“No offense, mushroom, as I’m sure you’re a skilled witch in almostallendeavors, botched summoning spell and financial mismanagement notwithstanding, but… Isn’t the whole blood-and-banishing gig Olivy’s area of expertise?”
“I’ve seen her perform banishing rituals before, so I know the routine. And I’ve read a lot of books.” I’ve also watched a lot of Charmed and Supernatural, which are now serving as the basis for my dark-magic mojo, but Devlin doesn’t need to know that.
Reluctance mingles with the worry in his energy field, but again, he does as I ask, slicing off a small hank of hair and dropping it into the bowl.
I add the vinegar, filling it until the contents are completely submerged.
“Just close your eyes,” I tell him. “Take a few deep breaths and relax. And don’t make asounduntil you’re gone.”
“Poof?”
“Poof.”
He holds my gaze another beat, brow furrowed, but finally, his eyes snap shut.
I strike another match. Take a few deep breaths of my own. And visualize a magical cord connecting us across the pentagram, then fraying, bit by bit until it’s completely severed and Devlin finally vanishes.
Holding the image in mind, I recite my spell:
I call on the darkness, I call on the night
I call on this magic to set things to rights
By salt and by fire, his blood shall now burn
Be gone from here, Devil—to home, you return!
On the final word, I drop the lit match into the bowl. It ignites at once, a red flame that spirals outward from the center, then explodes in a bright red starburst with a blast so intense it extinguishes the candles, blows away the salt, knocks me flat on my back, and sends the cats racing halfway up the drapes, clinging for dear life.
Red and black smoke fills the apartment but quickly dissipates, leaving behind the scent of candle wax and burned hair.
I wait for my heart to stop racing, my breathing to return to normal. After a few tense moments, the cats finally return to investigate, prodding me with curious noses and flicking tails and the general air of superiority cats have perfected over the ages.
“No worries, boys,” I say softly. “Mama’s A-okay. Did our banishing spell do the trick and send the mean ol’ Devil packing?”
I sit up slowly, hope rising quickly. A slight ringing in my ears makes it hard to focus, but there across the dim space…
A dark shape takes form.
Well, less of a dark shape, and more of a flesh-colored one. With shiny black hair and broad shoulders and a shamelessly wicked grin.
“Oh,no,” I whisper.
“Oh,yes. You know, Mushroom, far be it from me to hellsplain dark magic to a witch, but I’m fairly certain when you call upon the magic of the darkness and the night, it helps if you do it when it’sactuallynight. Furthermore, while I appreciate a fireworks show as much as the next bloke, I really am quite famished, and my glass has been empty for far too long.” He rises from the floor in a graceful movement that defies physics, dangling bits a-danglin’ in a way that doesnotdefy physics, and heads back to the kitchen. “Let’s take another look at this paltry wine selection, shall we? See if you’ve got something that pairs well with the bitter taste of crushing disappointment.”
Chapter Twelve
DEVLIN
An hour later, the bitter taste of crushing disappointment is eclipsed by the sweet-and-spicy deliciousness of a bucket of hot wings and a barbecued ham-and-pineapple pizza (yes, pineapple absolutelydoesbelong on a pizza, I shall die on this hill, and this particular pie is doing the goddess’ work in redeeming the town of Pumpkinville as a quality establishment in my eyes).
After excavating a halfway decent Cabernet from an old holiday gift basket, we load up two plates and settle in side-by-side on her living room couch, me in my favorite black silk pajama pants and smoking jacket (me being fond of the finer things), Violet in an oversized sweatshirt featuring a gnome picking dandelions (her being fond of the woodland realms).
It happens so naturally, this sitting side-by-side thing, it almost feels like we’ve been doing it for years. Like we’re one of those adorably sickening couples who have things like “pizza night” and “our show” and trade food from each other’s plates—you can have my olives, I’ll take your extra pickle, save the extra sauce for me.
I dare say it’s almost nice. If the Devil were allowed to want nice things of the sort moneycan’tbuy, which I’m not. And don’t. Ever.
Anyway.
