The Baker's Guide to Risky Rituals

by Kathryn Moon

  “There is certainly an emphasis on…comfort,” Pie said, eyeing a pair of blue velvet settees.

  Bell didn’t completely hate the view of the library on his right, but there was more velvet, and he wondered if anyone would notice if it became leather.

  “Morningstar is having a laugh, or the house was picked for its name,” Bell suggested.

  “Likely both,” Pie agreed.

  A spiralling staircase led upstairs, and Ashtaroth took the steps up, floorboards creaking beneath his weight. Vinny followed behind him, lip curling in a snarl as his eyes took in the paintings on the walls featuring bucolic scenes of rustic farming life.

  “Do you think Vinny knows any other human facial expressions than the scowl?” Bell muttered to Pie, before following the hall to the left of the stairs back through the house to a palatial kitchen overlooking a dense back garden.

  “You know he’s a King too, right?” Pie asked, pale eyebrows raising as he followed Bell.

  “And?” Bell asked. Yes. He was aware of Vinny’s title, and how he earned it; slinking in the depths and grabbing territories from demons while they were storming battlefields and claiming glory for Morningstar.

  “I believe he expects some… deference,” Pie said.

  The kitchen was updated in shades of cream with a vast marble counter. The counter faced a wooden breakfast table, set with a bowl of lemons at the center. The entire property was wholly unsuited to them. Bell opened a tall cupboard to discover it disguised the fridge, which was well stocked with alcohol for their arrival, and he released a sigh.

  “Do you think I owe him deference?” Bell asked.

  “Of course not. But perhaps some acknowledgement of his status, or offering him measures of authority, may make him more cooperative,” Pie said, reaching past Bell to help himself to an unmarked bottle of Pinot Noir. A gift left for him from Morningstar, no doubt.

  “I don’t want him to cooperate, I want him to serve,” Bell said.

  “Then you may be on the right track, but I suspect there will be growing pains. Curson appointed him specifically.”

  Bell scoffed. “So be it.” Curson was the self-appointed left hand of the Devil, but he was not Morningstar. It was Morningstar that chose Bell to lead. Vinny could think what he liked of himself, but until Bell heard from Morningstar’s lips that the newly promoted King deserved it, he would gladly withhold his respect.

  Bell looked out the wide windows onto the garden, and watched Dante appear from the back door, face raised to the night air and his back to them. “What do you know about that one?” Bell asked Pie in a quieter tone. With demons you never knew who might be listening in.

  “Dantalion is a recent favorite of Morningstar’s,” Pie answered softly. “A Great Duke. He’d make a good spy or seducer. Shadow arts, that sort of thing.”

  “Which means we shouldn’t trust him,” Bell said. Spies were only useful if you had the good sense to never let their observation turn to you.

  “This isn’t a territory war,” Pie said.

  “Isn’t it? Not amongst our own kind, but we are here to claim this land,” Bell said. “When missions go south, the reasons are internal. There are unknowns on this team.”

  “Then I’ll make sure they don’t stay unknown for long,” Pie said, nodding.

  Bell was about to leave the kitchen and find himself a bed to land in, when outside Dante turned to face the windows, looking directly through the glass to Bell and jerking his head.

  “Do you want me to—?” Pie started.

  “I’ll handle it,” Bell said, finding the connecting door through the kitchen and then outside.

  Dante was tense, standing in place on the cobblestone patio, his head cocked as if he was listening to whispers.

  “What is it?” Bell asked.

  “There was… a flavor in the air as we rode here. I can catch it when the wind is right. I think it’s more magic, I want to follow it,” Dante said.

  Bell frowned and tried to find the whisper, but he hadn’t noticed anything on the road up to the house.

  “Can I go?” Dante asked.

  “I’m coming with you,” Bell said, and Dante shrugged.

  “Fine by me,” he said, turning and heading around the side of the house back to the road.

  Vanity wasn’t uncommon amongst the Fallen, but Dante excelled at the human form, blending a beauty rivaled by angels with a sensuality better suited to sin. Bell had seen the way the little kitchen witch’s eyes at the bakery had lingered on the other demon, although not with the same tension as she’d had when she stared at him. He recalled the bounce of her walk, like she walked on tiptoes to make up for her lack of height, and the sharp corner of her jaw beneath her ear. Bell had never been particularly taken with human beauty, not when a race like his could explore so many forms, but there was an attraction to her that mingled her spirit with her shape. He would find a way of amusing himself with her while he stayed, even if it was only by antagonizing her into more entertaining and biting remarks.

  Dante led the way down the quiet neighborhood street to a sign at the end of the road marking a path into the forest. Merryweather Nature Preserve, donated to Banks County by the Merryweather family in 1968. Dante was still sniffing the air like a bloodhound, but it took Bell two park benches down on the path before he stopped, the first prickle of power nibbling at the skin of his arms. Dante glanced back, eyes shining like copper.

  “Witch,” Bell said, his voice taking on a gravelly growl of a wolf, face grimacing at the crackle of magic on his tongue.

  “The one from the bakery?” Dante asked.

  Bell hummed in thought. She had been heady enough, the little pastry shop clogged with spice and smoke that had nothing to do with the wares she was selling. This was foreign and unfamiliar but somehow adjacent to the taste of the darkest corners of the Bowels, the secret places where Morningstar left traps for demons instead of the mortal souls.

  “No,” Dante murmured without waiting for Bell’s answer. His shoulders relaxed, and he wandered forward as if the magic in the air didn’t rake down his throat like acid. “This is very different. It’s… it’s dark, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not kitchen magic, that’s for sure.” There was no vanilla and sugar to soften the blade of power in the air here.

  Dante stopped, his back to Bell. “Dark magic isn’t what we were promised in Sweet Pea, and it’s not in the welcome brochure.”

  “Maybe we have competition,” Bell said. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for Morningstar to send two teams to accomplish the same mission, just to see who came out on top.

  “Is it competition if we’re out for the same goal?” Dante asked.

  “It is if we can’t share the spoils of war. Follow the trail.”

  Dante nodded, jumping off the path and into the undergrowth, steps silent despite the weight of his boots, body poised like a wild cat preparing to pounce. Bell followed him with equal care, watching his spy at work. This wasn’t a bad first night, after all. A curious trail of dark magic was a better way to spend an hour than hunting down all the doilies in Grimsby House.

  The moon was trying to shine through cloud cover, creating a blanket of blue veined with silver in the sky overhead. Dante led them far off the path, through briars and up a rocky rise in the terrain. The cloak of electric magic never lessened, it coated the branches of the trees and dusted the floor of the forest like pollen.

  “Can you tell how old it is?” Bell asked, as his throat tickled, threatening to cough.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Dante whispered back. “It’s almost stale in some places. But to be so heavy everywhere and not be recent seems unlikely.”

  “Depends on how strong the working was,” Bell said. What was curious was how this heavy coating of dark magic didn’t seem to diminish the glow of the nearby town.

  Up at the top of the rise an engine purred and gravel crunched. Dante and Bell stopped still, just high enough to
peer over the edge as headlights glowed bright, illuminating a drive above them and a dark cabin tucked into the trees. A growl trembled in Dante’s throat as the car passed them, two women in the front seats, a bright net of safety cast over the vehicle and beneath that, a shadowy glow.

  Bell hushed the other demon, their eyes fixed to the car and gleaming blood red in the brake lights.

  Three witches in one little town, dark magic in the woods. The brief Bell had received had been seriously lacking on the significant details.

  A light above the cabin door flicked on, detecting motion, and one car door shut softly. The woman was tall and slim, with hair an indiscernible shade running down her back in waves to her waist. The car made a soft circle in the drive, and Dante and Bell both stood proudly in the headlights, invisible to the driver’s eye with as little effort as willing it so. But the witch walking up the steps to the cabin turned, eyes fixing to where the demons stood. It was impossible to tell from their distance whether or not she saw them, but Bell felt her stare on his chest like a hand trying to push him back.

  “It’s hers,” Dante breathed. “The magic in the woods.”

  “You can tell from here?” Bell asked.

  “It’s hers,” Dante repeated.

  “What do you want to do? Follow her into the cabin?” Bell asked, just to see what he would say. Dante was nearly vibrating with tension, eyes flickering with fire as his stare fixed on the witch. This wasn’t caution at an unfamiliar enemy. This was recognition.

  The woman lost interest in staring into the woods, and Bell suspected she’d felt their presence rather than actually spotted them. She unlocked the front door and slid inside, never turning a light on, although he caught her shadow passing a large window.

  “I want to go unpack,” Dante said, turning and clomping back down the hill, making no effort to quiet his steps on his way out.

  Bell followed him, content to know that his spy was keeping secrets, and those secrets could be dug up if Bell looked in the right places. The witch wasn’t an ally, no matter what kind of shadow she was casting in the woods. Not if she was keeping company with the other one in the car, who was all brightness and sharp edges and delicate threads of power. Three witches of notable power in one town was an interesting twist to the challenge of the mission, Bell thought. It would certainly make things entertaining.

  The ‘club house’ HQ had rented for the mission was about as qualified for a motorcycle crew’s needs as Grimsby House was for demons. This aside, Ashtaroth hadn’t complained about the ensuite room he’d snagged for himself, claw foot tub included. He liked a big form as a human. Which meant he needed a big tub.

  “Smells like diapers and bad whiskey in here,” Vinny spat out.

  King of Hell or not, Vinny was about two inches from Ash’s last nerve. If the other demon missed the Bowels so much, Ash was more than happy to send him right back there.

  “So clean,” Ash muttered back.

  “He’s not wrong,” Bell said at Ash’s back, frowning at the dense burgundy carpet under their boots. Bell looked at his friend, some of Vinny’s frustration reflected in his black gaze. “Illusions or elbow grease?”

  “Illusions won’t save our sense of smell,” Aim chimed in. He tossed a felt coaster into the air and watched it promptly burn in a great gust of fire, ashes floating demurely down into the carpet, before he ground it in under his boot. Ash snorted at the display and Aim grinned at him, white smile shining brightly against his deep brown skin.

  “By law, we reserve any tricks for our actual work,” Paimon said, examining the shabby bar and scuffed pool tables over the top of his round glasses.

  “Elbow grease it is,” Bell said, a sound escaping him that would’ve been a sigh from any other demon, hand reaching up to comb through silver brushed black hair. “Ash…” He glanced over and then went back to sneering at the space.

  Ash didn’t blame him, the place was pretty bleak. The real estate agent had cheerfully informed them that the small hall had once housed a Loyal Order of the Moose organization, until the senior citizen population of the town was too low to support the rent. The lighting was all low hanging stained glass lamps, and the room was furnished in more burgundy suede, rubbed bare and discolored with age. While Ash would refuse to say the words aloud if pressed, Vinny was right. The vibe of the place was a lot less ‘sell your soul to darkness,’ and a lot more ‘please call Hospice.’

  “I’ll head to the hardware store,” Ash said. It was going to take a lot more than hammers and nails to make the place tolerable, but handiwork was a specialty of the large demon’s.

  “Keep an eye out for any potential recruits,” Pie said.

  Ash nodded and gestured to the room. “You wanna get a head start? Tear out that fucking carpeting.”

  “Just burn the shithole down,” Vinny echoed.

  Aim shot up from where he’d been hunched over the bar, absently chipping at the enamel finish.

  “Don’t,” Bell barked at Aim. “No serious fires… yet.”

  Disregarding Paimon’s warning about their powers, Ash conjured himself a pair of sunglasses and slid them on as he stepped outside. The sun was shining, and there was something about the town that he would’ve sworn made that shine brighter here, all the colors on Main Street more vivid. He’d served missions like this before, dismantling little towns around the world, but never one that had the glow of Sweet Pea. What had taken HQ so long in bringing them here? The roots were going to be deep on this one.

  Down the block from their new club was the local bar, still closed for the day. Hell’s Bells would be making a trip there soon to see what shook loose. There had to be at least a few elements in the local scene that would prove corruptible to the cause. The first footholds would be the most important. Dante would clean himself up, check out the political scene, while Vinny and Pie would find the passions that might be turned in darker directions. Aim and Barbie would hunt down the rebellious youth and souls at the edge of decisions.

  But first, they needed what looked like a halfway believable house of operations for the motorcycle club. The hardware store, a double wide storefront with the family name of Randall’s on the sign, was across the street. And right next door to it, facing Ash, was a smaller shop by the name of Knots and Knittery. He crossed the road, eyeing the window display of elaborately macraméd cording around antlers and driftwood. In the floor of the window were baskets of yarn in rich autumnal colors.

  To the mortal eye it looked like a trendy little craft boutique advertisement. To a demon’s eye every item was built from sigils of protection, prosperity, guarding, and quiet.

  I could use something to keep my hands busy, Ash thought, approaching the grand old door and its lion’s head knob.

  The witch’s knotted wards resisted his entrance at first, tangling around him like a cobweb, but he thrummed power in their direction, mimicking the snag and snap of the magic. The latch gave, hinges creaking as he stepped inside. There were no bells to mark his arrival as Ash stepped into the cozy space. Sunlight netted through the window but the space was bright with daylight from a long skylight on the high ceiling. The shop was still and quiet and clean. No glow of Sweet Pea’s goodness, no buzz of a kitchen witch vibrating with tension. Just peace and wool and quiet.

  “Can I help you find anything?”

  He’d almost forgotten to expect to find anyone until she spoke. The witch was tall—although still half a head shorter than him—and pale, with an expression that was somewhere between startled and glaring. Despite the almost colorless blonde of her hair and the soft shade of gray in her eyes, she blended into the rich colors of wooden shelves laden with vibrant hanks of yarn behind her.

  “Looking for a gift card?” she asked, eyebrow raising. Her voice was lower than he expected, and warmer too, and he liked the sound of it in his ears.

  “I need a project,” Ash said, turning in a circle to take in her stock. The shop smelled of wool, hints of musty silk and a
lpaca in the background. When he faced her again, she was carefully blank. “Maybe a sweater. Didn’t bring one with me.”

  She blinked and then her eyes trailed over him. Vanity. That was the feeling, the faint urge to puff his chest under her perusal. It faded slightly as a frown formed on her lips. Lips the shade of an overripe peach. There was more color to her the longer he stared.

  “I’m going to have a pretty limited selection for you to choose from, given how much yardage you’ll need. Unless you want to fill out a special order.”

  “I’ll take a look around,” Ash said, grinning.

  Her hands slid behind her back, and there was a soft spike of magic on the air, although he couldn’t catch the flavor. “Of course. Call if you have any questions.”

  “Who am I calling for?” he asked as she turned, ready to head for a desk at the far end of the room.

  She paused, lips pursing, and eyed her window wards as if they’d betrayed her. She knew Ash was off, that he shouldn’t have been let inside her safe space here, she just didn’t know how yet, and he enjoyed her frustration.

  “June.”

  “Ash,” he offered in introduction, but was ignored.

  If there was ever a demon who liked a long project, and an intricate puzzle to solve, it was Ashtaroth. He may not have had titles or dozens of legions serving him, but that was only because he enjoyed his humble work. He suspected here in Sweet Pea, this woman might be that work—diamond hard and secretive and cold—and he relished the challenge ahead of him.

  He hunted the shelves. June, stitch witch, had coated her shop in artful magic, worked into every project that sat on display. It was impressive and… Ash paused in front of a lace shawl draped over a hanger, and felt the bite of the warning in the work. The amount of warding and protection surrounding the small space was curious. Was she afraid of something? Protecting herself? The front door opened as Ash found a shelf loaded with local wool, rustic and a bit rough, and silky with the natural lanolin.