The Baker's Guide to Risky Rituals

by Kathryn Moon

  “Probably both,” Josie admitted, and then managed a glimpse of June as someone sat down. She pulled back on her elbow, redirecting Rosa. “Over there. She’s got sweaters on seats for us.”

  “Course she does. She runs cold blooded, that one.”

  Josie bit off the words in her mouth. June wasn’t cold blooded. She was restrained that was for sure, but there was a beating heart in that thin chest, and it was absolutely devoted to her sister Imogen. But Rosa didn’t know about the athame yet, and since Josie had settled on the coping method of denial—that there were demons in Sweet Pea, that she was a person of interest in a murder investigation, that she maybe-sort-of suspected Imogen of involvement—she didn’t want to bring the topic up if she could help it.

  “‘Scuse us. Sorry. Just left our purses over here. Don’t mind us. Yes, thank you for stretching your legs out Janet, that really helps,” Rosa muttered, her bright orange boots stomping over and around ankles as the pair of them squeezed down the narrow row of chairs.

  “Council really packed in the seats,” Josie said, wincing as she stepped on someone’s coat. She excused herself with the reassurance that that was what you got for not wadding it up on your lap.

  June moved her sweaters off the chairs she reserved as they reached her, but her gaze was distant. “Sit down and look over there. See who else came tonight?”

  Josie sat and followed June’s stare. As if her eyes were magnetically drawn to him, she found Bell on the far end of the County court auditorium, he and his crew propped against the wall like a pack of bouncers at a bar.

  “What do they care about Merryweather?” Rosa said, leaning forward to stare. “Oh lord, I know they’re bad—they’re bad right? But even my abuelita would make eyes at those men, and she is a living saint. Oh! I know! Maybe they’re here because of Merryweather. Maybe it’s like a… a hell mouth?”

  “Yeah okay, Buffy,” Josie said, lips cracking into a smile. Bell caught her stare then, and she jerked back in her seat, staring up at the empty council table at the front of the room.

  “Hell mouths aren’t real,” June said, which Josie found relieving until the other woman continued, “Demons can be accessed from our world, and access our world, from anywhere.”

  Which was just not very comforting.

  “Demons can access my bed,” Rosa whispered, laughing. She cleared her throat. “Just kidding. They’re evil, right?”

  “They’re demons,” Josie said shrugging. “I don’t think they’re here to beautify the neighborhood.” And as if she’d read Rosa’s mind—because the demons, men, were beautiful—she hissed, “Oh, just hush.”

  “You said they claimed they weren’t responsible for the murders?” June asked.

  Josie and Rosa both nodded, and Josie found herself turning to look at Bell again. He was watching her, an almost invisible smile on his face and just enough warmth in his stare for her cheeks to threaten to blush.

  “But they could’ve been lying,” Josie said, lifting her chin.

  “You didn’t have them in a sacred circle, so they aren’t bound to tell you the truth,” June agreed.

  “Just so you know, we are getting some looks,” Rosa whispered.

  Sure enough, when Josie tore her stare off Bell she found a few people in seats nearby giving them curious stares for their conversation. Serves you for eavesdropping, she thought to them.

  Thankfully, at the same moment, the lights dimmed slightly in the auditorium, and the heavy buzz of conversation dulled around the room. County council members hurried up to the table on stage where microphones sat in front of the center three seats. At the center of the group, County Commissioner Laila Wilson took her seat. She’d been the Mayor of Sweet Pea when Josie first arrived, and while everyone in town called her a ‘hard ass,’ it was said with a hearty amount of respect. They’d had figurehead mayors in Sweet Pea plenty of terms before. Laila Wilson may have been an elegant and attractive woman, red hair streaked with fading gray blonde always twisted up off her long neck, but she promised to work and she’d followed through on the vow.

  “Our first order of business is always to thank you all for coming out, supporting Banks County and its members of government in doing their best to serve you. We have a packed house tonight, and we’d like to remind everyone that while we always take open questions at the end of the night, the order of business for this meeting is only to discuss the upcoming vote on the sale of Merryweather Nature Preserve. Any questions regarding the ongoing investigation will, please, need to be held until the end of the evening.” Commissioner Wilson’s voice raised in volume slowly during the announcement as the rumble of protest rose up from around the auditorium.

  “Is the investigation looking for a local suspect?” someone shouted from the opposite side of the room.

  Rosa huffed and whispered, “Sir, did you not hear the woman?” She was an avid Laila Wilson fan after the former mayor made a regular weekly order of bouquets to her home when Rosa opened her florist business, Flora Fresca.

  “Here we go,” Josie breathed as the volume of the room rose.

  There was no hope of hearing an answer from the council, not over the rabble of conversation that followed the man’s question. A gavel banged from one of the podiums and Josie caught a brief eye roll from Wilson, whose hand raised, waiting for quiet like a second grade teacher who knew only a look would quell the riot. Slowly the noise softened, and only when there was a remaining hush of whispers, did Wilson finally lean forward to speak.

  “The investigators will hold a local press conference tomorrow, sharing what they are able to then. Tonight, we are hearing only arguments on the sale of Merryweather Nature Preserve, for and against.” Her eyes searched the crowd and before the roar of questions rose again she pointed to the back of the room. “Richard Merryweather. Why don’t you start us off?”

  “Oh she’s good,” Rosa said, and Josie nodded.

  It was a genius tactic. The only thing that was even remotely interesting under the shockwave of the recent murders would be the reaction of the last Merryweather on the sale of land they had gifted to the county only decades ago. One of Wilson’s fellow commissioners shot her a glare, and Josie thought maybe there had been some previous hope of keeping Richard from speaking up. It did the trick, though. As Richard Merryweather walked up the narrow aisle to the microphone waiting at the front of the room, the audience settled.

  Josie hadn’t totally made her mind up when it came to the sale of the preserve. She knew Rosa was in favor. A great hotel settled within the scenic hikes of the area would bring destination weddings, and those weddings would bring business. No one would ship in flowers when Rosa’s work was already perfection. Josie would probably land a fair amount of trade from that too if she wanted, although wedding cakes weren’t her preferred bake. Business aside, she hated to think of the forest being rearranged and ripped out, even if it might keep Sweet Pea and the surrounding towns thriving on visitors. Listening to Richard Merryweather might sway her vote to keep the preserve out of sale, if she couldn’t make up her mind on her own.

  He tugged at the sleeves of his too-large suit coat as he stepped up to the microphone, one hand reaching up to briefly sweep over the top of his hair, reminding Josie of a high school boy about to have his picture taken. He looked to be about in his early fifties, a sort of average kind of attractive, and she knew from local gossip that he was the last of the Merryweathers, living on the remaining family property just west of the preserve. He cleared his throat twice before speaking and Josie found herself wishing him a little good luck.

  “M-my family, we were some of the first trappers in this region. We gained a lot of land for the growing communities—”

  “From the native peoples,” Rosa muttered.

  “A lot of trade. Good farming. And we were never ones to… to plaster our names on things. Didn’t run for offices. Didn’t try to tell nobody how to live. Just did our best to make this a good place for everybody to set
tle.” He had a piece of paper in his hand, crumpled, which he glanced down to frequently without really seeming to read from it.

  “We had lots of offers to log those hills, but my granddad always thought that would just take the spirit of the country right out of the land to do that. And maybe we weren’t smart or careful enough, but I guess my family just assumed that when they gifted the land to the county, it would be accepted in the spirit it was meant. As a… a gesture of trust, and of y’all knowing what it was worth. I don’t think Everett Merryweather ever woulda gifted you these hills if he’d known that worth would be summed up in dollar signs. So since I gotta say this, I’ll say it. Vote No on the sale of Merryweather Preserve next month. Th-thank you.”

  The applause rose slowly through the room, and Josie felt Rosa squirm uncomfortably in the seat next to her. Friendly support aside, Josie’s resolve was made and she let her own hands join in support of Richard Merryweather as he made a slow retreat to the back of the room.

  “I was gonna speak but now…” Rosa grimaced and shrugged. “I still think the sale would benefit the town.”

  Josie shrugged. Maybe it would and maybe it would just be a shopping complex or a hotel or some kind of gimmicky trail-adventure business. She’d vote for the preserve instead. In fact, it seemed as though everyone was having trouble working up the courage to speak up after Merryweather.

  A hard elbow jabbed into Josie’s ribs and she jumped in her seat, twisting to face June. “Watch,” June whispered, nodding her head to the other side of the room.

  One of the bikers—it took Josie a minute to remember, but it was the big redhead named Vinny—paced down the length of the room and then crouched down at the corner of the seated area. A moment later a tall woman with a swinging blonde ponytail and eyeshadow up to her eyebrows, stood from her seat in the center of the pack, and marched up to the microphone, taking it in trembling hands with long electric blue nails.

  “All due respect,” the woman began, and Josie’s fingers wrapped around the seat of her chair, bracing for impact. “But I’m from Damsville, just opposite little Sweet Pea on the preserve, and it took me twenty minutes to drive here tonight. There’s not a single highway within ten minutes of Damsville, which means we see zilch of the tourist traffic. Our businesses have been withering for those same decades that Merryweather’s been in the county’s hands.”

  A cheer rose up from the corner of the room where the woman had been sitting, and Josie turned to watch Vinny slide back against the wall amongst the other demons.

  “What’s it say that the demons are lobbying for sale of the preserve?” Josie whispered, studying the seven men along the wall.

  “Welllll shiiit,” Rosa sighed, and slumped in her seat.

  Bell caught Josie’s gaze again, one eye winking at her.

  “It says we need to find out why,” June answered.

  “You want to do what?” Imogen asked them.

  June, Rosa, and Josie were crowded together on the top step of Imogen’s porch, the house dark behind the woman blocking their way through the door.

  “Summon a demon,” Josie repeated.

  Imogen’s stare turned to focus on June. “You aren’t serious.”

  “We are,” June said.

  The sisters stared at one another, and Josie couldn’t tell if they were reading each other’s thoughts, or if they were so in tune that they could communicate beyond even facial expressions by now. Josie burrowed deeper into her hoodie, waiting for the silent conversation to complete. She hoped Imogen made up her mind and had the heat running inside. October was coming in with a mean cold streak this year.

  “Don’t you want to know why there are demons in Sweet Pea?” Rosa asked, and when Imogen’s gaze flicked in her direction, she added with a light barb in her tone, “Ones you didn’t summon.”

  “Come in,” Imogen said, shoulders sagging with a sigh as she stepped back, pulling the door open wide at her side.

  June entered first, fumbling on the inside wall until a light came on. Josie had never been inside Imogen’s house before, and she wasn’t sure what to expect. Something like June’s cozy and tidy clutter in clean colors maybe, or spaces that were all mysterious and dark. In reality, the open living area she walked into was nothing like Imogen at all; the log walls and dark curtains were dusty and the furniture was dated. It reminded Josie of a cabin she and her mom had rented once in the upper peninsula of Michigan for a summer, where Josie had slept on a lumpy pull-out couch underneath a ceiling fan that wobbled dangerously while it ran.

  Imogen’s kitchen was worse. All the appliances had to be the ones originally installed with the cabin, and they didn’t look as though they saw much use. Josie knew June and Imogen had inherited the cabin from their parents when they were still teenagers, and that after a few years in foster care the sisters had returned to live there. June moved out to her own apartment shortly before Josie arrived in town. Five years later, and Josie suspected the house looked essentially the same as it had when their parents were alive. Josie knew Imogen was a writer, had published a successful book of essays on witchcraft years ago, but she never heard of any current project. There was no evidence anywhere in the cabin of how Imogen lived, day to day, aside from the remnants of a pot of coffee sitting on the counter.

  Imogen shut the door behind them and stood in place, looking like she might be considering running out, her hands fidgeting in front of her as June helped herself to turning on lamps. June stopped in front of the couch where a pile of books were spread out over a low coffee table, dinged and stained with age. She lifted a thin, weathered leather-bound book up from the pile, frown furrowing her brow as she read the page.

  “You’re researching them,” June said, looking up from the book to Imogen.

  “I wanted to know which of them were here,” Imogen said.

  Josie felt as though she and Rosa could’ve walked right out of the cabin, and neither of the sisters would have noticed. She cleared her throat and waited for Imogen to look at her. “Did you figure it out?”

  “I think so,” Imogen said, nodding. She tugged at the cuffs of her sweater and crossed the room, taking the book from June’s hands. “Rosa gave me the names they’re using, and they aren’t great disguises. They weren’t expecting to be discovered.”

  Rosa smiled at the news and went to sit on her knees in front of the table. “Okay, so who do we have?”

  June and Imogen sat on the couch, and Josie joined Rosa on the floor, the book open between them. Josie’s lips twitched as she noticed the electric green sticky notes Imogen had used to mark the pages, contrasting harshly against the frail pages, yellow with age.

  “Beleth, King of Hell,” Imogen said, flicking to the first tab.

  “King?” Josie asked, eyebrows raising. “This is…Bell? Mr. Bad News?”

  Imogen smiled. “That’s…an appropriate name for him. And he’s a King. Hell has quite a few, but he’s definitely a notable one. Specializes in war, strategy, and the sexual satisfaction of the conjurer.”

  Josie choked on air, horrified by the blush rising up her cheeks. Rosa cackled after one look at her, but the sisters at least seemed to miss the joke. There went all Josie’s weak determination to believe that Bell wouldn’t be worth the trouble he might bring with him.

  “And the one called Ash?” June asked.

  “Ashtaroth,” Imogen said. “He’s… interesting. Not one of Hell’s royalty, but not a lower demon either. Specializes in mathematics and handicrafts.”

  Rosa’s laugh grew breathless at this description. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Did you just say the demon of handicrafts? Like…are we sure these guys aren’t just fairies?”

  “The fae are an entirely different breed of trouble,” Imogen said with a completely straight face.

  “Wait. Wait, so. Fae, demon… this isn’t ruling each other out?” Josie asked, perking up. “And the Loa.”

  Imogen shrugged. “As far as I’m aware, most of these mytholo
gies exist. You have experience with the Loa?”

  Josie nodded slowly, but raised a hand in the air, wobbling it side to side. “I was at ceremonies when I was young. I saw the possessions of Loa spirits take my family, but… I guess finding out demons existed too sort of shook my certainty that what I believed was real.”

  Imogen hummed, eyes distant with thought. “I think belief lends to reality. I feel the strength at your altars to your spirits. You aren’t feeding into nothing.”

  Josie sighed and nodded. So it was all just one big tangle of spiritualities then. She didn’t mind that, she liked the lane she’d grown up in, and the one she’d found with her coven. Now she just needed to figure out how to keep this new world of demons from harming the world she loved.

  “So one King, and one crafty demon,” Rosa said, snorting at her joke. “Who else we got?”

  “Two more Kings, Paimon and Vine.”

  “Pie and Vinny,” Josie said, thinking of the ice blond with the glasses, and the redheaded monster.

  “Three Kings seems like…” June trailed off, lips twisting in a frown.

  “Heavyweights for Sweet Pea,” Imogen finished, staring at her sister. “I agree. The others, Aim and Barbatos, are Dukes, dangerous in their own right. Dantalion is a Duke, too. The one who concerns me most is Vine. One, he’s not a fan of witches, and two, he can steal souls without permission.”

  “Demons require permission to steal souls?” Rosa asked.

  “It’s a fairly organized hierarchy,” Imogen said. “Even if Hell’s goals are at opposite odds with Heaven’s, they still operate within each other’s parameters. According to the text, the permission to take a soul comes from up above.”

  “Vinny’s the one who made me the most nervous,” Josie admitted. “He looks like he’s about two seconds from losing interest in playing human and taking out the whole town.”

  “He’s dangerous. He’s also the one most likely to cough up the answers you want,” Imogen said, the warning clear in her voice as she looked at each of them.