Chapter Twenty-Seven
DEVLIN
As soon as she exits the conference room, I know the news isn’t good. The defeated look in her eyes says it all.
My heart sinks, and all I want to do is storm into that room and blast the entire committee to Hell, but I can’t, because Violet’s already marching off toward the exit.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says when we get into the car, slipping off her borrowed heels and tossing them into the backseat.
“Understood,” I reply, though it kills me not to ask what happened, not to demand the names and addresses of all those responsible for dimming the light from her eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”
Sever a few heads? Display them on pikes as a warning to all who dare cross you again?
She shakes her head, curls falling out of the twist, every one of them breaking my heart.
And securing a few new spots in Hell for those committee members…
Back at Kettle and Cauldron, Violet puts on a bland smile for her sister, giving a few tight-lipped, one-word responses to Emmie’s inquiries about the presentation before scooting upstairs to change clothes.
Fifteen minutes later she returns, dressed in the familiar overalls and a long-sleeved shirt covered in teapots and biscuits, her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder.
“Feeling any better?” I ask.
“No. But at least I’m not feeling hopeless and wearing pantyhose, so… win?” She heads back behind the counter to relieve Emmie and gets right to work—grating ginger and cinnamon, chopping mint, crushing one thing or another.
Across the street, the ongoing Mean Beans crowd has finally begun to thin. We haven’t seen lines in days, and sure enough, the tea business is ticking back up. Today, a somewhat steady stream of customers keeps us both busy—Violet preparing her magical brews, me clearing tables and sweeping floors and generally trying to keep busy, lest I fly into a murderous rage and burn something down.
Still, not even the slow-drip return of her regulars is enough to brighten her spirits today, and when the last customer of the evening finally heads out, Violet locks the door and turns off the main lights, tosses her apron into the wash pile, and drops onto the couch with a sigh that could sink ships.
Giving her a moment to regroup, I step behind the counter and brew her a cup of chamomile tea—one ingredient, hard to mess up—because seeing her in pain and knowing there’s nothing I can do about it is a torment so brutal even the King of Hell can scarcely endure it.
“If you’d like to be alone, I’ll leave you to it.” I hand her the cup and saucer. “But I’m here if you’d like to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about? If you looked up ‘epic disaster’ in the dictionary, it wouldn’t even mention my name. That should give you a clue.” She sips the tea. Sets the cup back in the saucer, china clinking and trembling until she finally gives up and abandons it on the side table. “You might be tempted to try ‘hot mess express,’ or ‘human wrecking ball,’ or ‘pathetic failure playing the sad trombone,’ but you won’t find it there, either. In fact, you won’t find it anywhere, in any dictionary, online or off, slang or classic. Why? Because they haven’t actually invented a phrase to encompass the complete and utter shitshow that Violet Pepperdine performed at that presentation today.”
“Oh, Violet.” I sit next to her, drawing her feet into my lap. “I’m so sorry, love.”
“I totally bombed,” she continues. “All the slides, all the facts and figures, my colored pie charts… and all I got was a no. A big, fat, irreversible no with a side of better-luck-next-time and a don’t-let-the-door-hit-ya-where-the-good-goddess-split-ya garnish. I can’t believe they didn’t ban me from ever stepping foot inside the Town Hall again. It was that bad.”
I know she’s upset, but… None of this makes any sense. Sure, I expected her to be nervous. A bit shy at first, maybe. But this is her dream. Her passion. She knows the tea business better than anyone, and she knows how to talk about it, no matter who’s in the room.
“Did they actually tell you Kettle and Cauldron is out of the running? They’re still hearing pitches, aren’t they? I thought they weren’t supposed to announce winners for another week or two.”
“They didn’t have to tell me. I could read it in their energy, Devlin. They were completely disinterested. And Brandt?” She shakes her head, teeth clenching. “That smug bastard. As I was gathering up my things, he had the nerve to offer me a fifty-dollar bonus if I opened up a new business checking account at his bank!”
Remind me to get that rotisserie fire and pole ready for him…
“That wasn’t even the worst part. I was in such a rush this morning, somehow I tossed Mr. Wiggles into my purse with my makeup. Well, he must’ve felt left out, because he gave everyone quite a show.” She tells me the rest of the story, a blush creeping up her neck that darkens a bit more at every turn of the tale, right up to its tragic end. “Maybe I’ll be able to laugh about it one day, but today is not that day.”
“Surely they didn’t turn you down because of a haunted vibrator. That’s grounds for a discrimination suit or… something.”
That something being me shaving Brandt Remington from head to toe, tarring and feathering him, parading him down Main Street, and then—finally, dreams really do come true!—roasting him alive.
“I told them it was my phone.” She reaches for the abandoned chamomile and scoffs. “Pretty sure Brandt Remington the Third has never even seen a vibrator. It’s like you said—that man wouldn’t know a good time if someone literally shoved it up his ass. He’d probably think it was some newfangled at-home proctological exam and thank me for being so concerned about his preventive health screenings.” She sips the tea. Rolls her eyes. “Great. Now I’m thinking about that puckered asshole’s puckered asshole. Could this night get any worse?”
“Not anymore. We’ve hit a new low. But getting back to the disaster with the vibrator—”
“It wasn’t just the vibrator, Devlin.” She gazes into her teacup, shoulders sagging. “Even before Mr. Wiggles crashed the party, I was already toast. I blew it five minutes in. It was like they’d already made up their minds about me before I even queued up the first slide. I should’ve known better than to think I could compete with Brandt’s ego.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’ve already phoned in his reservations to Hell. Presidential suite. Very nice accommodations.”
At this, she finally cracks a smile. “I appreciate you trying to cheer me up.”
“Oh, that wasn’t the cheering-up portion of the show. That was just an FYI.” I wink at her and rise from the couch. “But I do have something that will cheer you up if you’re game. Two somethings, actually. Sit tight.”
I retrieve the box from under the counter and reclaim my seat next to her. “First thing: Ricci dropped off our mugs while you were upstairs changing.”
Her eyes light up—victory at last—and her grin stretches wide—double victory. “You didn’t peek at them, did you?”
“No. I wanted us to open them together.” I pop open the lid. The mugs are wrapped in white tissue, and I peer beneath an edge to find mine, then pass it over. “For you, mushroom. I fully expect you to display it up front. No relegating me to a dusty shelf in the kitchen.”
“None of my shelves are dusty. But it’s a deal. Front row placement at all times.” She unwraps the paper to reveal my masterpiece—a white mug painted with the Devil’s horns and tail swishing over the words, The Devil Made Me Brew It. Inside, I’ve left her a tiny black pitchfork.
“Aww. Now that is quite… cheeky.” Violet wriggles her eyebrows. “Get it? Cheeky?”
“Oh, I get it. As will you, if you insist on being cute.”
She laughs. Miracle of miracles. Then, “Thank you, Devlin. I love it. It’s not going on a shelf ever—I’m going to use it every single day. Now open yours.”
I tear into the paper, unwrapping a mug painted inside and out with her signature red-capped polka-dotted mushrooms. It’s thoughtful and adorable and for some reason brings tears to my eyes, which I quickly blink away.
“Just a little something to remember me by,” she says softly. “When you’re home, I mean. If you even drink tea at home. It’s… it’s silly. I’m sorry. I know I’m—”
“It’s not silly, Violet.” I finally meet her gaze. “It’s lovely. Truly lovely.”
Heat floods my chest, racing through my veins. Suddenly, there’s so much more I want to tell her—that no one has ever given me a gift so freely, without expectation, without strings attached. That I don’t need a mug to remember her by, but in the thirty seconds since I’ve opened it, it’s already become my most cherished possession.
That some small, insistent voice inside me is growing louder by the day, shouting down the terrifying truth I can’t seem to face:
I don’t want to go back home. I don’t want to leave her.
Violet’s eyes shine with intensity, her lips parting in a gasp, and I realize she can sense my emotions. That in letting my guard down, I’ve already revealed so much more than I meant to. Than I should have.
“Devlin.” She reaches for my hand. “I didn’t—”
“Oh, but we’re not done yet!” I blurt out, forcing myself to shore up my walls. Plaster on the smile. Get this show back on the road, post-haste, before I say something that dooms us both. “The mugs were just the first thing on the cheering-up agenda, and I promised two.”
Violet sighs, and I don’t have to be an empath to feel her disappointment. “You don’t have to keep—”
“Oh, but I do.” I retrieve my phone, queuing up a video from a particularly crazy party last summer. “Here. Watch this.”
I tap the play button and hand it over.
Violet sighs again, but ultimately turns her attention to the video. I see it all unfolding, reflected in her glasses—a memory come to life. Me, Finn, Azazel, the foyer full of ridiculous people.
The horse.
“See?” I lean in to watch over her shoulder. “And this is just the tip of the mortification iceberg. I’ve been making a fool of myself for an audience for longer than you’ve been alive, and I promise you, your botched performance was not as bad as you believe. From this day forward, whenever you’re in doubt, I want you to think back to this very special video of the Devil himself riding a horse through the middle of a crowded foyer wearing nothing but a cape and a silver g-string, launching himself into the infinity pool over a burning pyre, and remember… it could always be worse.”
The momentary heaviness that fell between us dissipates in the wake of her laughter. “You’ve definitely set a new bar.”
“A low bar.”
“Basement, if I’m being honest. Sub-basement. Although, you do look pretty cute wearing almost nothing.”
“No lies detected.”
“I’m still not a huge fan of the pitchfork, though.”
“Lies!” I pull her close, snuggling her against my chest and kissing the top of her head. “You love the pitchfork. You’ve loved it from the very start.”
Violet continues scrolling through my greatest hits, laughing at some of them, gasping at most of them. But when she finally returns my phone, the light in her eyes has dimmed.
“That was supposed to cheer you up, mushroom. Why are you not cheered? Do I need to further lower the bar? Because I’ve got more. Lots more. Sub-sub-sub basement more.”
She tries to smile, but it’s pained, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft and sad and full of regret. “It’s just… kind of hitting me.”
“What is?”
“That I took you away from all this. I had one bad night, got drunk, and cast a spell that stole you away from… from everything. Finn and all your friends, all these beautiful, glamorous people, the gorgeous house and the parties and… goddess, Devlin. I had no idea this was your life.”
“No one has any idea,” I say softly. “Because this isn’t my life, Violet. It’s merely the face I present to the world. The show I’ve been putting on in one form or another for centuries.” I scroll through the recent videos again, see myself in all of them—surrounded by drunken revelers, laughing and hollering, all in various states of debauchery, all having the times of their lives, drinking away their nights as if they have an eternity of them to go through. As if they’re not heading straight for Hell.
But nothing about it feels familiar anymore. It’s as if I’m watching someone else play the part. Someone I’ve never before seen and have no interest in meeting, letting alone being.
“Devlin?” Violet lifts her head from my chest, peering up at me over her glasses, her hand on my heart. “What’s wrong?”
I smooth back the hair that’s fallen into her eyes. “Tell me what you feel.”
“Regret.”
“Regret,” I echo, my voice heavy with it. With an honesty I’ve never once shared, never once been comfortable revealing. “It’s a strange thing to be surrounded by people, yet feel so desperately alone, you wonder if you might literally disappear. Or worse—if you already have.”
The fire pops, casting us in a bright glow. Violet gets to her knees beside me and reaches for my face, her palms warm on my cheeks, tears glittering in her sapphire-blue eyes.
“I see you, Devlin,” she whispers. “I won’t let you disappear.”
And there, in those words, in the depth of understanding in her eyes, in the silence of the night and the soft warmth of the fire, it hits me—one more truth I can’t escape.
I’m bloody well in love with this woman.