About the new competition across the street being just the tip of the shitstorm iceberg, and how I’ve been ignoring the Devil for days because he knows all the things I’m not ready to admit to myself, let alone to the people I love most.
But how can I tell them that Violet Fucking Pepperdine, the so-called witchy, formidable, tea-slinging badass, is currently sitting in the driver’s seat of the Red Hot Mess Express, one more blind curve away from driving it straight off a cliff?
If they find out how dire my situation is, they’ll feel obligated to bail me out. Loans I’ll never be able to pay back—loans they’ll insist are gifts. Picking up shifts at the café, refusing to let me pay them for the work. Sacrificing time and energy they should be pouring into theirownbusinesses and big dreams, not someone else’s.
Help is a tricky thing. What starts off as generosity can easily turn into obligation and resentment. And no matter how genuine and well-meaning everyone is at the start, that’s precisely the kind of stuff that destroys relationships.
Tears glaze my eyes. I love these witches far too much to become a burden to them. To risk it for even a single day.
This ismyhot mess. I got myself into it, so it’s on me to dig my way out.
“Give methat.” I grab the Lemonito pitcher out of Fiona’s hands, filling up my mug and downing half of it in one go.
“Good goddess, she’s mainlining,” says Olivy.
“Slow down, Violet!” Fiona reaches for the mug. “Remember what happened last time you overdid it with the booze?”
“Which part?” I ask.
“The part where you chipped a tooth making out with Ol’ Aggie,” Darla says. “And begged us to let you sleep under the maple tree with her.”
Oh, right.Ol’ Aggie being the cast-iron statue of Agatha Wayward, the witch who sacrificed the last of her magic to protect the Bay from malevolent forces back in Ye Olden Times. To read the human history books, her three cousins (men, of course) were the real heroes, planting the trees and laying the bricks and brokering trade agreements with the neighboring villages that allowed Wayward Bay to thrive.
But Aggie worked tirelessly on another front, ensuring that women could vote and run for local office, that we could hold property in our own names and work outside the home without permission from husbands or fathers. That’s the bit that finally earned her the statue in Founders’ Grove in the town hall courtyard, along with the official title as a founder, a hundred years after her male counterparts had received the same accolades.
But the witches here… We know the rest of Aggie’s story, too. The magical battles she fought. The secret coven she united, the rituals they cast beneath the very maple trees that protect her statue now, ensuring our town would always be a safe haven for witches and other magical folk.
Her magic is still here with us, buzzing through every tree and rock, heard in the caw of every crow. It calls us here, from all the various places we’ve come. It reminds us that no matter how lonely we may feel, as long as we’re true to ourselves as women of the craft, we’re never really alone.
Aggie’s statue was just dedicated last year.
Hence the upwelling of love I felt on that particular occasion.
“I wasn’t making out with her,” I clarify now. “Just showing my appreciation.”
Olivy laughs. “You literally threw yourself at her like a common hussy. I’ve got the video to prove it.”
“In my defense, it wasfaeriewine.” I down the last sip, my head swimming pleasantly, money worries fading away. “Someone should’ve warned me.”
“Everyonewarned you,” says Emmie. “Including both grooms, the entire wedding party, us, the fae bartender, and the waiver you signed before ordering a drink off the ‘special’ menu.”
“Consider me warned anew.” I hold up my mug. “No more making out with statues. I promise.”
“You sure?” Fiona’s brow crinkles with concern, the humor fading from her gray eyes.
“I’m sure.” Ignoring the Star and the Devil both, I nod for Fiona to load me up, liquid courage for the win. “Unless you’re suggesting VioletFuckingPepperdine, slayer of the competition and glasses-wearing badass, can’t handle one more drink.”
Chapter Four
DEVLIN
I decide not to smite the filthy intruder. On account of me being magnanimous and him being my best mate.
“Piss off, Finn,” I offer instead, but my tone is giving more exhaustion than ire, which Finn takes as an invitation. Pouring two glasses of bourbon from the bar, he scans me from head to toe and says, “I can’t recall a night when you’ve remained in your bathrobe so late into the festivities. Are you getting old and impotent?”
“I’mrelaxing. At least, I was.”
“Relaxing. At an orgy. I see.” He sips his drink. Adds a bit more from the bottle. “Shall I fetch you a blanket as well? A glass of Metamucil and some cream for your arthritic cock, perhaps? A supple young lass to help you rub it in, sparing you the indignity of—”
