I turn back to find her standing on the sidewalk beneath a streetlamp, sleeves pulled down over her hands, glasses misting up, halo of dark frizz circling her head. Instinct has me reaching for my robe, wanting to take it off and drape it over her shoulders.
I resist the urge.
“Comehere,” I demand.
She takes a few tentative steps forward. I hold up a hand to stop her, then take a few steps back. Hit that blasted boundary again.
Math isn’t my strong suit, but… Thirty feet, give or take. Maybe thirty-five. That’s all we’ve got.
“Bleedingskies, you’ve really got me wrapped around your finger now, don’t you? A man can’t even go out for a nightcap without his witch attached at the hip.”
She rushes toward me. Attempts another one of those crampy apologetic smiles, made more crampy by the chattering teeth. “I’ll c-c-come with you. It’s fine. I d-d-don’t mind.”
“Really? And what about when I sleep? Or use the facilities? Will you come with me then?” I lean in close, drop my voice to a seductive whisper. Some things can’t be helped, this being one of them. “What about when I shower? Do you have any idea the sort of debauchery I can get up to in there with naught but a bottle of shower gel, hot water streaming down my chest, one hand gripping my wet, hard—”
“Doors!” she practically yelps. “I’ve got plenty of d-d-doors. Lots of sturdy, well-made,closabledoors to ensure privacy at all times, even if we’ve got a limited range.”
“Good to know, and by the way, I was talking about my hard back scrubber.”
She peers up at me over the rims of her glasses—lashes dark from the lingering drizzle, her eyes even more intensely blue up close—and laughs.
The mushroom laughs.
It’s like a song, like a poem, like the chiming of fairy bells… capped by a ridiculously awkward snort, which only sets her off again, both hands clamped over her mouth to try to hold it at bay, no use. The laughter echoes down the empty street, and that thing inside my chest kicks me in the ribs again, Taco Tuesday back to haunt me, and suddenly I want to make her laugh like that all over again.
Which also makes me want to set my own arsehole on fire because wake the fuckup, Devlin. This isn’t some quaint little rom-com sidequest. I’m trapped here. Which means I’mnotin Los Angeles, fulfilling my duties to my father. Proving my worth. Earning my right to sit upon the throne I lost so long ago. My right to go back home.
Rage simmers anew.
Turning back toward that golden light, my last hope, I march onward.
So does she. No longer laughing. No longer snorting. Teeth chattering all over the place.
“When I get a hold of Hecate,” I grumble, “we’re going to have words about this… this… what in the bleeding orifices do you call this town again?”
“Wayward Bay?”
“Yes. That.Exactlythat. Well, I suppose it does what it says on the tin, doesn’t it? Because I’ve already met two of its resident miscreants, and—oh, Hello, darling. Nowthislooks promising.”
Saints and Sinners Fine Wine and Spirits. Source of the golden light and my new lease on life. Never have I ever been so happy to see a liquor store display window (its over-reliance on haystacks and plastic ghost lights as decorative accents notwithstanding).
“Demon-owned,” Violet informs me. “Well, demonandfae, but Maleek set up shop and picked the name before he met Jovahn.”
“Demon and fae? Hmm. Are there any regular humans in this town?”
“Of course. We just have a higher population of magical beings than most other places in the States. One of the town founders was a witch—Agatha Wayward. Her magic is what draws a lot of us here.”
I file that knowledge away for later.
“Their wedding was pretty amazing, actually,” she continues.
“Agatha Wayward’s?”
“No, Maleek and Jovahn. They had all this food from Jovahn’s fae court, but his family cast a spell on it so it wouldn’t trap anyone in their home realm—fae have weird rules about that sort of thing. The wine wasreallyintense, though. I made the mistake of drinking it too fast, and I ended up—”
“Mushroom? As fascinating as the cautionary tales of your casual alcoholism may be, which is to say not at all, let’s adopt a new policy.” I open the door and usher her inside. “Less talking, more helping me find another liquid coping mechanism.”
The shop is small but well-appointed, carrying enough of a selection of higher-end bourbons to meet my immediate needs. I select a bottle (or seven) while Violet greets the demon manning the register—Maleek, I presume.
