Chapter One
VIOLET
It’s official. The Devil is stalking me.
It started last night with a drop-in at the dinner table that nearlyruinedmy grilled cheese and tomato soup. I chased him off with a menacing wave of the spatula, only to suffer a second interruption when he crashed my Charmed re-watch.
Then, the ultimate sin: the jerk shows up in mybed, barging in on some much-needed quality time with my emotional support vibrator Mr. Wiggles, who voiced his displeasure by conking out at theworstpossible moment.
Unforgivable!
Which brings us to this morning’s invasion at my magical tea shop, Kettle and Cauldron. At five a.m. On what’s supposed to be a capital-B Big day that I cannotafford to screw up. Not unless I want to lose all the caffeine-jonesing customers of Wayward Bay to Mean Beans, the soulless new coffee chain opening across the street.
But does the Devil care about my plight? Nope.
I’ve just flicked on the lights when I catch him lounging on the counter with that glint in his eyes, his wicked grin as much a warning as it is an invitation. One this witch willnotbe accepting,thankyouverymuch.
“Sir, for the last time.” I shoot the insolent Tarot card a glare that could shrivel testicles if I concentrated hard enough. “Whatever you’re pedaling, I’mnotinterested.”
Not yet, Violet Pepperdine,comes the ominous whisper of my intuition.But youwillbe…
A chill skitters down my spine, but I refuse to cower. Fear is the Devil’s language, not mine. My language is tea. Tea that needs to make a big splash today if we’ve got any chance of surviving Mean Beans mania, T-minus two hours and counting.
“Any more out of you,” I warn the Devil, “and I’ll incinerate your ass.”
That shuts him up, but the silence is temporary. He’s part of my late grandmother Gigi’s Tarot deck, a beautiful set of magical, hand-painted cards that vanished under mysterious circumstances when she died. But a few weeks after her funeral, the cards started popping up again in the most random places: the pocket of a hand-me-down coat. Tucked between the pages of a library book. Bottom of the kitchen junk drawer at my latest foster home, beneath a mountain of pens, twist ties, and half-spent packs of Marlboros.
It’s been sixteen years since Gigi’s passing, and the cards have only grown more insistent, pestering me until I heed their every message, whether I want to or not.
Today, I most assuredly do not. All that devilish doom-and-gloom cluttering up my mind? Hard pass. I already know I’m an obsessive, anxious, over-thinking hyper-perfectionist trapped in a prison of my own making. Not exactly breaking news, my guy!
So, turning my back on his maddening smirk, I scan the shelves of teas, spices, and magical ingredients behind the counter, making sure everything’s in perfect order.
I came in early to get a jump on things before my nemesis Hoovers up all the pedestrian traffic, but it seems they’re already well ahead of me. Peering out my windows, I spy a small army of rosy-cheeked, green-aproned baristas buzzing around like brainwashed bees, ensuring the walkways are swept, the windows Windexed, the grand-opening banner hung straight.
Free hat with every purchase!it proclaims.Today only!
Guess they’re expecting big crowds. Bigger than poor old Mr. Corto ever got before Beans swindled him out of his lease, forcing him to shutter Corto’s Curiosities. Now he’s living with his daughter in Phoenix and there’s nowhere within a hundred miles to buy powdered dragon scalesora lock of hair from a haunted doll.
Goddess, it’s enough to crank my simmering anxiety to a full-on boil. The woman who rents me the café space and the adorable apartment above it is an absolute saint, but I’ve fallen so far behind on rent, not even my unlimited-tea-and-scones promissory notes can save me.
Especially when she’s got her pick of big-city chains swooping in with offers to buy at twice the market value and a smarmy realtor nephew eager to make a name for himself. He’s the reason Curiosities went kaput. See also: Second Chance Romance, the former book store now pushing trendy wines and linen towels embroidered with such witticisms asIt’s Wine O’clock!andMy Blood Type is Merlot!He even tried to trick my sweet old aunts into selling their historic Three Sisters B&B, but they ran him off the property with a not-so-subtle threat about turning him into a wart on a toad’s dick, which is absolutely a thing they can do, unbeknownst to him.
With its quaint, tree-lined streets, gorgeous Victorian architecture, and all-around small-town charm,everyonewants a piece of Wayward Bay and he knows it. He makes sureIknow it, too—reminds me every week, waltzing in on his aunt’s heels and whisper-shouting in her ear while she orders her tea and gives me apologetic smiles. Things like, “The family agrees about selling, Aunt Beverly,” and “It’s too much for you to manage at your age,” and—my favorite chestnut, always accompanied by a pointed glare in my direction—“It’s bad business to let tenants take advantage of your naivety.”
It’s those special times I like to remind myself that harming people just because you don’t like them is against the rules of magic and decency both. Lucky for him.
You can’t ignore this mess forever, Violet…
The Devil pings my intuition again, raising the hairs on the back of my neck andsuperpissing me off.
“Hey. Dickhead. No means no.” I don’t wait for a response. Just snap my fingers and incinerate him.
Then I smile, because that tricknevergets old.
My familiars agree. As the burned-sugar-and-bourbon scent of my magic fills the air, the cats—a sleek black tabby named Grumpy and a fat orange floofball named Sunshine—bolt out from the storage room and pounce on the counter, pawing through the ashes.
“Aww, we love making things gopoof, don’t we?” I scoop them up for a snuggle—a ritual Sunshine adores and Grumpy pretends to hate because he’s got a reputation to uphold. “How are Mama’s favorite troublemakers today? As mischievous as you are handsome? Yes, I agree. Way more handsome than that mean ol’ Devil!”
