Chapter Thirty-Five
VIOLET
I haven’t been back to the scene of Mr. Wiggles’ murder since my botched presentation, and the sight of the Town Hall fills me with a dread that threatens to send me bolting back to the safety of Kettle and Cauldron. To the familiar comfort of a nice, stress-relieving cinnamon tea, Stevie Nicks on the playlist, a crackling fire, the soft purr of the cats as they stretch out on the hearth and…
Poof.
The moment the vision coalesces in my mind, it’s gone. Because that’s exactly what will happen if I don’t see this through. If I don’t find a way to set one foot in front of the other, march into that meeting, and demand justice. Not just for me, but for Ricci and Paul and Mavis. For the shop owners those monsters have already run out of town. For my sisters and aunts who run their own small businesses too—businesses that Brandt and his cronies are already plotting to crush under their filthy boots.
“Violet?” Ricci asks, her hand warm on my elbow. “You ready?”
I take a deep breath. Ground and center. Send out a pulse of magic—a silent spell for clarity and guidance and success.
And in return, the Devil card flashes through my mind. A reminder of what we had. Of who I am when I’m with him. Stronger, somehow. Less inhibited. Less afraid.
Devlin and I are over. I know that. But I feel him with me now anyway, whispering in my ear. Cheering me on. Reminding me that I can do this, that I have a voice, that people will listen if I’m willing to take the risk.
He was my friend before I fell for him, and it’s that friendship I think about now, drawing on his strength, borrowing a bit of his charisma. His big Devil energy.
I smile at Ricci. Nod. Take one more deep breath.
Together, we march into the mayor’s office—ignoring the half-hearted protests of her vampire assistant, Margo—and straight into the mayor’s private conference room. The place where she holds the budget meetings.
All heads turn to us. The Mayor herself. Brandt. A half-dozen other members of the town council—some of them owners of businesses on Brandt’s list, completely unaware that their fellow council member is working to sabotage them.
“Violet?” Mayor Singh rises from her seat. “Ricci? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we had an appointment. I’m in meetings for the next hour, but—”
“We don’t.” I heft up a stack of folders filled with the copies I made on the way over. “But you’re going to want to hear this.”
“Miss Pepperdine,” the mollusk blubbers, “if this is about the grant, we’ve already straightened out the clerical error with your—”
“Oh, this is about the grant, Brandt. And so much more.”
The fear in his eyes is real. The sense of power that comes with knowing I’m the one who put it there? Absolutely priceless. No wonder Devlin is so good at this sort of thing.
Ricci and I quickly distribute the folders.
“Take your time,” Ricci says as the committee members flip through the pages, brows knit, initial confusion quickly turning to anger. “There’s lots to digest.”
“I brought donuts,” comes the call of a familiar voice, and I turn to see my sister Emmie heading through the door, a whole gaggle of witches filing in behind her. Olivy, who’s got her laptop and another stack of folders. Darla and Fiona. My aunts, Josyln and Althea and Lorelei.
“We’re the three sisters of Three Sisters B&B,” Lorelei announces. “And we’re here to roast Brandt Remington’s nuts.”
Others crowd into the room as well. More friends and neighbors and fellow business owners. Members from other committees. A tidal wave of support that floods the meeting until it’s standing room only, all of us elbow-to-elbow.
“Was this your doing?” I whisper to Olivy.
She shrugs. “You said you needed help taking him down, so I called in the Calvary.”
“I’m going to kill you later. You know that, right?”
“Oh, I’m looking forward to it. After you thank me, of course.” Then, with a squeeze of my hand and a genuine smile, “You’ve got this, Vi. And we’ve got you.”
I nod. Clear the knot of emotion from my throat. And then…
“My name is Violet Pepperdine,” I begin. “I own Kettle and Cauldron. For a few more days, anyway.”
Tears fill my eyes. With a voice that trembles but doesn’t break, I tell them my story, admitting—for the first time in history—that I screwed up. That I’m in trouble. That I need help.
I tell them about the debts. Nathan’s eviction notice. The grant. Everything that led me to this, standing up in front of what feels like half the town and laying myself bare.
Everyone on the committee is watching me, their energy an overwhelming soup of confusion, compassion, anger, empathy, sadness, guilt.
“Miss Pepperdine,” Brandt tries again, but I hold up a hand, silencing him.
Not with magic. Not with a cup of hot tea to the ballsack, the idea of which delights me to no end.
But with my determination. My will. My refusal to back down just because someone else thinks I don’t deserve to be here. That I don’t have a right to take up space. To be loud.
“Remington Capital Group,” I continue, locking him in my gaze, “under the leadership of Brandt Remington the Third, along with realtor Nathan Pike and several of their college fraternity associates, have been conspiring with large out-of-state corporations to keep small businesses in Wayward Bay struggling through the use of several underhanded tactics, including charging significantly higher than average interest rates on business loans and credit cards, turning down new loans without cause, and sneaking in junk fees.”
“As businesses falter under the weight of these debts and fees,” Ricci says, “Nathan Pike comes in with high-pressure sales tactics, using fear and manipulation to convince struggling property owners to sell while raising rents and other costs on the properties he and his associates own.”
“We… we’ve done nothing of the sort,” Brandt stammers, all eyes on him. “Remington Capital is a small business as well, j-just like yours. We need to v-v-vet our clients for the best fit.”
“It’s all there in black and white,” I say. “Read the evidence—all of it can be verified. You’re charging double the rates for local clients, then offering low-interest loans to several companies registered out of state.”
“Funny thing about those companies,” Olivy says, passing around another set of copies. “They’re all owned by one Westfield Holdings, a company registered to Nathan Pike’s aunt, Beverly McKee.”
“Beverly is an investor,” Brandt insists, his face turning redder by the minute. “One of our best clients.”
“Really?” Olivy scratches her head. “Because I reached out to Beverly this morning, and she had no idea she owned these so-called businesses. Why? Because her nephew has been committing fraud in her name for years, all at the behest of Remington Capital. Not only that, but he and his so-called associates, including the CEO of Mean Beans and the owners of the other businesses who’ve recently relocated here, have a web of connections that spans the entire country—New York, Seattle, Boston, Miami, San Francisco. They’ve been picking off the surrounding small towns the same way they’re trying to do here—driving out small businesses, selling off the properties, bringing in the corporations to rebuild on the ashes.”
“And reaping the kickbacks,” I add. “Including half the grant money. Grants they awarded to out-of-state companies posing as local businesses, taking a healthy cut to line their own pockets.”
“You’re just a vengeful woman,” Brandt hisses. “Full of spite because you couldn’t make your own business work. You failed, Violet. You failed, and now you’re trying to retaliate, refusing to take responsibility for your own ineptitude, and—”
“You know what? I did fail,” I say plainly, shocked to realize the dreaded F-word doesn’t sting as much as I once feared. Doesn’t send me cowering into the corner, full of shame and self-loathing. “I tried to run a successful business doing what I love. What I’m good at. And I couldn’t turn a profit. But you know what? I learned a hell of a lot along the way. And I will figure out how to make it work. Maybe not this week, maybe not this year, but I’m not giving up again. No matter who tells me I should. Because when you’re blessed enough to find something you love in this world, something that makes your heart sing, something that has you jumping out of bed looking forward to every new day—even when it’s rough, even when you falter, even when you fail—you find a way to get back up and try again. Whatever it takes, you find a way.”
Emotion is thick in my throat, and I no longer know whether I’m talking about Kettle and Cauldron, or my magic, or Devlin. All of it is nearly inseparable for me now—my loves, my passions. My whys.
“You’re not seriously listening to this woman,” Brandt says, casting a desperate gaze at his fellow committee members. “She’s not well. She… she got herself into debt with that worthless tea business, and now she’s—”
“Now she’s presenting the evidence,” Mayor Singh says, putting a warm and supportive hand on my shoulder, “to lock you up for a very, very long time.”
Goose thoroughly cooked, Brandt leaps from his chair and attempts to storm out, but there are too many bodies in here blocking off his escape routes.
“Sit down, Mr. Remington,” Mayor Singh says. “We are far from done here.” Then, pressing a button on the conference phone, “Margo? Get me the police.”
“I told you,” Emmie says when we’re finally dismissed. “If anyone can handle a little competition, it’s Violet Fucking Pepperdine.”
I laugh. “You also said I was a witchy, formidable, tea-slinging badass.”
“And you proved it in spades today.”
“The donuts played a big part.”
“Hey. Always happy to help my sister kick some evil bootie.” Emmie leans in for a kiss. “I need to get back to the bakery, but I’ll see you guys later? Witch-N-Bitch happy hour?”
“No booze for Violet, though,” Olivy says. “From now on, she’s all about the tea. Maybe a little seltzer, if she’s feeling wild.”
“Agreed.” Grinning, I hike my bag over my shoulder, following Olivy out through the rotunda. Gone are the Halloween decorations from the ball, replaced now with the first signs of whatever Thanksgiving shenanigans Mayor Singh’s cooking up. Plastic turkeys, wicker cornucopia, more haystacks. Hard to believe it was only a couple weeks ago that I danced with the Devil on this very floor.
That I kissed him.
That I fell in love with him.
“You know, Vi.” Olivy slings an arm over my shoulder. “After that little display, I’m pretty sure you’re on track to unlock your heart’s true desire after all, no assistance needed.”
I laugh, but it fades fast. “We already unlocked it, Ols. I turned down the grant, but we still got it. It counted. Long enough to unlock the spell, anyway.”
“Thanks to Devlin’s unscrupulous means.”
“Don’t remind me.” I sigh. “The point is—oh, shit. Wait.”
Something dawns on me, kicking me right in the heart.
Oh, goddess…
Saving the café was everything I ever wanted, but…
Is it possible it wasn’t my heart’s truest desire?
I stop at the exit and turn to face her, panic rising.
“Olivy. You told me there could be no shortcuts with my spell. That Devlin had to help me without using his Devil mojo.”
“Right, because that would’ve been a cheat, and the magic forbade it.”
“But…” I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to remember that day. The timeline. “The spell was broken as soon as I got the news about the grant.”
“Like you said, it counted. You got the money to save the shop. Heart’s desire unlocked, spell broken, off into the sunset you ride.”
“But… no. That can’t be right. The only reason I got the grant was that Devlin used his influence on Brandt, so that automatically negates it, doesn’t it?”
“It… oh. Shit, Violet. You’re right.” She ponders it a bit more, then shrugs. “I’m not sure what loophole he found, but obviously it worked out. The spell was broken when you found out about getting that money.”
“But that makes no sense, either. If it was just about the money, why didn’t the spell break the moment Brandt sent the second email? Or when Devlin convinced him to give me the grant in the first place, which happened the night before? The money was a done deal at that point.”
“Violet, I see your number-crunching wheels turning, but… I don’t know. Maybe I misunderstood something about the spell. It was complex magic.”
“No, you were right about the spell. It couldn’t be broken without a genuine, non-manipulative unlocking of my heart’s desire. That much, I could feel.”
“So what are you saying,? That Devlin didn’t use his influence to save the café?”
“No. I’m saying my heart’s desire—my truest heart’s desire—wasn’t to save the café. It… it was love.”
“What?”
“I remember it now. I’d just gotten the email saying I won, and I ran to Devlin to share the good news. We ended up… celebrating. Horizontally celebrating. And I realized I was in love with him. I confessed it. That’s what broke the spell.”
I fell in love with you too, Devlin Pierce. Accidentally and completely…
Tears fill my eyes, my heart pounding. “I fell in love with the Devil, Olivy. And unlocked my heart’s true desire.”
Olivy squeezes my hand, her eyes shining—very out of character for my typically stoic sister. “This is a good thing, isn’t it? I mean, I still want to flay him alive for hurting you, and may do just that, but… you love him. He loves you. There’s gotta be a way to figure this out.”
“But… but what does it say about Kettle and Cauldron—my life’s dream—if Devlin was my true heart’s desire?”
Olivy smiles, her energy so full of love and happiness it has me tearing up again. “It says that you’re a witch and a woman who deserves to find true love, and also has big, important, amazing dreams. These things are not mutually exclusive, Violet, and I’m sick of society trying to tell us that they are. You don’t have to choose between them. You just have to choose what you want, and ruthlessly go after it.” She tugs on one of my curls and laughs. “A wise witch once said that even when you falter, even when you fail—you find a way to get back up and try again. Whatever it takes, you find a way.”
“That is pretty wise.” I nudge her in the ribs. “Maybe I should write that down.”
Olivy’s grin stretches wide, that all-knowing spark shining in her eyes. “I did call this, remember.”
“No, you said Devlin and I would—and I quote—bone. You never said anything about falling in love, because if you had, I would’ve saved everyone the trouble and kicked him out right then and there.”
“You are so full of cow shit, I’m surprised you’re not mooing.”
“I am not. I’m done with love. All it ever does is get people in trouble. They say magic has consequences? No it doesn’t. Love has consequences. From now on, I’ll be smartly avoiding them. Not worth it, I’m telling you.”
“No?”
“No freaking way. See this face?” I point at myself with both thumbs. “This is my no way, no how, no love face.”
“Well, I’m so glad we had this little chat, Violet, because you’ve got a visitor. And to think… This time, you didn’t even have to get drunk and screw up your spreadsheet to summon him!”
I follow the direction of her gaze to the courtyard, where I see—sitting on the same bench where he patiently waited for me after my post-kiss Halloween freakout, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and crisp white button-down that has every passerby swiveling for a better look—the man with the power to steal my breath, my heart, and the entire downtown pep squad with a single raised eyebrow.
The Devil himself.