The Baker's Guide to Risky Rituals

by Kathryn Moon

  He grunted. Damn her.

  Fucking quiche was amazing. Salty and spicy sausage, sweet apple, acidic goat cheese. His stomach purred.

  “Heavenly, isn’t it?” she asked, laughter vibrating in her shoulders.

  Damn her again, he wanted to smile. “Not sure the puritans above would approve,” he said instead.

  Which was a lie, but that was what he excelled at. Heaven would give its left nut to get its hands on Josie Benoit and her cooking. If he had a proper heart, it might have warmed from the tastes on his tongue alone. As it was, the one he’d invented was having a strange kind of spasm. Maybe she’d poisoned the chocolate.

  “What are you and your crew doing in Sweet Pea?” she asked.

  “Administrative work.” Bell shrugged as she stared back at him, expression blank with disbelief. He took a slurping sip of the chocolate.

  “I don’t know if I believe your kind of administration doesn’t include murder in its repertoire,” she said, frowning down at the table, her fingertip tracing the swirling pattern of the formica.

  It might, he thought. Before the end of their stay in Sweet Pea. They might not do the act itself, but it wouldn’t mean they weren’t the cause.

  “And what about you, Cupcake? Where were you two nights ago?” He leaned forward, fork digging into the quiche, his tongue already anticipating its next taste, even as he tried to resist the pleasure of the flavors. “There’s powerful magic in killing, for a witch that wants it.”

  “We protect this town,” Josie said, dark eyes meeting his. He wanted to needle her to defensiveness, but all that frustration from earlier had melted away and her stare was clear on his face, a kind of penetration that raised his hackles. “If you’re here, I guess that means we need to step our game up.”

  “You’re outgunned,” he said, and the words came out as a warning.

  Josie only smiled. “You dunno who I got at my back, demon. Enjoy the food. It’s on the house.”

  She pushed herself away from the table, flitting around him to bus and clean up after her customers. Music turned up over the speakers as she returned to her kitchen, a man’s rasping voice singing a gospel song with a sinful beat to the drums and trilling trumpets. Josie’s humor curled through the air with the music, prickling at his skin.

  Bell was a demon who liked to keep a loose score in his mission: his successes and the occasional failures. He didn’t appreciate that he was leaving this conversation without a clear sense of who had won. He took another deep sip of the chocolate in the small cup and realized—as bitter, rich liquid warmed him from head to toe—that this was indeed a defeat.

  He cleared his table and took the dishes to the bussing station—scraped clean, because defeat or not, he wasn’t wasting a bite. On the street outside, Chad Schmidt the businessman leaned against the driver’s door of a luxury SUV, holding a conversation with what looked like the air until Bell realized the man had an ear piece in.

  “Nah, not sure the deaths will be an issue. If it makes it to the national news, it’ll just drive the price of the property down.”

  Bell grinned and shook his head, heading down the block back to the club. Chad Schmidt could’ve been one of Hell’s finest if he’d wanted. That soul was already well and truly marked.

  Inside the club, the crew was collected together around the narrow kitchen behind the bar, burgers cooking on the grill. As good as it smelled, Bell doubted it would measure up to the meal he’d just devoured.

  “Danny cooks,” Ashtaroth said.

  Danny looked significantly less likely to faint at any moment around them as he stood behind the grill. “Mostly traditional Chinese from my gran, but I can flip burgers.”

  Burgers and Chinese food. Why not? “You know your way around a professional kitchen?” Bell asked.

  “Worked at High Top through high school, but the manager is an ass,” Danny said.

  “Well, we’re probably not much better, but the job is yours if you want it.”

  Danny’s eyebrows rose, and Pie hummed in thought. “You want to run a restaurant? Bar too?” Pie asked.

  “Just beer to start,” Bell said. “We’ll open late and see if we can pick up traffic from Gunney’s. Or High Top’s audience. Danny, find yourself some help in the kitchen.”

  “I want the bar,” Barbie said, rough and simple.

  Looked like there was a new candidate for least welcoming bartender in town.

  “Call it Inferno Grill,” Bell said. He looked to Pie and added, “Round out the details?”

  His second nodded, and then blinked behind round glasses and leaned in Bell’s direction. “You smell like butter.”

  Bell stretched his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. “Went to get food, didn’t I?”

  King Paimon the Great, raised one dark eyebrow. “You did.”

  “Burgers are ready,” Danny chimed in. “We’re gonna need waitresses. Unless…you guys are gonna…”

  “No,” Vinny said, glowering, and holding out a plate with a waiting bun.

  Josie cursed as the ringtone started just as she parked in the guest lot of the country Sheriff’s department. Either Mémé’s sixth sense was working, or Josie’s life was developing shit timing. Both seemed like the obvious answer.

  “Heyyyy Mémé,” Josie said, shutting off her car and staring at the front entry lights of the sheriff’s office.

  “‘Lo dere, Piti bean,” Mémé greeted. “Why ain’t you callin’ your Mémé no more?”

  Piti bean, little bean.

  “I was just picking the phone up,” Josie said, smiling at the croak and roll of her grandmother’s voice on the other end of the line. Mémé made a rude sound, and Josie’s grin grew wider. She rested her head back against the seat of her car and closed her eyes.

  “You sound dead tired, Piti.” The ‘r’ in ‘tired’ turning into a long ‘ya.’

  “I’m a little worn out this week,” Josie admitted. “How ‘bout you?”

  “Oh, you know, you know. Dees ol’ bones got a lotta say nowadays. I won’t complain.”

  Josie would have to call Auntie Nancy and get the truth out of that. Nancy was probably hearing plenty of complaints. And, truth be told, every time Josie saw Mémé’s name on the caller ID of her cell, she felt a little wave of relief that she was still alive. She needed to get back down to New Orleans and see her grandmother before that wasn’t the case.

  “You hear from Ma?” Josie asked, voice getting small as her throat squeezed around the words.

  Mémé sighed. “Not since Christmas, baby.”

  “Yeah. I got the birthday call last year.” Ramona remembered her family every year in December, just in time to call Josie on her birthday and her mother on Christmas.

  “She’ll call ag’in dis year,” Mémé said. “You good though?”

  “I’m good,” Josie said.

  “You busy ain’t you? Got no chat in you tonight.”

  Josie grimaced. “A little busy. But I’ve got time.”

  “Nah, nah. Just givin’ you a ring. I’ll say a word to de Ghedes for you, Piti.”

  “Same, Mémé,” Josie said. Although, Mémé’s words were probably better heard by the family saints than any prayer Josie gave them.

  “Bissous,” they chorused. Kisses. Josie blinked tears away as Mémé hung up. Nothing like taking a call from your grandmother before you had to have an interview with the local detectives about a murder.

  Mark Nolan had made the call that afternoon, asking her to come down to the station for a ‘friendly interview.’ Which meant that the strange, fake ritual site they’d checked out in the woods was probably being looked at in connection with the murders. Josie was just getting out of her car when a familiar face walked out of the front doors of the station.

  “June.”

  For a moment, June’s stare was absent at the call of her name, before she took a deep breath and focused on Josie’s face as they met on the sidewalk.

  “I didn’t t
ell them the athame was Imogen’s,” June whispered, eyes filling up with sudden tears.

  The shock of seeing tears in June’s eyes stunned Josie more than the confession of the lie. “Okay. Did Imogen tell you the bikers are demons?”

  June’s mouth remained open, thoughts spiraling in her head. “No,” she said eventually.

  Over June’s shoulder, Mark Nolan waited in the lobby. “I need to get inside before they think we’re colluding.” They were colluding, but Josie was counting on Mark’s minor infatuation with June to let them get away with it.

  June nodded. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Josie watched her friend hurry to her car, bouncing the heel of her foot against the sidewalk with worry. So they were lying to the detectives. That was never a recipe for success. Josie loved a good mystery story as much as the next person, but she wasn’t feeling fond of being a potential suspect in the case. She made it to the door as Mark held it open for her.

  “Hey Mark,” she said, finding a smile.

  “Hi Jo- Miss Benoit,” Mark said, stumbling over her name as they turned and found two men in suits waiting for them. “This is Detective Bagley, and Sergeant Crowley,” he said, pointing to the two middle-aged men.

  Like Aleister Crowley, Josie thought glancing at the Sergeant. Except now was not the time to be referencing historical dark occult leaders. Bagley was the taller of the two, hair too long around his neck and receding too far back on the top of his head, little black wisps hanging on hopefully to the top of his head. Crowley looked about as un-occult as was possible, with the body of a retired football player. His forehead was dewy with sweat, gray hair sticking to his temples.

  “Nice to meet you both,” she said with a nod. Another lie.

  “This way, Miss Benoit,” Crowley said, and Bagley waited for her to walk forward before taking up the rear.

  Pinned in. Faint panic rose up in her chest. Quit actin’ like a deer in the sights of gators, Mémé’s voice teased in her head.

  “Aww, Josie,” said Deputy Wallabey, a lovely old man who should’ve retired five years ago and seemed to be consigned to desk duty. “Didn’t bring nothin’ for us?”

  “Next time,” Josie said, shoulders relaxing as she passed his desk with a smile. She was herded down a hall and into a small room. There was a video camera in the right upper corner, and a wide table with a single seat facing two.

  She took her spot at the table, facing off the investigators. She even managed a sincere smile as Detective Bagley reassured her that this was mostly an informational conversation since she’d been at the first scene, and gave her name for the record.

  And then Crowley slid a folder across the table and flipped it open, revealing a photo, a selfie, of a young couple with their cheeks smashed together and huge, inebriated, smiles on their faces.

  “Miss Benoit have you ever seen either of these people before?”

  Aw shit.

  “Yeah,” Josie said, heaviness sinking in her chest. “They came into my bakery.”

  “When was that?”

  She sighed, really not enjoying the beginning of this ‘friendly interview.’ “The day before they died,” she said. And then, to clarify before they had to ask her to, “Thursday.”

  June was waiting on the inside steps of Josie’s apartment when she got back home, and Josie gaped at her.

  “Just tell me I left my door unlocked,” Josie said, her brow furrowing.

  June was a heap, wrapped up in an ivory sweater and huddled in on herself. She looked as if she might have been crying, or sleeping, or both, as she waited for Josie to come home.

  “I broke in,” June said softly. “I’m sorry. Did you tell them?”

  “About Imogen’s athame?” Josie asked. June nodded, and Josie released a long breath. “No. Come on. I’m hungry and we need to talk.”

  June shuffled off the step and waited for Josie to pass her before following up to the apartment. Josie opened the door into her living room, flipping the light switch. The small lamp by her couch turned on, blue scarf over its shade keeping the room cool and serene.

  Not many people who met Josie outside of her home or work would’ve called her ‘girly.’ She had a uniform of black she preferred to wear, and it was too hot in a kitchen for her to grow her hair out into its natural curls. But the inside of her apartment was pastels and florals and soft browns. It was cozy, and sweet, and it made her feel at home when she walked in. After growing up with her mom, constantly changing apartments, it was a good feeling to have found herself growing into a space for five years, rather than packing it up every winter.

  June crossed directly to the rounded chair by the window, curling into the cushion and grabbing the blanket off the back. Josie, faced with the crisis of June and the personal, raw feeling left after being interviewed by the detectives, did the one thing she’d always known seemed to offer comfort where it was needed. She went into her kitchen and looked for something to feed them both. The counter overlooked the living room—her bedroom was wonderfully spacious but the rest of the rooms ended up a little cramped—and Josie kept the rest of the lights off, choosing instead to light a small candle on the ledge of the half-wall between kitchen and living room.

  June struck Josie as a woman who badly lacked for care in her life. Seeing June curled in on herself, paralyzed with the tangle of worries and fear reigning in her mind, she confirmed Josie’s theory.

  “Do you think Imogen killed those tourists?” What Josie did not excel at, was being delicate in her conversation.

  “No,” June said, looking up from where her fingers knotted together in her lap. “I don’t believe that.”

  Josie nodded and set to cutting thick slices of carrot cake for each of them. Carrots were a vegetable so that was nutritious, right? If they were still hungry, she might be able to scrounge up something savory. The cake was landing on two mismatched porcelain plates when June spoke again.

  “That doesn’t mean she isn’t responsible, though.”

  Josie sucked in a deep breath, blinked through the shock of the revelation, and grabbed two forks. “Okay. How do you mean?” She crossed to the couch, sitting and tucking her legs beneath her before holding out one of the plates.

  June took the cake and scratched patterns into cream cheese frosting with the tines of her fork as she chewed on the inside of her mouth, words building up in her chest. “If… if the circle we found in the woods was Imogen’s. If she brought something here.”

  “Something like demons?” Josie asked, and June shrugged. Josie’s eyebrows slid up. “Do you think that circle was hers?” June’s brow furrowed and her lips pressed together, jaw working but no words coming out. For once, Josie could actually read her. June’s instinct said ‘no’, that her sister was innocent, but June hated instinct. So Josie decided to throw her a bone. “I don’t think it was Imogen.”

  Blonde hair flicked through the air with the force of June’s head jerking up. “You don’t?”

  “No. I know Imogen could probably clean up after herself, but that girl has juice in her magic. And that circle? Pfft. There was nothing. It was dead. Convincing looking, but no energy.”

  June sagged back into the chair, finally taking a bite of cake. “Mark Nolan said they’re looking at the two sites as connected. Bloody footprints in the same shoe size were found at both scenes. And a smaller set at the murder scene but they aren’t sure if it was just a normal hiker from before the murder.”

  Josie coughed on her bite of cake. “Mark Nolan told you case information?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me the shoe sizes,” June said, shrugging and taking a bite.

  Was June oblivious or conniving, Josie wondered, sucking frosting from her fork. It was impossible to tell. But the questions didn’t end there.

  “Okay so… Imogen. She recognized one of the bikers,” Josie said, waiting for June to meet her eyes before continuing, “As a demon. Like…from Hell?”

  Mémé had always said t
he dead, the dark souls of the world were left stuck on earth, and Josie believed this. She cleansed the homes she moved into, spoke respectfully of the dead, and tried not to let her occasional bad moods lead her to tip the scales in the wrong direction. She wanted to pass on peacefully, not end up stuck in the same old place for eternity.

  Damn. Did that mean if she’d met demons from Hell it was time to convert?

  “Imogen has always struggled with…” June trailed off and then took a deep breath. “She can work such strong magic. And for her, it’s always been about whether or not she can work the magic, not what the magic is that she’s cutting her teeth on. For about six years now she’s been… she really has been trying to…”

  Josie didn’t use words like light and dark when it came to magic. Growing up with voodoo, and all the silly things people thought of the craft, she’d learned that most magic fell into a beautifully wide gray area. Imogen had that quality in her magic, and Josie had always been comfortable with the younger woman and her power.

  “She said it happened before the coven formed,” Josie reasoned, and June sighed and nodded.

  “That makes sense. Wait. What are demons doing in Sweet Pea?” June’s eyes were wide, glowing by the blue light of the lamp.

  “That’s my question! But whatever their reason, it didn’t have anything to do with Imogen. She was pissed when she ran into them.”

  “How many disasters are we dealing with, right now?” June breathed out.

  Josie shrugged and took another bite. “Think they call this kind of situation a clusterfuck.”

  Rosa had Josie’s arm in a vice grip, pulling the petite woman through the crowd at the Banks County Municipal Hall, searching for June’s familiar blonde head.

  “You think everyone’s really here to argue about whether or not to sell Merryweather, or just get rowdy about the murders?” Rosa asked. She tried to whisper, but Rosa didn’t really do whispers and at least five heads turned in their direction to stare.