by Angie Fox
“You can’t get close,” she said, leaning heavily against me. “The gate’s locked.”
“Not anymore,” I told her.
If she heard me, she didn’t let on.
“Here’s your room,” she said, stopping in front of the second door on the left.
It held an antique four-poster bed with a rich ivory spread and pillows embroidered with birds. The dresser, nightstand, and mirror were all rich, dark wood and very old.
“My room is next door,” she said. “You don’t even need to go out into the hall to reach me. We connect. Like this.” She walked over to a door by my dresser and opened it to reveal a similar suite, done in Oakwood and yellow. “Dimitri’s room is across the hall.”
I don’t know what passed across my face, but my mom’s good mood disappeared.
“I know how you kids are these days and that won’t be happening under my roof.”
“This is a rental,” I said, hoping for a loophole. Counting on it.
“All the same.” Drawing her shoulders back, losing the drunk walk. “You tell him no monkey business because I’m not comfortable talking about sexual things with men I’ve barely met.”
Oh, geez. “You didn’t say that to him, did you?”
“No. He’s not here yet.”
That was strange. He’d had to run a quick errand for his clan, but he should have been here by now. I hoped he was okay.
Her face pinched. “You tell him. If he is going to marry my daughter, he needs to keep his Johnson in his drawers.”
Suddenly I wished the house were cursed so the floor could swallow me whole.
“Don’t get too worked up until you meet him. Okay?”
She nodded one too many times. “When he gets here. When is he going to get here?”
“Soon.” I hoped.
I didn’t know what had happened to the groom.
Chapter Six
Dimitri should have arrived by nightfall. He wasn’t answering his phone, or my multiple texts.
Something had to be wrong.
But there was nowhere to go. Nothing I could do about it. And so I sat out on the front porch, waiting.
It was the curse of being a demon slayer. I didn’t worry about traffic jams or the chance that he’d lost his cell phone or gotten it wet. My mind was filled with…other things.
The cool evening air cut through the thin fabric of my dress, and I rubbed at my chilly arms. What I’d give for a sweater. Or for my fiancé to appear from around the curve in the long driveway.
Laughter and general mayhem from the tea-turned-karaoke party filtered out into the night. I didn’t even want to think about what else they might be doing in there. The Darjeeling was certainly flowing.
I stood and immediately regretted it as the chilly air blew straight up my dress. I paced to keep warm.
It didn’t help.
I was checking my phone—again—when there was a rustling in the bushes to my left. I turned quickly and relaxed as a knobby head appeared.
“Lizzie!” My dog went from zero to sixty as he clambered out of the bushes and up the front steps. “I was looking for you!”
I reached out and scratched the wiry fur on his back. “You thought I might be hanging out in the hedges?”
Pirate mulled that over for a second. “Nah. I just smelled something. You know I had to check that out. Now I don’t want to alarm you, but we have to get inside. I smell bacon, cheese, shrimp, and more cheese!”
I drew him into my arms. “I can’t, bub. Too worried.” I sat back down on the steps and cradled the dog in my arms. He was toasty warm from all his running around. It felt good.
Maybe it was ridiculous. I mean, Dimitri was strong, fearless. Even if he ran into something terrible out there, he was a good fighter. He could take care of himself.
But I loved him.
I stared out into the black night, trying to see, to anticipate, to imagine the slightest light at the end of the dark driveway.
“Why can’t I relax anymore?” I asked Pirate.
“You and me both, sister,” he said, rolling over so I could rub his tummy.
Technically, that party in there was for me. My mom had come in all the way from Atlanta. Until today, I hadn’t seen her in a year. And the biker witches? Sure, we saw each other all the time, but that didn’t mean I should be ignoring them. “They’re living it up and I’m sitting out here. Alone.”
Pirate nosed my elbow. “Excuse me?”
Okay. So I was sitting outside with a dog.
Had my position as a demon slayer robbed my ability to simply be with the people I loved, to have fun? Had it stolen my life from me?
Pirate wriggled off my lap and curled up next to me on the porch. He rested his head on my leg and exhaled, his warm doggie breath tickling my wrist. “I’d rather be inside eating snacks.”
I scratched him on the soft spot behind his ears. “Me, too, bub. Me, too.”
After midnight, when my back was stiff and my head ached from worrying, Pirate and I made the climb up to my room. I closed my door, blocking most of the party noise from the first floor, and slipped off my shoes. I rested my phone next to my head and let my doggie curl up next to me.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Pirate said on a yawn. “He’s tough.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said, as we cuddled in the dark together. Waiting.
***
I woke to the smell of bacon and eggs. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains and I realized it had to be at least eight o’clock in the morning. And I hadn’t heard from Dimitri.
The thought sat like a rock in my stomach as I pushed past the still-warm, dog-sized spot on the bed covers.
I didn’t bother changing, or finding my shoes. I was halfway through brushing my teeth before I even realized I was doing it. Call it force of habit. My mind really wasn’t all there. My head still ached and my body felt like I’d slept on the porch.
His room was empty. The hallway was deserted, but at the bottom of the stairs, well, I should have expected this. It looked like a geriatric slumber party gone horribly wrong. Frieda was curled up by the main banister, her pink suit shirt tied like Daisy Duke and her head resting on the bottom step. Ant Eater snored, open mouthed, as she leaned against the front door. Someone had drawn a moustache and goatee on her face with a black Sharpie.
I thought she had a shiner. That is, until I made my way down the stairs, stepped over Frieda and saw it wasn’t a black eye, but a crudely drawn eye patch. Ah, swell. Ant Eater was a pirate.
There were three more witches crashed out in the foyer. At least a dozen on couches in the sitting room.
I stepped over my Grandmother as she snored away in the hallway to the kitchen.
If I were a good granddaughter, like I was before I became the exalted Demon Slayer of Dalea and was forced to deal with all this nonsense, I would have woken Grandma up and escorted her to bed. But she looked so peaceful curled up, her head resting on a potato chip bag. And really, I’d given up trying to tell the biker witches what to do. It wasn’t the first time they’d all woken up on the floor, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Still, guilt compelled me to grab a couch cushion from the sitting room and trade it for the Lay’s Salt & Vinegar.
See? I was nice. “There you go,” I said, depositing the chips on a hall table. She mumbled something unintelligible.
Maybe she’d wake up sober. I could always hope.
I could use Grandma and a few of her friends to help me search for Dimitri. If only I knew where to look.
At least my mom wasn’t among the snoring drunks. Thank heaven. She might have had the energy to make it up the stairs. More likely, she was the one cooking. Nothing kept Hillary down. She’d keep to her schedule even if it killed her.
Given what transpired yesterday, it just might.
The gray slate floors were chilly against my feet as I nudged Sidecar Bob’s wheelchair out of the way and rounded the corner into
the kitchen.
Dimitri stood by the massive stove, turning a large skillet full of bacon.
He looked gorgeous in a green, button down shirt that matched his eyes and accented his broad shoulders. Over it, he wore an apron that said Dude with the Food.
I let out a small shriek and launched myself straight for him. He caught me by the waist and pulled me close.
“I expected that reaction from Pirate,” he smiled, his angled features softening. “Of course, he only cares about the bacon.” The sound of his voice, the crisp Greek accent, the relief, made me want to grab him and never let go.
“I wouldn’t mind a taste of your bacon,” I said, more interested in him than in any kind of banter. I breathed a sigh of relief and hugged him again, grateful for the solid warmth of his chest against my cheek. “Where were you?”
“I got in late. I didn’t want to wake you up.” He curled his free hand around me and brushed a kiss over my forehead. “What’s the matter?”
“Not a thing.” Not now.
I needed to relax. Be a bride.
Still, I promised myself a long time ago, I’d never take this man for granted.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “If this is how you get when I cook, I’m going to live in the kitchen.”
I ran my fingers through the thick, ebony hair that curled at his collar. “Promise?”
He tilted his head. “What happened to your hair?”
Right. I touched my dark brown ‘do, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “My mom fixed it.”
He touched a lock at my shoulder. “I like your wild child side.”
“It’s still there.” I couldn’t get away from it. “Only now I recognize myself.”
Pleasure tickled down my spine when his eyes swept over me. “Well you look sexy as hell.”
I felt it. I’d waited thirty years for a man to look at me like that.
He leaned down and brushed my lips with his once, twice. I sank into him, teasing the nape of his neck with my fingers, feeling his hands slide up my back and skim around my side until one of his hands cupped my breast. His thumb brushed over the nipple, teasing it, and I felt it down to my toes.
“You’re going to burn your bacon,” I said against his mouth.
“I like it crunchy,” he said, drawing me closer, deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think of anything else either.
His hard length pressed against my stomach and I ground against it, wishing we had a bed or a couch or hell—a kitchen table so that I could feel it where I needed it most.
I slid my hand down to cup him, and he jerked against me.
I could do it. I could take him right over to that table.
If the room had a lock. And soundproof walls. And was located in another house entirely. I trailed up his length, wriggled around the apron and began to slide a hand down the front of his jeans.
“Elizabeth Gertrude Brown!” My mother choked.
Dimitri and I broke apart, only I couldn’t quite get my hand out of the front of his jeans, so he ended up dragging me with him.
Hillary stared at my hand, to us, back to my hand.
I wriggled it out as my entire body flushed pink. This was so not how I wanted her to meet Dimitri. Or Dimitri to meet her.
Holy Hades.
Meanwhile, he’d turned back to the stove, probably to hide his giant erection.
There was nothing I could say to make this better, so I cleared my throat and went for the obvious. “Hillary, I’d like you to meet Dimitri.”
She brought a hand to her chest. “I…I did meet him earlier. He made me a delicious Greek coffee. Thank you, Dimitri. We had a lovely conversation.” She talked as if she were on autopilot.
I stifled a groan. Come on. What did she think I was? A virgin? I was thirty years old. Engaged, for goodness sake.
It’s not like she caught us on the kitchen table—her favorite spot. Sure, maybe I’d thought about it, but she’d actually done it.
That should count for something, right?
“Your mom was telling me about your first date,” Dimitri said, changing the subject as he finished flipping the bacon.
Oh, no. “Mom, you weren’t telling him that.” She did want this man to like me, right?
She winced. “Not so loud.” She nudged around me and found the coffee pot.
Dimitri only smiled and began checking on some scrambled eggs he was keeping warm in the oven.
Yeah, okay, I could tell Hillary wasn’t feeling so hot. Her hair was perfect. Her sleeveless eyelet shirt was pressed. But there was a slight rounding to her shoulders, and she was at least two shades paler than usual.
Maybe I could convince her she’d hallucinated the whole hand-in-the-pants incident.
Or maybe I was getting a tad bit desperate.
Still, I had to know, “What’d you tell him?”
“Little things,” she mused, pouring herself a cup. She leaned back against the counter. “Like the first time you tried to say something romantic.”
“Ugh,” I said, as she calmly sipped at her coffee. I knew where this was going.
“Remember?” she asked, as if I hadn’t tried to forget. “You called your little boyfriend, Matt Peterman. First you wrote a long letter to read to so you’d know what to say.” My stomach tightened. I remembered. “And then you started reciting the letter when he answered the phone.”
Yes. “I can’t believe you told him that.”
I glanced at Dimitri, who was calmly taking the bacon off the stove, as if I wasn’t about to sink into the floor.
My mom didn’t even notice. “Only it was the boy’s dad who answered, and you confessed your love to Mr. Peterman instead.”
Yes, yes. I knew. I was there.
“He handed the phone to Matt,” I said, more to Dimitri than to her. It still stung to think about it.
“But you’d already hung up and ran.” She turned to Dimitri, who thank heaven, wasn’t enjoying the story either. “She’s always been a little emotional,” my mom said, by way of warning.
“I think it’s sweet,” he told her. “As long as you’re not still dating him.” He leveled his gaze at me.
“Ha. No,” I said, amazed at his ability to deflect my mother. Maybe I could take lessons.
And for her information, I wasn’t emotional. I was controlled. Ice. I’d relentlessly fixed that part of myself, to the point where I’d almost lost Dimitri, and the biker witches. Even now, I found it hard to open up.
As I was figuring out how to say that, Dimitri walked over and gave me a hug. He pressed a kiss against the top of my head, then against my ear. “I don’t care if you have a sordid past. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I snickered against his chest, needing him like my next breath.
Hillary cleared her throat, but before she could say anything, Ant Eater’s rusty voice called out. “Hey, eggs first. Then you can get all smoochy.”
A bunch of the hung over witches filed into the kitchen. “You’re alive,” I said.
Barely.
They were wearing the same tea party clothes they’d had on yesterday. Only now, their ribbons were gone, their buns were flopping to the side and their lipstick—while never quite classy—had smeared. They looked like retired hookers.
Dimitri leaned close. “By the way, you’re going to have to tell me what happened here.”
As if I could explain it.
My mom straightened as best she could. Still, I noticed she’d propped one hand on the counter, like she needed it to hold her up. “We went a little overboard with the tea party yesterday. I know I stayed up too late.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I can’t do this like I could in the 70’s.”
“My eyelashes hurt,” Grandma said. She rested her elbows on the table and her head in her hands.
Bob pulled up, with Pirate riding on his lap. As soon my dog saw there was no food on the table, he jumped down and dashed for the stove, as if we’d somehow run out of br
eakfast before he could beg for it.
Ant Eater collapsed into a chair, eyes bloodshot, her chin pointed down.
“Nice look,” Grandma said.
The scribbled-on biker witch glanced at Frieda, who had rested her head on the rough wood table. “I got her beat.”
Yes, well, I wasn’t the one who’d told them to drink so much tea.
Luckily for them, breakfast was ready. It looked amazing. Dimitri had made his special scrambled eggs, with tomatoes and onions and cheese. There was thick sliced bacon and toast.
He served while mom and I handed out the plates. Every once in awhile, he tossed a bacon sliver down to Pirate, who ate it like he’d never see food again.
When everyone had been served, we each took a plate and joined the witches at the table. Dimitri sat next to me, and my mom, directly across.
I watched as Ant Eater dug a small pouch out of her sock. I mean, who wears socks and motorcycle boots with a dress? She tipped some grayish powder into her drink glass and passed it on to Grandma.
Hillary touched a perfectly manicured hand to her forehead. “I think I’m coming down with the flu.”
Somebody was going to have to explain to her about the tea.
Or not.
I glanced around the table to the biker witches, who seemed busy looking at everything but me.
“Creely?” I prodded. She was the one who started it.
The engineering witch gave me an innocent look that wouldn’t have even fooled Pirate. “Eat some bacon,” she suggested to Hillary. “The grease will settle your stomach.”
Hillary picked at her plate. “I don’t normally eat bacon,” she said, eyeing it wistfully. “At my age, everything goes straight to my hips.” She tasted a small bite of eggs. “Oh, my.” She tried another small bite. Then another.
“It’s a Greek recipe,” Dimitri told her. “Strapatsatha. My mother taught me. It’s basically American scrambled eggs, only with feta, tomatoes and some onion grilled in olive oil.”
My mom’s eyes brightened and her cheeks flushed. “You spent time in the kitchen with your mother?”
Okay, maybe these two would get along.
