The Baker's Guide to Risky Rituals

by Kathryn Moon

  “Cheers,” Rosa murmured, her brown eyes sizing up Pie, who seemed oblivious.

  “What’s the rest of the roster?” Josie asked, looking at the other three.

  Bell introduced them. Dante was an alright sort of regular name, and it looked good on Movie Star, although there probably wasn’t much that looked bad on him. Aim, the towering and smiling black man, was a name that made her wonder what he was aiming and where—a possible cause for concern. The last one though…

  “Barbie,” she sounded out slowly, eyebrows raising. “Are you a…fan of hers?”

  Barbie was the unwashed one with a constantly furrowed brow and tattoos up to his chin, and Josie didn’t think he’d chosen the name for irony because he just… didn’t seem to get it.

  “Who?” he asked in a soft grunt, looking to Aim.

  “Oh my,” Rosa whispered, eyes huge, and lips pursed tight to hold in her laugh.

  What was stranger than the fact that Barbie didn’t seem to know his own namesake, was that none of the other men seemed to find it funny either.

  “We were home last night,” Bell said, drawing Josie’s attention back. His smile was a hard edged line on his face, but there was laughter in his eyes. She just couldn’t tell if it was at her expense or not. “I’m sure our neighbors noted our arrival.”

  It would be hard to miss the sound of seven motorcycles in this quiet neighborhood, but it didn’t mean one of the men couldn’t sneak out to the woods on foot.

  “Not a super solid alibi,” Josie said, trying to sort out what she found so thrilling about the way Bell’s grin grew at her answer.

  “Hey,” Rosa said, straightening up off the pillar to nudge her hip against Josie’s, and pointing to the sidewalk across the street.

  Josie followed the pointed finger and frowned. Imogen Byrne was standing in an oversized sweater on the other side of the street, staring at the pack of men between them. Rosa grabbed onto Josie’s arm and dragged her down the stairs, directly through the crowd of men, her round nose wiggling and eyebrows raising at Josie as if to say ‘oh yeah, brimstone.’ Or at least that’s what Josie assumed the face meant, because she definitely caught those whiffs of smoke again while cutting by Vinny.

  “Hey, Imogen!” Rosa called. She brushed up against Pie, smiling and batting thick lashes in his face. “Excuse me, honey.”

  The bikers turned to watch them as they crossed the street, and Josie was just passing Dante—the extra handsome one— when his own stare found Imogen and he stiffened, eyes flashing strangely as if the red light of the police cars had bounced off them, the color matching the warm glint off a copper penny. Even stranger, Imogen’s was fixed on him too. Josie might have thought it was an epic case of eye-fucking, except that Imogen didn’t look aroused, she looked…dangerous.

  “Dantalion,” Imogen said, stepping down from the sidewalk. Josie and Rosa fell in beside her, and Josie thought Imogen seemed to grow in size as she moved closer, putting herself in front of her friends. Imogen’s sweater brushed against the back of Josie’s hand, biting with the static electric gathering of magic.

  “Basement witch,” Dante answered her, his tan hands sliding into jean pockets as his eyes raked over Imogen.

  “What kind of name is Dantalion?” Rosa murmured in Josie’s ear.

  “Basement witch?” Vinny asked Dante.

  This feels like a scene out of a western…or a dance battle movie, Josie thought, and then Imogen turned and looked her in the eye.

  “Dantalion is a demon’s name,” Imogen said.

  Vinny hissed, and the other men tensed. Brimstone, Josie thought. Of course. Bell was at the back of the crowd of men, the crowd of demons, with his arms crossed and a lazy, insincere smile on his mouth. Whatever Cornell and Thurman were up to, Josie was glad they were still in the house for this conversation.

  “How do you know they’re demons?” Josie asked Imogen.

  “Because she summoned me,” Dante said. He grinned at Imogen, and that strange metallic orange flashed in his stare again. “Surprised I didn’t hear from you again, witch.”

  “You served your purpose,” Imogen said in her soft, simple, withdrawn way. Then she looked down and turned to Josie again. “This was before the coven,” she whispered, almost as if in apology.

  Josie suddenly wanted a timeout in the conversation. Shit. Imogen’s athame in the woods and the blood… would Josie really be able to say for certain she knew what symbols were needed to call demons? She doubted very much June would have said anything to her if Josie hadn’t recognized the athame as Imogen’s. This whole night was messy, and Josie wished she knew how to banish demons and maybe Imogen too, just in case.

  “Well, alright. Seven demons,” Rosa said, but her skin was paler than usual, freckles standing out stark on her cheeks. Josie found her hand between them and squeezed it tight.

  “And three witches,” Vinny answered with a sneer.

  “Four,” Pie corrected. “The stitch witch isn’t here.”

  In that moment, Josie would’ve bet on delicate Imogen in any fight. The woman was in front of Pie in two quick strides, her hands loose at her sides but tension running through every line of her body, even the long strawberry blonde hair running down her back.

  “If I see a single one of you take a step toward my sister, I will have you bound up, inside out, in a place so dark you’ll dream of Hell like it’s Disneyland as you stare at your own navel for eternity.”

  Rosa vibrated with fear or excitement, and Josie swore she’d lost her breath entirely. Who the fuck was this Imogen, and where had she been on Saturday nights at Gunney’s? To his credit, Pie the demon only nodded, slow and shallow. He didn’t look spooked, but he wasn’t growling under his breath like Vinny, who was now trapped behind the shoulders of Ash and Bell while they waited patiently for Imogen to step back.

  “We aren’t here to murder the tourists. Your coven doesn’t need to concern itself with us,” Bell said in that soft purring tone of his. Josie found herself locking gazes with him, and she wondered how he’d respond if it was him Imogen threatened. She thought he might only laugh.

  “Your time here is limited,” Imogen answered him. She relaxed and turned her back on the men. Josie saw dark, exhausted circles under her eyes, when only a second ago Imogen had been electrified. Now she was slumping, fingers trembling slightly as she tucked them under crossed arms. “Go inside Rosa’s where it’s warded,” Imogen said. Without another glance, she passed them and took the sidewalk to the end of the block, walking home up the hill.

  “What’re y’all doin out in the street? Beer’s up here,” Cornell called, his hands full of bottles as he walked back onto the porch.

  One by one, the demons turned heel in their boots, strolling up to the palatial front porch and parking themselves on steps and railings.

  “What do we do?” Josie whispered to Rosa. Her own mind was reeling. Demons. Demons from…Hell?

  How many other places are they coming from, Josie?

  “I’m not locking myself inside and leaving Cornie and Thu with a pack of demons, even if there are police down the street,” Rosa said, worried gaze falling on her landlords.

  “Well yeah, but, demons. Here? And did you miss the part where Imogen was summoning them?”

  “Past tense,” Rosa said at a rapid pace. “But no, I didn’t miss that. And after that speech, I think I’m a little too scared to ask her why. Come on. Tonight we guard our old men. Tomorrow we tackle…this whole damn mess, I guess.”

  Josie looked at the emergency vehicles at the entrance to Merryweather, and then to the denim and leather clad demons who sprawled around the beautiful old porch she’d always felt so at home on. ‘This damn mess’ was starting to look a little too big to tackle in one go.

  But she would sure as shit be willing to get a head start on it.

  Dantalion was not the kind of demon Bell would have chosen for his mission. The former angel had fallen, not out of support with his brethren, but
in self-interest. But the Great Duke of Hell had gained a reputation in the Bowels for his finesse on the ground, if not his work ethic. For instance, Bell was pretty sure Dante hadn’t actually lifted a single finger to help clean up their club house, but he always looked busy.

  “You wanna tell me what the witch from last night summoned you for?” Bell asked, rolling out the strain in his shoulders from nailing up sheets of chrome to the stripped walls of the club. The secret he’d sniffed out their first night came to an early head when they’d confronted the witches. Of course, another secret had come out too; the witches knew what they were, and Bell felt that was a comparative loss in the scheme of the battle.

  “Something to do with her sister,” Dante said, shrugging and pushing around a table that had already been pushed from one end of the room and back.

  “The stitch witch?” Ash asked. He stood next to Bell, holding sheet metal in place to be nailed to the wall, and he perked up at the mention of the witch he’d asked permission to toy with.

  Bell had granted the permission, but was wondering if that was a mistake. The whole situation was starting to look at little too intertwined, and the threat Imogen delivered to them last night hadn’t sounded idle. If she was the one casting dark magic in the woods, and apparently summoning his men in the past, she might have the skill to throw them into some dark dimension.

  Dante shrugged again, spinning a chair around and sitting backwards in the seat. “Guess so. I didn’t get a lot of details. Just… laid back and served my purpose.” His eyebrows waggled slightly, and a satisfied smile curled the corners of his lips.

  Sex magic? Witches had called on their kind for the like plenty in the past. A quick romp in a sacred circle could boost powers for necessary workings, provided the witch was careful not to smudge the salt or chalk that kept the demon bound. Even Beleth had been known to partake. There were worse ways to serve when summoned, but it wasn’t the kind of magic he would’ve guessed the sugary sweet coven to be working. Which made this pale witch an interesting anomaly, or a dangerous one.

  “I do know one thing though. She needed the magic to bind her sister.”

  Ash’s eyes narrowed. “June’s got plenty of power.”

  “Not her magic,” Dante said, eyes glinting copper. “Emotions.”

  Ash blinked and glanced at Beleth. So that was what had the stitch witch so bottled up.

  “Can you unbind her?” Beleth asked. That might make for a curious influence.

  “Not without direct orders from the caster,” Dante said. He pushed himself back out of the chair, stretching.

  Ash grunted and frowned. “Could make my work difficult,” he said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. You and Dante find out what the binding is about. Maybe unwrapping the stitch witch is exactly the kind of project you need,” Bell said, rearranging the battle pieces in his head.

  Ash nodded and left to follow and quiz Dante, and Bell put down the nail gun, stepping back from his work. The club was coming along. The burgundy was gone, and Ash had done some kind of bar top glass mosaic with the lamps Bell let Barbie shatter. The pool table was gone, and the old chairs were out, replaced with painted, black, wooden seats that Ashtaroth had set his mind to. Low-wattage bulbs hung without covers, turning the room slightly orangey. As a space it was underdone, but more than that and it would’ve started blending in with the town’s love of excessive decor.

  “It’s an improvement,” he said to Pie, who’d just finished laying the refurbished wood flooring.

  “The club needs members,” Pie said, watching the door.

  As if Bell’s fellow King had conjured the sight, out on the street a motorbike came stuttering into view, its rider jerking the machine into a parking spot in front of the club. Off the seat rose Danny Lin—just out of high school and working at the hardware store. The kid was shy and appeared to be terrified of every single member of the Hell’s Bells MC. But he had shown up, which was more than Bell could say of anyone they tried to recruit out of Gunney’s.

  “Give him something useful to do,” Bell said. “I’m going to grab some food.”

  “We need to figure out what we’re doing with this space,” Pie said.

  “After I get back.”

  Pie nodded and headed for the front door where Danny was taking an extraordinary amount of time to work up the nerve to come inside. Bell slid out the back, letting the door click shut behind him. For once, the sun was not shining in Sweet Pea. He stretched in the empty alley, his bones making satisfying and unnatural cracking sounds, wanting to burst free of the skin he’d invented for himself. The snap and creak of joints was followed by a growl of hunger in his gut, and Bell grimaced.

  Human forms were so needy.

  His stomach growled again, and he did a last twist to work the kinks out in his spine. He’d cut up the alley, see what smelled good on Main Street, and avoid the worst of the friendly local traffic. Except everything smelled like grease, or the burning of espresso beans behind the cafe. The best thing about being out of the Bowels again was having taste buds, and he didn’t want to waste them on trash. He almost gave up the search—he may have a hungry human form, but he was a demon and there was no starving to death in his future—when sweet pastry and spice and vanilla floated over the roofs of the shops.

  There was an animal sound from his gut. He might be willing to starve, but his stomach was not and it had just made up its mind. Bell ducked out of the alley and turned the corner back onto Main. Josephine’s was just two doors down, and from this side of the street none of his men would see him slipping inside.

  They’ll smell the sugar when I show up again. But so what? He was the leader of this mission. If he wanted to corrupt a witch for a bit of fun on the side, that’s what he’d fucking do. He steadfastly ignored the risks he’d considered just minutes before.

  The bells on the front door were sweeter as he walked in this time, music preceding his arrival. That didn’t stop the woman behind the counter from going stiff with awareness, her back facing him. A blush of color rose up out of the collar of her black t-shirt, right into the close shave of hair on her head.

  The shop was busy. It was Saturday, and there were young girls crowded around one table, two older couples at the others, and a few people in line at her counter. The flavor of the air was wistful, full of daydreams and fond memories and the delicate joy of cheating on a diet. Bell popped the daydreams like iridescent bubbles floating in front of his face, and then frowned as they popped right back up again.

  Pre-teens were irritatingly optimistic.

  He watched as Josie forced smiles for her customers, tension in every movement, frustration flickering behind her eyes as the man at the front of the counter—dressed in a business suit on a Saturday like an asshole—debated on what to order. Her left shoulder bobbed slightly as she waited, her heel popping against the floor with impatience.

  “You don’t have a gluten-free option for the croissant?”

  “Just the scones, cookies, and muffins,” Josie bit out, and when the businessman’s stare turned to her she flipped on that tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The man turned back to the case, ‘hmph’ing, and the smile vanished just as quick.

  Bell bore a stare into the back of the man’s head, digging for information.

  Chad Schmidt, property developer, did not have food allergies, but he thought he could probably put a shop like Josephine’s Bakery out of business if he grabbed the land rights to Merryweather in the inevitable sale. He’d make a ritzy complex of shops and rental homes inside of the scenic site, redirect the money flow of tourism there instead of on quaint little Sweet Pea’s Main Street, and the local businesses would get crushed beneath. Exactly the kind of player in the long game that Bell needed.

  “Three croissants and a gluten-free blueberry scone.”

  Josie was quick to bag the order, as if she already knew what the man would say. Bell watched the man head for the door, raising the paper bag up to his
nose and taking a whiff. Schmidt was a man in his late forties trying to look in his early thirties, with dyed blond hair and a fading tan. One sniff of pastry and something was softening in his expression, that bubble of contentment building inside of him. Bell squashed it out and stepped forward in line.

  When she had served her local customers with the efficiency of predictable orders, and the cluster of young girls had left their table empty and full of dishes, Bell reached the front of the line. Josie didn’t bother with a smile, he covered her sight of the rest of the shop and no one could see her openly glaring up at him from behind his broad shoulders.

  “What do you want?” she said, quiet enough for privacy.

  “Food.” She raised one eyebrow. Her question remained. “Surprise me again,” he said.

  And then, in a somewhat embarrassing moment for him, his stomach growled loud enough for the whole shop to hear, echoing off the tile. Her lips quirked. “Okay… go sit. I’ll bring it out.”

  The older couples were on their way out, their dishes also left sitting out on the table. Bell grabbed himself one of the last clear tables and watched the kitchen witch behind the counter. They were alone in the shop, and rather than her tension ratcheting up, it was slowly dissipating. Either he was losing his edge, or he wasn’t what bothered her.

  She joined him at the table, a slice of quiche on one plate, and a cup and saucer of steaming, dark liquid in the other. Drinking chocolate. Bell’s mouth watered. The chocolate croissant she had served him before had been a kind of decadence Hell only dreamed of, bitter and sweet, flaking and crisp on the outside and still warm and melting inside. The drinking chocolate was so much worse. It slid onto his tongue like a caress, spice immediately tickling the back of his throat. It was barely sweet, closer to coffee than chocolate, and he felt as though he was fighting a losing battle trying to keep himself from showing any enjoyment.

  He was. He lost the battle, eyes sliding shut briefly. When they opened again, the witch was smug, relaxed in the chair across from his, her eyes bright with triumph. He ignored her and picked up the fork, digging into the quiche and taking a bite as if he could exorcise the delight of the chocolate.