Chapter 20
twenty
MERRICK
Dawn comes all too quickly, and with it the lingering scents of tequila and roses and regret.
Miss Bonnivarde.
I open my eyes. I’m still sprawled in the bedroom chair I feel asleep in, and when I finally rise, every one of my muscles clamors to remind me why giving up my bed was a terrible idea.
The aforementioned bed, where I deposited the inebriated little witch last night, is empty, the shape of her impressed upon the mattress.
I close my eyes, remembering the feel of her in my arms.
Her voice echoes.
A teensy, tiny, infinitesimal, minuscule, pea-sized, microscopic crush…
Then again, hours later, as I tucked her carefully and fully clothed into the bed, and she stirred briefly, opening her eyes and clutching at my arm, uttering the question I’ve feared since our first meeting.
Why—
Damn it. No. I can’t go back there. The time to respond was last night, and I didn’t. Chances are, she’s forgotten she ever asked. I must endeavor to do the same.
I shake the thoughts loose. Try to get my bearings. The scent of coffee permeates, thank the bloody devil.
Tequila? What the fuck was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking, that’s the problem. I outsourced all cognitive processes to a stubborn, incorrigible witch whose devious enchantments have bewildered me to the point of ineptitude.
A crush. Really. Get it together, Sutherland.
I know I should be cross with her. Set firmer boundaries. Then again, she did make coffee. Perhaps there are also more of those delectable muffins.
A demon can hope!
Fine. Coffee and muffins first. Reaffirming boundaries second. Discussing her little crush, and the way she felt gathered in my arms last night… never.
I’ve just opened the bedroom door when I hear it. The sound of her laughter coming from the kitchen. The low rumble of male voices. More laughter.
What in the seven Hells…
I bolt for the kitchen, ready to destroy any man who dare break into my home. Who dare make my witch laugh. Who dare—
I stop dead in my tracks.
Crowded around the small breakfast nook, I find two hulking demons in their Hell-spawned forms. One fresh-faced witch with her hair up in a messy bun.
And there, on the other side of the kitchen, a slobbering hellhound nearly the size of a small car, her entire head stuffed into the bin, savoring the scraps of whatever it was I neglected to put out on the curb.
“Look who’s decided to join the land of the living,” says Warren, cracking a wide grin. His teeth are bright against the ebony dark of his demon skin. “Good morning, Dr. Sutherland. You’re looking rather peaked. Heard you had a bit of a wild night last night?”
“Lizzy was just telling us how she drank you under the table.” Oliver shakes his head, slurping his coffee. “Sad, really. In my day, a proper demon could hold his liquor.”
I stand there taking it all in, silently fuming.
They’ve already helped themselves to the coffee I’d hoped was for me and raided the pantry and refrigerator, relieving me of an entire jar of peach jam, several blocks of hard cheese I’ve only just had delivered, and a box of toaster pastries I’ve yet to try.
Medusa has made a right mess of the trash. There are no muffins in sight.
The witch is looking at me with her bright, inquisitive eyes, offering nothing but the quirk of her lips and an adorable shrug, as if that just explains it all.
And the demons are calling her Lizzy? Lizzy?
“What in the bleeding skies are you lot doing here?” I ask, snatching a toaster pastry from Oliver’s greedy hand.
“Attempting to keep you on the straight and narrow,” he replies.
“By breaking and entering, harassing my guest, and pilfering my breakfast staples? And stop showing off. You’re in the mortal realm; dress like it.”
Shifting into his human form, Oliver steals the pastry back and scarfs it down in one bite, nearly taking my fingers with it. “You never call anymore. You never write. We missed you, love. We didn’t have a choice.”
“And we’re hardly harassing her,” Warren says, shifting into his usual well-dressed, male model aesthetic. “Merely entertaining her, since her less-than-magnanimous host apparently couldn’t be bothered.”
“Oh my god, you guys! Rude! Don’t listen to them, Dr. Sutherland,” she says. “You’ve been super magnanimous. Thank you.” Then, in a much softer voice, “For everything.”
She holds my gaze a beat too long, her smile tender. My heart kicks up in response. A thousand thoughts pass between us in that glance—the confessed crush, the walk home, the hours I spent watching her sleep, making sure she wasn’t ill.
And the question. The one I know she hasn’t forgotten. It’s written in her eyes, unanswered. Avoided.
What happened to you, Dr. Sutherland? Why don’t you like to be touched?
All the thoughts we’ll never revisit out loud.
This, I know, is for the best. We’ll chalk it all up to tequila and a slightly overzealous celebration of her academic accomplishments, and leave it at that. It’s the only rational solution. The one that avoids awkward apologies and simmering embarrassment for both of us.
So why does the thought leave me bereft?
Why do I long to tuck her into my bed again tonight?
To listen to the even rise and fall of her breath, and take comfort in knowing she’s alive and unharmed?
To answer that question for her, and have her show me another way, one in which the past no longer haunts me?
One in which I might return her touch after all, without boundaries and limitations?
Why, after cultivating an existence around the exclusion of personal connection in favor of the acquisition of knowledge, padded with the comfort and safety of so many lonely days and even lonelier nights, do I suddenly feel as though I’m… missing out?
“Have a seat, Merri,” says Oliver, fishing in the box for another pastry. “We come bearing news.”
“Perhaps later.“ Finally dodging Miss Bonnivarde’s gaze, I crouch down and scratch behind Medusa’s ears. She repays the kindness by jamming her wet, garbage-stained muzzle directly into my crotch.
Always appreciated.
“It really can’t wait,” says Warren.
“It really must. Miss Bonnivarde and I have lots of work to do today.”
“We do?” she asks.
“Oh, yes. There’s the… the summoning and binding spell, that could use some fine-tuning, and another test of the portal boundaries.
Not to mention the Tarot review—we still haven’t fully decoded the visions from your mother, and…
Yes, the unit on elemental energetic signatures! We haven’t even scraped the surface.”
“It’s Saturday,” Miss Bonnivarde says. “Day off, remember? I’m bookstore-sitting for Helena today. Mary Shelley has a vet appointment.”
“Then you should probably focus on preparing for that, and maybe… maybe checking in with your sisters. Surely they must be wondering about your whereabouts?”
“They think I’m out for a walk. It’s fine.”
“But you didn’t return home last night.”
“We’re all adults, professor. We don’t keep tabs on each other. Do you guys?”
The vile demons snicker.
“Also,” she says, and she’s got that look in her eye, the one that has me girding my loins for an onslaught. “I’m a little jealous and slightly annoyed that you never introduced me to your friends before, despite the fact that they basically know my entire life story.”
“Yes, Merri,” Oliver taunts. “Why have you never invited us home for a cuppa? Are you ashamed of your best mates?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I grab the very last toaster pastry and take the seat across from Miss Bonnivarde. “Carry on, then. What’s the latest and greatest? This urgent news that can not possibly wait another moment to be delivered directly into my ears?”
“So glad you asked,” Warren says, but I can tell by the shift in tone that the news is anything but good. “Lizzy, how much do you know about the uprising in Hell?”
Of course he chose to lead with that.
“The what?” She looks at me as if she’d like to pitch her coffee mug at my head. “I think we can safely assume that I’m in the dark about absolutely everything involving Hell. So, you’d better start from the beginning, boys.”
My fist curls on the table. Boys? She’s calling them boys, like they’re all old chums? What’s next, braiding one another’s hair?
Fucking Hell. I can only hope these two heathens have the good judgment to be discreet.
While I make a fresh pot of coffee and scrounge the fringe for leftover scraps, they give her the highlights, covering Hell’s leadership and the ongoing political strife. They do not, thankfully, mention Hell’s desire for guardianship over the portal and the still-missing grimoire.
By the time she’s caught up on the basics, I’m finally, blissfully caffeinated, and I reclaim my seat at the table.
“For the past few weeks,” Warren continues, “we’ve been tracking reports of an upsurge in demonic energies slipping through the checkpoints, both formed and unformed.
The portal boundaries are stronger since you two started working on them, but a lot of the old safeguards are failing.
The smaller entities are not a concern on their own—a few rogue demons loose in the world of men won’t even register, most likely.
My worry, of course, is they’re just a test run for something much larger, and much more dangerous. ”
“The chaos demons,” I say, and Warren nods.
“Matthias’s forces have contained the rebellion in the lower realms, but it’s come at a cost. The bulk of his sentries have been reallocated to prevent another uprising, which is leaving key areas unprotected, vulnerable to attack.”
“The chaos demons are moving fast and making gains,” Oliver says. “Several of Matthias’s high-ranking generals were assassinated during the uprising. The rebels are claiming credit.”
“What does Matthias say about that?” I ask.