Tea with a Demon

  A Cursed Candy Story

  Cate Lawley

  Contents

  Prologue

  Tea with a Demon

  EXCERPT: Cutthroat Cupcakes

  Also by Cate Lawley

  About the Author

  Prologue

  All Things Magical and Bumpy Things in the Night

  Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a woman with a great-aunt and a great-aunt with a book…

  * * *

  It was time to pitch my idea to my great-aunt. She’d made this cool thing, and it was just kind of sitting there. Underutilized, gathering dust. Not quite ignored—but almost.

  Since I was feeling a little on the underutilized side myself right now, it seemed like the perfect project. Work wasn’t challenging me, and I’d stashed a little nest egg. Enough that I could quit, take a break for a personal project, and then look for another gig.

  But I wasn’t quitting my job unless I could sell her on the idea. I could and I would, because it was a great idea. I picked up my phone and made the call.

  “Hey, Aunt Griselda.”

  “Trixie! My favorite niece. Lovely to hear from you.”

  Total fib. Her favorite niece was my sister, Tish. I didn’t hold it against her. Tish would be my favorite niece, too. Tish was the perfect witch with the perfect job and the perfect husband, and yet she wasn’t too perfect as a person. Everyone adored Tish.

  After a few preliminaries—Were her cholesterol numbers improving? Was she back to gardening yet? Was she making her daily walk?—I said, “I was reading Magical and Bumpy last night.”

  “Oh?” The curiosity in her voice was one hundred percent manufactured. My great-aunt, affectionately known as Aunt Griselda by Tish and me (Grizzie to her contemporaries), had a touch of the sight.

  Every witch family had its magical strengths, and a strong sense of intuition ran in my family. But Aunt Griselda’s magic was more than run-of-the-mill intuition. She had the supercharged variety that came with visions.

  What I wouldn’t give for the occasional peek into the future, however opaque. Maybe I’d have avoided my last three disastrous romantic entanglements.

  “You knew perfectly well I was calling, didn’t you? And why.”

  “Might have, yes.” A touch of humor colored her voice. “Go on, then. Ask.”

  “I’d like to put Magical and Bumpy online.”

  “Like an e-book?”

  So she didn’t know all the details. Also, how cool was it that my seventy-nine-year-old great-aunt knew about e-books?

  “I can do that, if you’d like. But I was thinking more along the lines of a website. A wiki, if you’re familiar with the term.”

  “Hmm. If that’s a fancy word for an encyclopedia when it lives on the internet, then yes.” I could hear the tap of her nail on her kitchen table as she considered my proposal.

  “We could create a paywall so only subscribers can have access, if you want it to generate income, but I thought—”

  “No. If we do this, we make it free.”

  I smiled. That was exactly what I was hoping she would say.

  Witches didn’t have special schools. We didn’t have universities of magic. We had family mentors who passed along knowledge to the younger generations.

  It worked relatively well, so long as a witch’s magic was spotted in a timely fashion and there was a suitable family mentor to provide training. And it worked best when a witch’s magic ran true to their bloodline. My family had a knack for potions and intuition magic. We also had a lot of magic in our family, meaning almost everyone in the family was a witch. With such magical abundance, it was unlikely that magical inclinations in our youngsters would go unspotted.

  On the other hand, poor cousin Seth. He felt like he didn’t fit in with the rest of us, and that was true. He was the only family member in my generation who wasn’t a witch.

  As for fitting in… My sister Tish had married a brewmaster. What was beer other than a potion without magic? Well, mostly without magic. And intuitive witches were drawn to the service industry, so her job running the tasting room of her husband’s family brewery was a perfect fit. Tish was the perfect Looney. Except she was married, so now she was the perfect Smith. (On the day of her wedding, I told her I was more envious of her name change than her charming husband. She thought I was joking.)

  While I’d inherited the family intuition, I hadn’t gotten a jot of the Looney potion skill. Though I could make a mean cup of coffee. It seemed coffee, unlike beer, wasn’t a potion by another name. Coffee was its own fantastic and wonderful thing.

  Coffee-making and creature-spotting, or creature-tracking to be more accurate—those were my unique aptitudes. That second one I’d only recently discovered, and it certainly didn’t run in my family.

  “You still there, pumpkin?”

  I rolled my eyes. My hair was not orange. I was a redhead, not an orangehead. I didn’t love that nickname—but I did love Aunt Griselda, and she only ever spoke to me with affection in her heart. “Yep. Still here. And I’m thrilled you’d consider a free option. I think a lot more people could benefit from the knowledge in Magical and Bumpy if it was made available online.”

  “But…?”

  Of course, she could sense my hesitation. “Uh, it’s about your sources.”

  She laughed. “What about them? They were the best I could manage.”

  But she knew what I meant. She’d interviewed other family mentors—they were the most knowledgeable of witches—and studied what books there were. She’d worked to parse myth from fact and done a good job of it. That was why All Things Magical and Bumpy Things in the Night, even with its comical title, had intrigued me for so long.

  Initially, I’d appreciated the unique content and the range of the information, and then, when I’d stumbled upon my own special brand of magic, the insight it had given me into my unique magical ability.

  “We can do better.”

  “Oh?” And now there was more than curiosity in my great-aunt’s voice. Now, there was excitement.

  “Have you ever met a dragon, Aunt Griselda? Or a demon? Or come close to those small furry things that live in trees and pretend to be squirrels but are really related to fairies?”

  “No dragons, no demons, and no furry fairies—not up close. Are you suggesting we venture forth and try to find some of these creatures?” There was the excitement again.

  “I’m saying I know how we can meet some magical things and maybe some bumpy things in the night.”

  “How? How would we find them? I’m almost eighty and never met a demon once.”

  “About that. There’s something I haven’t told you. About my magic…”

  * * *

  And thus began the adventures of Trixie and Griselda as they tracked and catalogued magical things, and also, whenever possible, bumpy things in the night.

  Tea with a Demon

  Case Study: Demon

  “Demon!” Not the most coherent of phone greetings, but this was Aunt Griselda. She’d understand.

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Mine.” I bounced on my toes in excitement. We’d decided in advance to meet at whoever’s home was closest to the creature’s location.

  “I’m fetching my cane as we speak. You’re okay to transport me to your house?”

  Magical transport when stressed? No problem. Only because I’d practiced. Ever since we’d hatched our plan, I’d been like a husband with a pregnant wife about to pop with their first: waiting for the big day and going through the routine over and over again.

  Instead of tagging a person for transport (that was a bit beyond my skill; I was no witchy transport expert), I’d tagged Aunt Griselda’s cane. She barely used it anymore, but it wasn’t a bad prop to have handy when confronting unpredictable creatures and much, much easier to tag for transport than a live person.

  “Absolutely,” I said with barely contained excitement. “Just say when. And be careful.”

  My great-aunt had a knee replacement six months ago. She was doing really well, keeping up with her exercises, spending a little time on her stationary bike and walking every day. She was a beast when it came to her workouts. She wasn’t about to rely on magic to get her through rehab. She knew the effort she put in would come back threefold. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hurt herself if she was flustered or in a hurry.

  “Go, go, go, go,” she chanted into the phone only seconds later, as if this was some military op.

  I grinned, then yanked her across several miles of traffic-filled Austin to my house.

  “Oof,” she grunted as she arrived. My landings weren’t the best, and her house was at the outer limit of my transport reach.

  I steadied her with a hand on her elbow. When she tapped her cane on the ground and grinned, I said. “Ready?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m more than ready. What an adventure!”

  Except our adventure was destined for delay. Our demon had gone walkabout.

  It had first appeared at a local cemetery. Not a good sign. A witch fiddling with prohibited spirit communication had likely allowed it to slip through. But it hadn’t lingered amongst the gravestones.

  We tracked it to…a tea shop.

  As I pulled into the parking lot, Aunt Griselda pursed her lips. “You’re sure? A tea shop? Maybe you need to calibrate your antennae.”

  There was no calibrating. When a new creature came into the area, my internal radar pinged. I got this funny feeling. Higher than my stomach but lower than my heart. Took me ages to figure out I didn’t have chronic indigestion and even longer to recognize the nuanced differences between the types of creatures that pinged on my magical radar.

  Thus far I’d only been able to pinpoint about half a dozen varieties. Since I had to track them down and then identify them using All Things Magical and Bumpy Things in the Night, my great-aunt’s compendium of magical creatures and items, I figured a handful of IDs in a few months’ time wasn’t so bad.

  As for calibrating my antennae, it just didn’t work that way. The closer I got to the creature, the stronger the feeling, until I had a sort of aha moment and just knew that he, she, or it was within spitting distance. Okay, slight exaggeration. Even cousin Seth, the Looney family spitting champion, was only good for a solid four feet. I’d say my aha happened within twenty or thirty feet.

  And here was a funny quirk: I wasn’t a walking Who’s Who of creatures in the greater Austin area. After a while, they simply faded off my radar. Initially, I thought it was a question of range, that creatures I no longer sensed had left the vicinity. But through trial and error—and repeated sightings of a particularly mischievous furry fairy in my neighbor’s yard—I realized that wasn’t true.

  I suspected my magic treated these lingering creatures much like a bad smell, and that I’d become the magical version of nose-blind to them. Sensory adaptation was the more technical term. It probably kept me from being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of creatures that I’d otherwise have pinging on my radar.

  I didn’t take offense at my great-aunt’s skepticism given my own slow acceptance of the facts. It had taken six months of supposed gastric issues before I’d recognized that magic was afoot. My discovery had taken so long that I’d come to believe the chalky taste of chewable antacids was simply a fact of life. Odd how discovering the cause of the sensations changed their effect on my body. What had been a cause of discomfort was now simply information, neither unpleasant nor uncomfortable.

  “No calibration necessary. Promise. I’ve tested my antennae several times.” I grinned at her. “But I’ve never approached any of them. Thank you for agreeing to do this with me.”

  Having a partner in crime made all the difference. When I’d contemplated approaching one of my creatures before, I’d always felt silly or a little scared. With Aunt Griselda by my side, I felt adventurous. And also filled with purpose. We were updating the entries in her guide, Magical and Bumpy. I was thrilled to be a part of creating the second edition and even more so that we were using my newly discovered, oddball magic.

  “All right, then. If you say the demon’s in the tea shop, then we’re having tea.”

  I loved that she was so supportive. Even when I’d originally told her of my eccentric aptitude for finding creatures, she’d simply replied, “How absolutely exciting.” No judgment. I hadn’t told the rest of the family, because their support was likely to be tempered with concern, pity, and a good dose of skepticism. Aunt Griselda had offered unconditional encouragement.

  Before I got out of the car, I told her, “They also have coffee and a really good all-day breakfast menu.”

  Like me, Aunt Griselda was always game for a good breakfast. Even at—I checked the digital clock on my dash—three o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Oh.” Her eyes lit up. “Will you order bacon? And if they have biscuits and gravy—”

  “You got it.”

  It was a deal we’d made long ago, when she’d first gotten the news her cholesterol was on the rise. Not dangerously so, but enough to warrant an overhaul to her diet. We’d agreed that I’d order all the things she shouldn’t have, and she’d get a taste. In return, she’d refrain from eating those items in all their large-portioned glory.

  Three o’clock on a Thursday in a location known to provide caffeine, comfortable seating, and internet access yielded a tea shop full of laptops.

  All it took was a quick scan to reveal a single patron who was enjoying his tea—a full pot—without the distraction of a screen. Dark hair, clean shaven, neatly dressed, and tall with a muscular build, that was our guy. His shoulders were nearly as wide as the armchair he’d chosen, and his knees knocked up against the coffee table where his meal had been laid out. And yet, he appeared completely at ease.

  With a head tilt and slight frown Aunt Griselda whispered, “Him?”

  I nodded but shared her skepticism. He was really, really attractive. As in, I didn’t hit on men, but I might consider it in his case…if he weren’t a demon.

  But he was a demon, and we were here to learn more about his kind. This wasn’t at all the scenario my great-aunt and I had envisioned. We’d pictured some light stalking, lots of note-taking, and maybe, if we were lucky, a brief interaction that we’d as yet left undefined.

  “I think we should just walk right up to him. Obviously, he can communicate. He ordered tea.” She leaned forward with a squint. “And scones. Those look delicious.”

  “Yep, I’ll add them to my order.”

  She patted my arm. “You’re my favorite niece.”

  I swallowed a grin. I knew who her favorite was—spoiler: not me—but that was just fine. I loved Aunt Griselda like crazy, and I was sure the feeling was mutual.

  Our demon didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Half his plate was still filled with food. He’d gone for scones, a side of bacon, a poached egg, and toast, so there was plenty there to keep him busy. And he hadn’t seemed to have noticed our presence.

  Our weirdly-lingering-at-the-front-door presence. Good thing this tea shop was more like a coffee shop than a café and had counter service. A hostess would have been inconvenient.

  “Approach first and order later?” I asked.

  “Smart. That way, if we have to make a run for it, we’re not wasting any food.”

  Ever practical, my great-aunt. My reasoning had been that we didn’t want to miss him if he happened to finish his meal and hoof it before we’d paid.

  Arm-in-arm, we approached the big bad demon. Who was in fact big, but looked like Henry Cavill in Superman, so how bad could he be?

  He eyed us, first with wariness and then curiosity. “You’re not him.”

  “Uh, sorry. Were you expecting someone?” I wasn’t sure if I was sad that we hadn’t met his expectation, shocked that his English (American accent and all) was perfect, or dismayed that he’d been expecting a guest.

  “Avoiding someone.” He smiled.

  The demon smiled. At us. And not a single fang in sight. Maybe the part about them sucking the blood of witches and wizards was one of the incorrect tidbits nestled within my great-aunt’s entry on demons.

  He gestured to the sofa situated across the coffee table from his own seat. “Would you care to join me?”

  Aunt Griselda and I shared a glance. I read on her face exactly what I was feeling: yes, so many yesses.

  A face-to-face, sit-down interview so far exceeded our expectations that it hadn’t even popped up as a possibility during our planning.

  I’m sure we looked wide-eyed and eager as we seated ourselves, but this much excitement was hard to hide. We were talking to a demon. Having tea with a demon.

  Or we were about to be, because even though this establishment didn’t have table service, the young woman behind the counter had arrived to take our order.

  Glancing from the friendly waitress to our demon companion, Aunt Griselda said, “Do you mind? I could use a nibble.”

  “Not at all. My treat.”

  He couldn’t pay for us. We were about to interrogate him. And I was going to order a lot of food. “Oh, no. I’m rather hungry and—”

  “I insist.” Then he smiled at the patient waitress. “On my bill, please, Steph.”

  Who knew demons were so polite?

  To protest further would have been rude, so we accepted and ordered. Me, coffee and enough food for an army, so that Aunt Griselda could get her rich foods fix by nibbling from my plate. And Aunt Griselda, a very modest dry toast and black tea.

  How exactly did a demon pay for his meals? Maybe, if he didn’t dine and dash, I’d find out.

 

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