Chapter 9 #2
Ark’s attention sharpened. An Amoret Demon—the small horns curving back from her temples and the slender tail curled around her ankle gave it away—but the warmth in her skin and the softness in her features spoke of something else beneath. Not full-blooded. Mixed—like Cassia.
His gaze moved to the evidence on her table—a plate of torte and a half-drunk pot of chocolate beside it, the faint sweetness of cocoa clinging to her like a second skin. The pieces fell into place. She’d found a more agreeable substitute for her kind’s usual sustenance. Clever. And telling.
The elf—Opalina—was her opposite in every way.
A quiet, fair-haired storm of observation, poised and unshaken.
Her jade-coloured eyes met his with a cool assessment, as if she were fitting him into a puzzle whose final shape had yet to be determined.
A shape, her gaze implied, that was likely to be profoundly useless.
He couldn’t quite glean her story. Her surname—Wren, a single syllable in the way of the elven working class—suggested one thing. Her bearing suggested another.
But after knowing Rhodes and Caius, he understood not all struggles were visible.
“So . . .” Lilibeth hesitated, then exhaled as if bracing for impact. “Is this your first time in Little Mineola?”
Caius answered smoothly, “First time for a proper visit. But we passed by not too long ago, didn’t we?”
“We certainly did,” Ark murmured. They had driven through the village on the way to Halewick mansion, but he hadn’t thought much of it beyond the fact that Cassia’s bakery was here.
“Charming neighbourhood,” Rhodes commented lightly.
Lilibeth brightened at that, her posture relaxing, tail flicking.
“Oh! It is, isn’t it?” For once, enthusiasm edged into her voice.
“Little Mineola started as a lakeside outpost—just another stop between Angelene and the eastern trade routes. But over time, people who didn’t quite fit in Angelene settled here. ”
Rhodes arched his brow. “A village for misfits, then?”
Opalina met his gaze and replied, calmly, “And we like it that way.”
Ark watched, a knuckle pressed to his chin. Most people didn’t have the spine to answer Rhodes directly. Opalina had just done it without blinking.
Lilibeth added, “Most shop owners here are mixed blood, so they bring in pieces of their cultures. Our market carries combinations you wouldn’t normally see anywhere else. Human textiles embroidered with elven silver thread. Witch-brewed tonics beside demon-forged trinkets. Some food stalls sell—”
She looked around the table as her voice faded, realization dawning too late on just how much she’d spoken. A flush crept up her neck. She ducked her head, fingers curling into the lace at her sleeves. “So . . . well, yes. We survive by being a little bit of everything.”
Ark had seen the pattern before—people who spoke with ease when they had something worth saying, only to shrink the moment they realized they’d taken up too much space.
It wasn’t hard to imagine what life might have been like for her.
Not only was she not a full demon, but she’d also strayed from the customs of her people.
A misfit indeed.
“How lovely it is to know there’s a place to go,” he spoke at last, “when one doesn’t wish to be defined by their blood or those who came before them.”
Lilibeth’s gaze snapped up, startled, but he simply sipped his drink.
Caius, once again, smoothed over the moment with an effortless shift. “Do you both own businesses here as well?”
“I own a specialty bookstore a few doors down,” Lilibeth added.
“Specializing in what?” Rhodes asked.
“Food. Mostly the kind you can’t find in a normal cookbook.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Foraging guides. Rare ingredient lore. Histories of magical flora. A whole section on edible fungi. And, of course, the deeply researched, highly specific books about chocolate.”
Ark’s mouth twitched. “A whole section on chocolate, you say?”
She turned so red he began to feel guilty.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “It’s very popular.”
But before she could shrink further, she suddenly straightened, eyes brightening with unexpected enthusiasm. “Did you know Cassia makes the best chocolate creations?”
Caius chuckled. “We’re about to find out.”
Rhodes smirked. “One bite of her spiced honey cakes, and as they say, the rest was history.”
“Now that we’ve answered your questions about what we do,” Opalina said, “what do you do?”
Ark exchanged looks with Caius and Rhodes. They’d cultivated their indolent personas for so long, most people wouldn’t even ask. No one wanted to face an awkward moment of having to find a supportive response to ‘nothing.’
“We do just enough to keep ourselves out of trouble,” Ark finally said.
Her jade eyes stared at him innocently. “Forgive me, I was under the impression you were an unemployed aristocrat.”
Ark held her gaze, but didn’t answer. Cassia’s elf friend presented herself with effortlessly cool composure, as if butter wouldn’t even melt in her mouth. He suspected she could cut through nonsense sharper than most.
Caius cut in, “I’ve been wondering since I sat down.” He pointed toward a framed plaque mounted on the wall in front of their table. “What is that all about?”
Ark turned in his seat to look.
Mystic Misfits Society Rules:
1. All magical debates must be conducted over a cup of tea; heated arguments are best served with a side of scones.
2. Thou shalt not cast spells while under the influence of caffeine; levitating teacups lead to messy mishaps.
3. Laughter is the best potion. If in doubt, add extra sugar and stir with a smile.
Five more points were listed and Ark read through the rest, the corners of his mouth pulling up by the time he finished.
Caius chuckled, pointing at the fifth point. “That one is my favourite: ‘No hexes shall be cast before breakfast; hangriness is not a valid excuse for magical misconduct.’ How perfectly sensible.” He sipped his tea. “It is a rule we must all abide by.”
Rhodes raised a brow. “Are these guidelines for a . . . dessert-based cult?”
“Not a cult,” Lilibeth corrected quickly. “A society. We call ourselves ‘Mystic Misfits.’”
Rhodes looked interested. “What exactly does the Mystic Misfits Society do?”
She shrugged. “Mostly sit around, drink tea, and eat cakes.”
“Sounds like a productive afternoon to me,” Rhodes said. “Are you accepting new members?”
Both women exchanged a wary glance, then turned to Rhodes as if evaluating the sheer volume of pastries he could consume in one sitting.
Opalina, still watching them, explained, “We formed the Mystic Misfits Society when Cassia continued getting rejection letters from every witch coven in Angelene.”
Ark’s eyes snapped to her. “Rejection?”
Solemnly, Lilibeth nodded. “She just got another letter today.”
His fingers curled around his cup. Every door in Meredith was open to him, and he had chosen, again and again, not to walk through them. Cassia had every door slammed in her face and still, she kept trying.
His gaze flicked back to the plaque. The absurd rules, the playful wording—it was ridiculous, theatrical. Now, he recognized what lay beneath the humour: a way to take rejection and spin it into something that belonged to her, rather than something that had been done to her.
Instead of pleading for a place at a table that wouldn’t welcome her, she built her own table. And kept adding chairs.