I waver on my feet, the room spinning.
Thirty days?
Even accounting for the monthly catch-up payments I’ve already arranged with Beverly, the added interest and fees push my debt into five-figure territory. And while I might be able to scrape together the cash to clear that particular slate, I’m also paying off a hefty small-business loan and back taxes, not to mention a maxed-out credit card. Realistically speaking, I’m probably going to have to hire some help too—especially if I want to compete with Beans.
Which puts the cost of keeping Kettle and Cauldron afloat somewhere in the range of…
$100,000.
Tears sting my eyes, blurring the cozy café into a black smudge.
Crafting magical tea isn’t just my job, it’s my life’s dream. A natural expression of the goddess-given empathic magic that lives and breathes inside me.
It’s also my grandmother’s legacy.
Gigi raised me from birth when no one else wanted the job. She helped me through school bullies and unrequited love and my first bumbling attempts at spellwork. Then, she taught me to harness and hone my magic until it was my very own. The one thing no one else could do quite like me. The one thing I’ve always come back to.
More than my memories of our time together, more than her mysterious Tarot cards and the spells she bequeathed to me, tea magic is what connects us. What keeps her close, even in death.
I named Kettle and Cauldron for my favorite things from her kitchen—her floral teakettle and the cast-iron cauldron always simmering on the stove, the orange-and-cardamom scent of her magic welcoming me home after a long day.
And now, after just two years in business, I’m on the verge of losing it. The one thing I swore I’d never, ever screw up.
Outside, the first few drops of rain hit the pavement and a cold breeze shakes the leaves from the trees, whipping them into a red-and-gold frenzy. A flock of tourists exits Mean Beans, smiles wide as they pose for a group selfie in the rain, their matching ball caps adorned with the chain’s infamous logo: a cartoon coffee bean punching another bean in the face.
I sink down onto a stool, head in my hands. Nathan’s letter spirals to the floor.
Thirty days. Thirty days to find a hundred grand, or my life’s dream will go the way of the Devil card andpoof!right out of existence.
Chapter Two
DEVLIN
One might assume it’s hard—no pun intended—to have a lousy time at an orgy. Especially at one ofmyorgies. Perched on an overlook high in the Santa Monica Mountains, my Hollywood Hills mansion istheplace to see and be seen, offering a veritable buffet of adult entertainment options under one very expensive, very exclusive roof. My nightly fetes have become infamous—a badge of honor, I’m told, for those who meet the criteria for an invitation.
Namely, being rich and famous and ridiculously good-looking.
Trust me—life as an immortal is far too long to spend it in the company of the dull and ill-favored. Especially when said company is naked.
Lest I be accused of superficiality, there’s one more criterion—most important of all. Before stepping a single manicured toe over my property line, aspiring guests must accept the iron-clad terms of service specifying the price of admission:
Their souls.
All signatures are made in person—none of this modern digital nonsense—and require a drop of blood to bind them.
Just a little prick, my bouncers tell them, their Hell-forged demon blades gleaming as brightly as their smiles,and your dalliance with the Devil may begin…
The humans laugh and sign the paperwork and dutifully hold out their finger for the nick of the blade, thinking it’s all just part of the spectacle, the exclusivity, the eccentric enigma that is Mr. Devlin Pierce.
Cruel? Perhaps. Deceitful? No. I’ve never lied to them. It’s all in the terms, clear as the night is long. If only they read the fine print.
But they’re far more interested in getting in the door, hobnobbing with the cream of the California crop: actors, models, singers and rappers, professional athletes, the occasional tech billionaire. Not to mention the latest strain of nouveau riche—the influencers.
I’m still not exactly sure how they make their millions, but they seem to believe I’m one of them—beautiful, entertaining, ostentatious, attention-seeking.
The ruse has worked out well for me. Far better than the previous century’s attempts to infiltrate the close-knit circles of the morally bankrupt: politicians, mafia henchmen, clergy.
Not my style, friends. Look at this face—the face of a prince. Social media stardom is a much better fit. The wild parties? Just an added perk. Icing on the Devil's food cake, so to speak. And normally, I’m the first one in line for a bite.
