I’m positive the woman walked in empty-handed. Positive the dining room was a blank slate when I passed by it ten minutes ago.
But now, soft candlelight flickers across the oak table, the whole thing laden with food. We’re talking about the good shit, too: Mac and cheese with the crunchy top, the creamy goodness still bubbling beneath. Some kind of meat sliced into savory strips, ladled with a chunky, bright-green sauce. Roasted autumn vegetables glistening with butter and sprinkled withherbs. A tiered tray full of pastries and scones with little pots of cream and strawberry jam and lemon curd.
Three glorious bottles of wine gleam like jewels in the candlelight.
So. There’s a sixty-forty chance I’m having an acid flashback, but I’ll say it anyway: Martha Stewart has exploded in the dining room, and I amherefor it.
“Dig in,” Helena says, uncorking a bottle of ruby-red wine with a perfectpop—my mating call. “No problem was ever solved on an empty stomach. Particularly the problem of having an empty stomach.”
She laughs at her own joke.
(Side note: Would it be inappropriate if I asked this lovable old weirdo to adopt me? Is that more of a second-date question?)
I’m already reaching for a scone when Rachel goes,“What… what’s happening?” She’s pale as a dollop of cream. “How… how did you…?”
“Oh, I can’t take the credit.” The woman beams, gesturing around with the bottle before deftly pouring four glasses. “We’ve the marvelous house to thank. Isn’t that divine?”
I swear the house stands a little taller at the praise.
Rachel’s straight-up hyperventilating now—high-value entertainment in my book. Not that I blame her. I’m a little breathless myself, because this fucking scone is an orgasm in my mouth, and also, I just remembered how the house let me in tonight, opening the door when seconds earlier it was locked. The back door did the same for Helena.
Swallowing down another bite of pastry porn, I say, “Am I dreaming? Or are you a real-life fairy godmother?”
She winks at me over her wine glass, eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “You’re witches, girls. Just like your mother.” Her grin lingers for one beatific moment before flatlining. “Andassuming you’d like to live out the week, we’ve got someseriouswork to do.”
two
MERRICK
Ahh, there’s nothing quite like the scent of old parchment to soothe a tattered soul.
Figuratively speaking. A demon has no soul; ergo, the possession of one is not a prerequisite to suffering. The point, however, remains.
The only place I can find peace in all the realms of Hell is in my library.
To be fair, I felt the same way as a living human, but that’s neither here nor there. How does the old adage go? You can rip the soul out of a person, but you can’t rip a book lover out of the library?
Pressing the ancient tome to my face, I give it a final appreciative whiff—Norah Azriel’sEncyclopaedia of Lesser Demons, a scent more resplendent than that of the finest wines—then place it back on the shelf. It’s the last of the “A” authors, now fully catalogued, painstakingly restored, shelved in its proper place. Years of careful, dedicated work—mine, naturally—and it’s only the beginning.
I consult my list. The Bs are next, thousands of them, starting with the old classic,The Art of Torture and Torment: A Love Story, by M. Ballentine. It takes some perusing, but I finally locate it mixed in with the Ts, because clearly the reckless heathens were in charge before I came along.
Running a white-gloved finger along the spine, I gently slide it from the shelf and?—
“Do they like it when you tickle them first?” Warren grins from the other side of the shelf, gray eyes peering at me through the gap left by the book. He’s really perfected his human form—artfully mussed light brown hair, bespoke charcoal suit. Cologne, for fuck’s sake.
God forgive us our desperate clinging; may the old ways never die.
Ha! As if God has ever granted us lowly demons an audience.
“Has anyone ever told you lurking in the stacks is perverse?” I ask.
“No more than caressing books, you old scamp.” Laughing, he comes round to my side and gives me the full appraisal. “You’ve been sleeping here again, Merrick Sutherland.”
“DoctorSutherland, if you please. And nonsense. I haven’t slept in days.”
“Or eaten, I assume.” He shoves a small paper sack toward me, exchanging it for my book without permission. The twin hypnotic scents of sugar and fresh-baked bread waft from the bag, which is the only reason I’m not bludgeoning him with it. Pastries have always been my weakness.
“Hattie made these?” I ask, peeking inside. Chocolate croissants, the Devil’s favorite. Mine too, though she typically reserves them for Him.
