I also draw a dick, because who wouldn’t? A genuine grin graces my lips as I think about how long Sharpie takes to wash off, and how he’ll forget this entire interaction until game day this weekend, when his football mates spot my artwork in the locker room.
“Enjoy your evening, QB One.” A quick smack on the arse, and I send him on his way.
Coast clear, I return to the shadows, slinking past door after door—the game room, the sauna, the home theater, the home film studio—each room brimming with the sounds of laughter and revelry and the unmistakably wet slap of flesh on flesh.
Also, the occasional bleating of a goat, and… is that a monkey?
Good grief, I hope he signed the consent form.
It’s a full twenty minutes before I reach my destination, ducking and weaving to avoid my guests, stopping when avoidance just isn’t an option: another selfie, this time with an upstart congressman. A shot of something pink and overly sweet with a woman matching that very description. The autographing of a bare breast—singer, I think.
And then, just when I’m ready to light myself on fire to avoid another run-in, I reach the elusive door, press my eye to the retinal scanner, and…
I’m in.
The breath leaves me in a rush.
Undisturbed by my demonic staff and magically hidden from human perception, the study is my private oasis when the rest of my home feels like anything but.
In here, there’s no pretense. No deejays and flashing neon lights. No crystal bowls filled with pills. No scantily clad beauties vying for attention, no fellow influencers begging for collaboration opps to boost the so-called algorithms.
Just the stodgy leather furniture and built-in shelves of rich mahogany set against butter-yellow walls. A few portraits painted by men long since dead. The stone hearth and a fire that jumps to life at the snap of my fingers.
My black velvet smoking jacket hangs on the wrought iron coat rack inside, untouched since my last visit, and I slip it over my shoulders before sinking into a chair before the hearth.
Ah, but there’s nothing quite like a fall fire. Staring into the flames, I feel the tension leaving my tired muscles, the knot of worry in my gut loosening.
In the quiet of my inner sanctum, it’s easy to believe I’m not an infamous entertainer. For a moment, I might even pretend I’m not the Devil, either. Just a man enjoying a roaring fire, nowhere else to be, no one around to judge his worthiness and find it utterly lacking.
“So sorry,” comes the grating interruption. “Is all this drama and debauchery boring you tonight, Highness?”
Chapter Three
VIOLET
“Locusts. That’s what the situation calls for. A plague of locusts.” Olivy’s standing at the window shooting daggers at the neighbors who’ve turned up for seconds at Mean Beans, all rocking their free hats from earlier.
Salt in the wound, but anyway.
“We’ll need a jar of crushed beetles,” she continues. “Six rusty nails, broken glass, a handful of graveyard dirt, two vials of blood, and—”
“Locusts are too old-world.” Darla sets down the notebook she’s been scribbling in and taps her chin with the pencil. “Bedbugs could work, though. Ooh! Should I write that down?”
“No!” All of us practically screech. As a writing witch, Darla has a way with words. A magical, mystical, open-to-interpretation way that more often than not ends in disaster, bless her clever heart.
“What about a flood?” This from Emmilou, of Emmilou’s Sweet-N-Savories, who’s never resorted to violence a day in her life (other than at last year’s Haunted Halloween Ball when she catapulted a dozen homemade powdered donuts at my ex, but that was a well-deserved pelting).
“A flood, yes!” Fiona’s stormy gray eyes widen over the lemons she’s cutting up for drinks, and an explosive burst of lightning makes the lights over her head flicker. Peak Fiona, psychic witch and drama queen extraordinaire. “I can see it now. The screaming, the running, the repenting…Verybiblical, Vi.”
“Girls.” I toss my spent apron and dishtowels into the wash pile and sigh. “No one is cursing Mean Beans with locusts, bedbugs, floods, or any other deluge, apocalyptic or mundane. Darla, drop the pen. Olivy, put that jar back. Those are black caraway seeds, not beetles.”
“You never let us have any fun,” Olivy pouts, reluctantly replacing the jar. “AndPeenBeans isn’t going to eliminate itself. Be proactive.”
“Excellent point, Olivy,” Darla says. “Isn’t that what Aunt Joslyn’s always on about? Magic helps those who help themselves?”
Exhaustion settling in bone-deep, I flick my fingers at the open sign, and off it goes. “Right now I’d kinda like to help myself to a—”
“Magic Mojito Lemonito!” Fiona passes me a glass mug filled with something slushy, cheerfully yellow, and piping hot, garnished with mint leaves and a sugared lemon slice.
