Chapter Thirty-Three
VIOLET
Wrapped in a fleece blanket on the purple velvet couch, my café closed for the night, no company but the two goofball cats whose love and loyalty never wavers, I finally let myself have a good cry.
About all of it. My crushing debt. The eviction letter from Nathan, his impossible deadline mere days away. The small business grant, lost and won and lost again, because I’ve got no choice but to refuse it.
But mostly, I cry for Devlin. My dark prince. My unexpected champion.
Summoned, spellbound, and then…
Poof, just like my dreams.
The pity party is pathetic and endless, not even a cake to cry into, my exhaustion so complete I start to wonder if I’ll ever be able to get up off this couch again. I’m stuck in the same spot for so long I watch the sky change from sunset to moonrise to sunrise, golden morning light filtering through the nearly bare trees outside, a cardinal tapping on the front window.
The fire has burned down to embers, and I raise a lazy hand and call it back to life, staring into the flames until they’re nothing but a blur.
Get up, Violet.
But I can’t.
“I don’t know where to go from here,” I whisper, the admission eating through my chest. My heart.
Losing my shop feels like a failure.
Losing Devlin feels like death.
My heart is broken, my dreams shattered, and the worst part of it is I still miss him.
Am I enraged that he went behind my back, that he undermined my efforts with dark magic and threats, that he truly didn’t think I could earn the grant on my own after making me believe I could, that he didn’t have the courage or respect to tell me about what he and Olivy found before he went after Brandt? Hell yes.
But… goddess. Devlin literally changed my life. Inspired me to be wild and spontaneous and a little reckless, too. Showed me that I could break out of my hyper-perfectionist prison and do something crazy, like…
Like stand up to my ex and slow dance in front of the entire town at the Haunted Halloween Ball.
Like go before a committee that included said ex and prove to them that yes, my tea shop is amazing, that it deserves their investment.
Like keep on trucking, all the way to the end of a disastrous presentation, despite the unintentional sabotage of a haunted vibrator.
Like fall in love with the Devil himself, and believe—for a little while—that the Devil could love me right back.
Oh, Devlin…
He was right. I see that. About so many things. Me, getting in my own way. Losing sight of my so-called why—the spark behind everything I do. Turning my passion into a job and forgetting that it’s actually what I love to do more than anything.
Forgetting that no matter what happens to the physical shop, no one can take my magic away. My inspiration. My love and talent for tea blending that started with a kind, beautiful, ass-kicking grandmother who loved me fiercely and taught me how to turn my personal magic into a gift I could share with the world.
A lone butterfly swirls through my stomach, and I smile. I actually smile.
Maybe Devlin and I failed in our mission to save Kettle and Cauldron—Hell, maybe it was doomed from the get-go. Maybe we were doomed. I mean, come on. Mixing mojitos and magic? Drunk-summoning the prince of darkness with a spreadsheet? Not exactly laying the bedrock of a lasting relationship.
But that doesn’t mean I need to spend my final days as the proprietress of Kettle and Cauldron sacked out on the couch, crying into my tea leaves over a lost dream and a lost love.
You ruined it for us, chimes in the Downtown Pep Squad, still reeling from her own terrible loss. We could have had it all, but—
“You shut up.”
You’re the reason we can’t have nice things. You know that, right?
“And you’re the reason we can’t walk straight, you insatiable little beast. So get it together, girl. We’ve got shit to do today.”
And we do have shit to do, I realize now. As long as there’s still time, there’s still a chance. Right?
I shake my head, clearing the cobwebs from my sleep-deprived, overworked brain. Just because I’ve suffered a few setbacks doesn’t mean it’s time to clock out of my own life.
The lone butterfly swirls again, bringing another smile to my lips. A flutter to my heart.
If Devlin taught me anything, it’s this.
The show must go on.
Pity party officially over, I rise from the couch like a revenant, a ghoulish monster resurrected for a singular purpose. With cold, stiff limbs, I lumber over to the kitchen and put on the kettle.
I need something strong today.
Not Get It, Girl.
More like… Beat Their Asses, Rip Out Their Hearts, And Leave No Traitors Alive.
I get to work mixing the brew—black puerh tea, grated ginger, two whole cinnamon sticks, dark chocolate shavings, a pat of butter because I fucking deserve it, and a hint of crushed red pepper to really send the message home.
Then, steeping the heady mix, I recite a new spell, all my own.
From ashes I rise, my purpose now clear
I call on my magic, no longer in fear
My strength is within, but help I may need
To follow my heart, wherever it leads
The tea swirls and shimmers in the pot, infused with my magic, my intention, the force of my will. The moment it touches my lips, I feel it working, fueling me with a shocking clarity and determination I haven’t felt in…
Well, since I first opened Kettle and Cauldron.
With steady hands, I reach beneath the counter and retrieve the folder. The one Devlin left with all the so-called evidence against Brandt. The one I’ve been ignoring because I was butt-hurt and too freaking stubborn to realize—despite his sneaking around, despite the underhanded way he went about things—Devlin really was trying to help me.
That he’s helping me still, from wherever he is now.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my heart cracking, but still beating. Still surviving, just like it always has.
Then I whip open that folder. And there, right on top of the stack, a new Tarot message awaits.
No, not one of the charging Knights preparing me for the battle ahead. Not one of the Queens reminding me to be fearless and wise. Not even the Devil himself.
But the gentle, inspiring Ace of Pentacles.
And this time, as I gaze at the image on the card—a hand outstretched from the sky bestowing a golden pentacle to a young witch, her face alight with hope and possibility as she reaches out to take it—it’s not the voice of my intuition whispering in my mind.
It’s Gigi, as clear as if she were standing right beside me, squeezing my shoulders and sending me out into the world to face another day with grace and determination.
Every day is a gift, Violet. Find the joy in this one. Do that every day, one after the other, and your entire life will be filled with beautiful blessings.
She said it to me often. Whenever I was struggling at school, or trying to make sense of my confusing magic, or resenting the parents who abandoned me, or feeling like I was running out of reasons to stick around, even for myself.
Gigi reminded me that there was always a reason. Big, small, it didn’t matter. I had only to find it. To acknowledge it. To accept the gifts inherent in every new day.
I close my eyes, and again, I think of Devlin.
For better or worse, everything he did—from the moment I served him his first cup of Welcome to Wayward Bay tea—he did it for me.
All the times he tested my boundaries or pushed me out of my comfort zone, he was teaching me how to truly live. How to break out of my own limiting beliefs and trust myself. How to jump like the Fool of the Tarot right off the cliff, with a smile on my lips and joy in my heart, and trust that whatever awaited me at the bottom would be better than whatever I left behind.
You’ve got this, Violet. You always have.
It’s his voice in my mind now, bolstering me, encouraging me.
I open my eyes and finish the last of my tea. From the bottom of the mug, a little black pitchfork winks up at me, and I laugh. I was so distracted when I first poured the tea, I didn’t even realize I was drinking from his mug all along.
The Devil Made Me Brew It, it says. And so many ways, he did.
Now, he’s going to help me keep brewing it. Keep showing up. Keep Kettle and Cauldron alive, just like we set out to do on that first golden-dawned, post-magic morning oh so long ago.
I spread out all the paperwork on the counter, my heart pounding faster with every new detail revealed. Pages and pages of them—Brandt’s shady deals, ties to shell companies, foreign bank accounts, laundered funds. And the names—some I recognize from Remington Capital. Others straight from the headlines—CEOs of all different companies, mostly chains, the kinds of stores always in the news for squeezing out the mom-and-pop shops and treating their employees like absolute garbage. These men are all associates, all members of the same fraternity, all colluding to put Wayward Bay’s small business community in the ground.
The businesses they’ve targeted are listed here, too—every real estate transaction traced back to Nathan Pike. Corto’s Curiosities—the shop Mean Beans took over. Second Chance Romance, the old bookstore. And the places still on the chopping block—Kettle and Cauldron. Glaze for Days. Dozens upon dozens of others.
Fueled with a new rage, enhanced by my magical brew, I grab my phone and call Ricci. “This is going to sound completely out of left field, but… what do you know about Nathan Pike?”
“That fucking guy,” she says with a scoff, and that’s all the confirmation I need. “He owns my building. Bought out my lease from Fran Solomon a few months ago. At the time, he assured me nothing would change, but I just went to negotiate the renewal, and the jerk is tripling the rent. When I tried to push back, he said he’s got plenty of other tenants lined up, willing to pay top dollar.”
“Seriously?”
“Same thing happened to Mavis over at the dog grooming place. And Paul Aberg’s hat shop. Nathan’s saying we can either pay up or move out. Technically, it’s within his rights to change the terms of a lease before renewal, but... I don’t know. Something’s fishy about the whole thing.”
“Ricci? You have no idea.”
The Ace of Pentacles gleams at me from the counter, reminding me that today is a gift. That I’m blessed with gifts—lots of them. Not just my magic. Not just my talent for teas. But my voice. A voice I’ve let other people silence for too long. People like Nathan, who tried to scare me into giving up my business without a fight. People like Brandt, who tried to make me feel like a useless bimbo with a cute little hobby that didn’t deserve to succeed.
People like all the men on this list, trying to silence the folks of Wayward Bay. Good folks. Witches, vampires, demons, fae, humans. All of us trying to build something special. Something meaningful.
“I was thinking about bringing it to the mayor’s attention,” Ricci says. “I’m not sure if there’s anything illegal going on, but maybe she can do some sniffing around. Seems like she’d want to know about all this, especially since she’s spearheading the small business initiatives.”
At the mention of Mayor Singh, a plan begins to crystalize in my mind. In my heart.
Going through with it means… Goddess. It means standing up in front of my friends and neighbors and admitting that I’ve failed, again and again and again. It means asking for help. From Ricci and the other business owners getting shafted. From everyone else who cares about the Bay as much as I do. From Olivy, too; she’s the one who found all the dirt on Brandt, so I want her at my side when I blow his ass out of the water.
I tremble just to think about it. And part of me—a very loud, very persuasive part—is telling me to run upstairs, queue up a new season of Charmed, and forget all about this taking-a-stand nonsense.
But I can’t just sack out on the couch and hope for the best anymore.
I will not let Brandt Remington the Third and the other members of Club Douche Bro carve this town into pieces and destroy its very soul.
“Ricci? I’ve got an idea.”
“I’m listening.”
“Can you get a hold of Mavis and Paul? And anyone else who’s had a run-in with Nathan or anyone at Remington Capital, and meet me at the town hall in an hour?”
“Sure thing,” Ricci says. “Should we bring anything?”
“Yes. Your ass-kicking boots.” I sweep the files back into the folder. “I’m going to expose these bastards for the lying, conniving assholes they are. And I’d love to have a few allies on my side.”
“You already know I’m in. And Violet?” Ricci laughs, rich and warm, and something in my chest loosens up, just enough to let a little hope in. “I’m pretty sure this is the start of a beautiful new friendship.”