showcasing their wears, children and adults alike begging for candy at every turn, the Pumpkinville Pumpkin Spice Brigade once again doing their civic duty in vomiting up every sort of fall decoration imaginable. Pumpkins and ghosts. Bats and spiders. Cottony cobwebs and spooky flashing lights. Yet somehow, on this night, it all seems to work.
Arm-in-arm, my fairytale princess and I follow the tide of costumed witches and comic book heroes and zombies, from the ring-toss booth to the hot cider booth to the mulled wine booth—much better, that’s more like it. Then, past all the snacks and kids’ games, we spot a booth where you can paint your own mugs, which Violet is excited to try.
“Glaze for Days is right behind Kettle and Cauldron,” she says. “I’ve never even been in there. Should we give it a go?”
“I’ll paint one for you if you paint one for me.”
“Deal.” She beams at me, eyes sparkling behind the glasses. “But no peeking. I want mine to be a surprise.”
The proprietress—Ricci, if the name tag pinned to her black cat costume is anything to go by—hands us each an unglazed white mug and a small kit of paints and brushes, gesturing for us to take a seat at one of several hightop tables set up for this purpose. “Bring the mugs up front when you’re done. I’ll be firing them back at the shop—you can pick them up in a few days.”
“Thank you,” Violet says. “I’ve been wanting to try this place forever!”
“You’re Violet, aren’t you?” Ricci asks. “From Kettle and Cauldron? I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten a chance to pop in yet.”
“No worries.” Violet laughs. “I was just telling my friend Devlin the same thing—I’ve been meaning to check out your studio for ages, but I hardly ever leave my shop.”
“Story of my life.”
I shake the woman’s hand, compliment the costume. “Nice to get out from behind the counter for a change, is it not?”
“I’ve got one more hour at the booth, then I’m putting on my dancing shoes.” Ricci laughs, her cat whiskers wiggling. “Oh! Speaking of being an absolute workaholic… Violet, did you hear about the small business grant thing?”
Violet’s eyes light up. “Grant thing?”
“Apparently, the town council is trying to give local businesses a boost, so they’re starting up this whole Keep the Bay Beautiful for Business push. I heard Mayor Singh rehearsing her speech in the coat room—I guess she’ll be announcing it tonight.”
“Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag,” another woman says, coming up behind the cat in question. “I suppose I can let you girls in on the secret.”
“Mayor Singh!” Violet leans in for a quick hug. “You look stunning!”
“Oh, this old thing?” The woman, dressed like some sort of pumpkin queen, complete with tiara and scepter, fluffs her hair and smiles. “It all came together kind of last minute. Anyway, as Ricci said, we’ll be announcing more details later, but we’re teaming up with Remington Capital to award five grants to local businesses. $75,000 each! So keep an ear out, ladies. I’m expecting you both to apply.”
The mayor bestows blessings upon their heads with her scepter, then anoints me as well, her eyes roving me head to toe, lingering on the legs. Perhaps I should’ve worn stockings. Alas…
“Sir, can I just say,” she just says. “I love your costume! You know we celebrate all walks of life here. And love, in all its many forms. Good for you for speaking your personal truth! Brave and handsome. I’m just tickled.”
“Is she… hitting on me?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth to Violet.
“No, she’s just… pontificating. She does that.”
The mayor continues oohing and ahhing, posing for a few selfies with Violet and Ricci, then one with me and my legs, before finally leaving us to paint our mugs in peace.
I keep my word and avoid spying on Violet’s work-in-progress, but I can’t avoid spying on the mushroom herself, the way her nose scrunches up as she concentrates on the painting, the flush in her cheeks, her dark waves spilling over her shoulders.
Demon’s balls, what I wouldn’t give to kiss those shoulders. To press my lips to that soft, warm skin. To taste her. To peel off that dress and—
“Hey!” She looks up, catching me in the act. “We said no peeking!”
“I didn’t see a thing. I swear.”
“Then why are you staring at me like you just got busted with your hand in the cookie jar?”
Because I just got busted with a full-on erection under nothing but a scrap of silk and if I move too quickly I might sprain something vital…
“I was… wondering what you thought about the grant program. You haven’t said a word.”
She snorts, but it’s not the cute one that comes with her genuine laugh. This one is derisive. Disgusted, almost.
“I was all in until she mentioned Remington Capital.” Violet sets down her paintbrush and sighs. “That’s the bank Brandt’s family runs. They bill themselves as a small-business bank, but they’re impossible to work with. I’ve applied for loans with them in the past—before Brandt and I started dating, I mean. And I always got denied, no explanation given. Plus their credit card rates are ridiculous.”
“Unsurprisingly douchey, but that shouldn’t stop you from applying for a community-based grant.”
“No point. Brandt’s on the voting committee—that’s how these things work. Mayor Singh said it herself—his bank is putting up the cash. He’s not going to pick me.”
Now it’s my turn to snort. “Because you wouldn’t be his date for the ball?”
“That, and the fact that I was the one who broke up with him. He’s never forgiven me. No, not because he ever really cared about me. And no, not because he misses the sex. He was literally the worst at it.”
“Please don’t make me think about him naked, Mushroom. It’s just not good manners.”
“Sorry.” She picks up her brush for another go.
“So you wounded his pride, then. That’s it?”
“Oh, you should’ve heard him. ‘No one breaks up with Brandt Remington the Third! He breaks up with you!’ It was at last year’s ball, actually. We’d gone together, but he kept ignoring me for his investor buddies, and then he got super drunk and I overheard him telling them he was just stringing me along for a good time—that I wasn’t really serious girlfriend material.”
“Fucking imbecile.”
“I was basically done with him months earlier—just never worked up the nerve to end it. I didn’t want to hurt him. Well, that was the final straw. So, I pulled him aside and suggested we part ways—permanently—and he lost it. Literally chased me out into the courtyard, ranting and raving like a total idiot, making a huge scene. That’s when Emmie hit him with the powdered donuts.”
“I would’ve paid good money to see that show.”
“It was pretty epic. But now?” She shakes her head. “He’ll definitely vote me out of the running. But not before reveling in the fact that I need to apply for his stupid grant in the first place. He always told me Kettle and Cauldron was a waste of time and resources. Tea is boring—he actually said that to me. Can you believe it?”
“Mushroom, that man wouldn’t know excitement if it crawled up his arse and licked him from the inside out. The fact that you need to apply only proves you’re already a successful businesswoman. You just need a bit of capital to get to the next level. This isn’t the sort of thing a so-called boring waster of time and resources does for herself.” I put the finishing touch on my mug, then drop the brush into a cup of rinse water. “Mortal life is far too short to let a useless cunt like Remington make you doubt yourself. Pardon the crass term, but it’s fitting.”
“Agreed. Also, mollusk,” she says with an adorable smirk. “In my head, I call him the mollusk.”
“Even more fitting.”
Finished with our masterpieces, we’ve just turned our mugs over to Ricci when we’re surrounded and dragged to the dance floor by a trio of green-faced cackling witches, all dressed in the traditional pointy black hats and the slightly less traditional scandalous black dresses.
“Lovely to see you again, Joslyn,” I say, kissing her and the others in turn. “Althea. Lorelei. My word, I’ve never seen such breathtakingly beautiful witches.”
“Stop flirting with me, Devlin.” Joslyn gives my backside a smack, then a firm squeeze—much stronger grip than I gave her credit for, that one. “We’ll make the kids jealous.”
“We’re always jealous of you, Aunt Jos.” This from Emmie, who sweeps into our gathering in an adorable bumblebee costume, followed by two other women—a zombie nurse and a dragonfly, respectively. Finally, last in line, dressed like some sort of goth vampire, which is actually not so far off from her usual attire, my dear friend Olivy.
All of them are staring expectantly at me and Violet.
“Okay, so you’ve already met the aunts and half the sisters.” Violet loops her arm through mine. “But the zombie nurse is my sister Fiona. Darla’s the dragonfly.”
“Ah, the psychic and the writer,” I say. “A pleasure to finally meet you both.”
“You are sooo going in a book,” Darla says, plucking a pen out of her hair, which Violet quickly steals.
“No, he isn’t.” Violet drops the pen into the bag of a passing trick-or-treater. “Best not to mess with fate on this one, Dar.” Then, to me, “My sister’s stories have a tendency to come true, but not always in the way she writes them.”
“Literary magic leaves a lot open for interpretation,” Darla confirms. “The muse is fickle sometimes.”
“I wouldn’t mind being written into a story,” I say. “Especially if it involves hay lofts and—”
“Hey!” Violet smacks me.
“Exactly. Hay, and—”
“I mean, hey, you’re not allowed to talk about Ambrosia Divine anymore. We had a deal, remember?”
Fiona laughs, then leans over and whispers something to Olivy, who nods and says, “Check your crystal ball if you want, but I called it on day one. These two are definitely going to—”
“Olivy!” Violet glares at her sister, then takes my hand, leading me away. “Let’s dance. Quick, before one of my sisters says something she shouldn’t. Looking at you, Ols.”
“You can run,” Olivy says with a dark chuckle that would frighten most demons, “but you can’t hide! Oh, Devlin, that reminds me. Someone was looking for you earlier.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t catch his name on account of me not being your secretary, but… Hot demon guy? Dark hair, green eyes—”
“Finn?”
“Maybe? He said he tried the café first, but you weren’t there, then the liquor store, same deal, so he followed the crowd here.”
“Where is he?” I scan the scene, but there’s no sign of my best mate.
“Portaled out through the men’s room—super classy. Said he couldn’t wait—he had somewhere more important to be than, and I quote, Hallmark Halloween Central. So I told him to go fuck himself, to which he said, ‘Or what?’ And I said, ‘or I’ll dip you in wax and light your dick like a birthday candle.’”
I roll my eyes. “Who hurt you, Olivy? Goodness, the threats. Honestly.”
“Your friend didn’t take it as a threat. He asked me to marry him, actually.” She laughs. “Sick fuck.”
“Yes, that’s definitely Finn. So when’s the big day?”
“Two weeks from never. Anyway, he asked me to tell you that you’ve got eighty-seven left, whatever that means. I assume brain cells.”
“You’re a gem, Olivy. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Has anyone ever told you to jump into a pit of boiling tar naked?” she asks sweetly. “Oh, and check your fucking phone. That’s him saying it, not me.”
I left my phone at the café on account of having no pockets tonight and no interest in getting creative with my personal carryons like my footballer guest from long ago, but no matter. If Finn says we’ve got eighty-seven left—souls, obviously—that means he doesn’t need me weighing in on tonight’s affairs anyway. Surely, he and Azazel will get the job done at our infamous Halloween bash.
Which means—if all goes according to plan—as soon as Violet and I finish our task in the Bay, I’ll be truly free. Free from my father’s endless punishment. Free to reclaim my throne. Free to go home.
Home.
I’ve wanted it for so long, so desperately, but now the very word feels foreign in my mind, like a language I once spoke but somehow forgot along the way.
I glance around the rotunda, at the gaudy decor, at the masquerading masses, all of them laughing and smiling, waving at me, complementing my costume, and my throat tightens.
Hell doesn’t even have pumpkins. Or ghosts and bats and cotton cobwebs. And it certainly doesn’t have these friendly, cheerful, incorruptible people, or costume parties in general, or donuts and cider and mulled wine.
And worst of all, it doesn’t have the tea witch. My fairy princess. My sweet, sexy, fiery little mushroom, dancing her awkward dance, laughing with her sisters and aunts, the music casting its spell over us all.
The tempo picks up, bass thumping, and I grab her hands and spin her around, losing track of time and space and everything but the sound of her laugh, the flutter of her fairy wings, the happy din of her sisters and aunts and friends. I grab her for another twirl, only to be tapped on the shoulder by a rude, insistent finger.
“May I cut in?” the man asks, and I turn to glare.
If it isn’t Twenty Watt Dildo, third of his name, popping up again like a rash that no amount of penicillin will cure.
“Thanks, but you’re not my type.” I wink at Brandt and whisk a giggling Violet away, spin her around and weave deeper into the crowd as one song bleeds into the next, then another, and soon I’ve lost count, foot-stomping and hand-clapping with her sisters and then the gents from the Saints and Sinners liquor store, an appearance from Ricci from the pottery place, everyone having a genuinely good time I wouldn’t have thought possible with the massive amount of clothing and non-alcoholic beverages in the room.
Who knew?
But then, all at once, the music changes. A slow song floats on the air, old and bluesy, dispersing most of the dancers and leaving just a few couples behind.
Tucking her hair behind her ears, Violet smiles up at me. Hopeful. Beautiful.
“Dance?” I blurt out, because apparently I’ve lost my ability to speak in complete sentences again. “That is, would you like to? I mean, I realize we have been dancing, for quite a while, but I meant… Would you like to dance with me? Just us? For this song, specifically?”
Violet’s laughing again—a definite yes. With a relieved sigh, I sweep her into my arms and draw her close, one hand holding hers, the other resting on the small of her back beneath the fairy wings, leading her into a gentle sway.
“Fair warning,” she whispers, her cheeks pink. “I’m the worst dancer.”
“Literally not possible. The record for the worst dancer is held by a gentleman named Caronius from the thirteenth century, who once started a war when he danced himself right off a cliff and dashed his brains on the rocks below, which turned out to be the private beachfront property of his family’s mortal enemies, who happened to command their own navy. So take heart, mushroom. And know that if any wars are waged on account of your footwork tonight, I’ll defend you to the bitter end.”
That laugh again. The snort at the end. The follow-up apology laugh. “Thankfully, there’s no cliff nearby, but I’ve stepped on your toes at least ten times already.”
“You’re just getting a bit too far in your head about it.” I spin her once, then bring her back to me, closer than before. “I can see it in your eyes, love. The way you fixate on some point in the distance, your smile locked into place as if it’s been painted on.”
“Painted on?”
“Quite beautifully, of course. Just… not your real smile. You’re too nervous you’ll make a misstep and—merciful heavens!” I tease. “What will the good people of Wayward Bay think if they discover their resident tea maven can’t dance? Won’t someone consider the children?”
“Says the man wearing women’s lingerie that barely covers his junk.”
“The point remains.” I spin her around again, dip her nearly to the ground, then bring her right back. The couple beside us claps, and Violet smiles again, a bit breathless, her cheeks that lovely shade of crimson that’s come to haunt my dreams. And my showers. “Close your eyes,” I whisper into her hair. “And just… just feel it. The soul of the music has its own mysterious language. You just have to open yourself to it.”
She groans but does as I ask, closing her eyes and resting her cheek against my chest, one hand on my shoulder, the other clasped in mine, and we continue our dance.
And my utter downfall. I knew it was coming. From that very first night under the street lamps, when I gazed into her eyes and made her laugh for the first time.
Tonight, she’s softness and light and magic in my arms, an angel who’s got no business dancing with the Devil, yet here we are, gliding across the dance floor in our own little world while the rest of the rotunda fades away. Right now, I’m aware of nothing but Violet, every detail in sharp relief, every nuance, every shade of color that paints her. The slight halo of frizz puffing out from her loose curls, tickling my nose as I breathe her in. The lemon-coconut scent of her hair. Her small hand on my shoulder, two fingers tapping out the beat of the music, as if she’s afraid she’ll lose count and miss that oh-so-crucial step. The swish of her dress as she follows my lead, slowly but surely losing herself to the soul of the music, just as I promised.
I’m so wholly captivated I don’t even realize she’s speaking until she stops dancing.
“I think the song ended,” she says softly, blinking up at me, flushed and happy. Breathtaking.
“I think…” I look around, see the other couples breaking apart. “Right. The song.”
The scent of burned sugar and bourbon drifts through the air, and once again her magic envelops me. Entrances me. She entrances me. I’m utterly spellbound, no more able to walk away from this than I can walk away from the task of unlocking her heart’s desire.
“Mushroom?” I curl a finger beneath her chin, gently tipping her face toward mine, our mouths so close I can taste the apple cider clinging to her breath. “I regret to inform you that despite our prior agreement, I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to kiss you.”
A soft gasp. The quickening of the pulse at her throat. The blush I love so much, a deeper shade of crimson, lovelier than the last.
“You do?” she whispers.
“Indeed.”
“Well. Since we’re confessing things.” She swallows hard, eyes glittering beneath the flashing lights. “Despite the agreement, I’m… suddenly feeling an overwhelming need to be kissed by you.”
My heart kicks into my throat. Throbs. Makes other things throb. “An odd coincidence indeed.”
“Maybe we can work something out?”
“I was thinking that as well, but I’m not sure what. We said this wasn’t a date.”
She nods vigorously, her wings fluttering. “We swore it.”
“What do you suppose we should do about this terrible conundrum, then?”
“The veil is thin, right? So maybe we go for it? I mean, it’s almost like it won’t count.”
“What happens behind the veil stays behind the veil, that’s my motto.”
“An excellent one at that.”
“Mushroom?”
“Yes?”
“Less talking, more kissing?”
“Also an excellent motto. Actually, I like that one better than the what happens behind the veil one, because—”
I cut her off with a kiss, the rest of her words evaporating as she sighs against my lips, her hands twining into my hair, body melting into my embrace.
The taste of her, the silken heat, the feel of her in my arms… I’m gone.
Another soft sigh, and she parts her lips for me and deepens our kiss, the apple cider sweet on her tongue as I lick and nibble and tease. A red-hot spark of desire sizzles down my spine and I pull her closer, my mind swimming, my cock already aching for more, the scent of her magic intensifying as I lose myself completely to this moment, the forbidden kiss I was never supposed to want.
It takes me far too long to hear the thunderous applause, and for a moment I think maybe it’s for us. But when I open my eyes, I spot the Pumkinville Mayor sashaying onto the stage, waving to the crowd with her scepter.
The moment pops like a soap bubble. Violet pulls away, looking up at me with dazed eyes and puffy lips, her breathing ragged, glasses askew.
“Thank you all so much for joining us at our seventy-fifth annual Halloween Ball and Shop Crawl!” Mayor Singh begins, and I turn back to the stage in a daze, watching her toss handfuls of candy to the bouncing, squealing children below. The crowd cheers and whistles, and then, all at once, I’m yanked by the invisible leash.
Violet.
She’s gone.
I whirl around and spot her beelining for the exit, the limitations of our magical bond forgotten in her haste to escape, leaving me no choice but to run after her, heart pounding, hard-on bobbing beneath the silk like a dinghy on a storm-tossed sea.