by Lisa Shearin
Baxter Clayton’s prayer wasn’t answered.
The Hellpit was gone, and the pocket dimension along with it, but it’d left its stench behind, which was being explained by a sewer line break.
That was one hell of a sewer line.
* * *
A few weeks later, Kitty’s Confections was back in business. Same building. New kitchen equipment courtesy of Rake Danescu.
I was glad she’d stayed put.
It helped that Dr. Carey had determined in the autopsy that Alastor Malvolia hadn’t died in her oven.
I was on my way to Kitty’s shop. She and I were going to do a much-deserved girls’ night out. I was still staying in the VIP apartment at headquarters while my apartment was being cleaned and repaired. It was almost finished, but I hadn’t decided whether to accept Rake’s offer of a no-strings-attached apartment, or to stay in my old place. After SPI’s cleanup crew was done with it, no one would ever know that it’d been temporarily sublet by a pack of carnivorous baby demons. I would know, but I hadn’t decided if knowing and remembering was enough for me to pack up and take my worldly goods elsewhere. It was a nice apartment in a good neighborhood. I liked my neighbors. It was home. But it didn’t matter how much that bedroom had been scrubbed, how many coats of paint had been put on the walls, or how plush the new carpet was, if Ian hadn’t been there . . .
I pushed all that out of my head. I didn’t have to decide tonight. Tonight was about fun.
Rather than meet at headquarters, Kitty asked me to come over to the shop. She said she had something to show me.
I took the subway and walked the block to the shop. It had just started to snow.
When I walked around the corner onto Bleeker Street, I stopped in my tracks, not believing what I saw in Kitty’s front window.
Gingerbread.
Not just one house. An entire Victorian Christmas village filled the shop-front window. The details were incredible. The houses even had tiny translucent sheets of sugar for windows.
A young family had stopped to admire Kitty’s masterwork. A little boy and girl, who couldn’t have been more than five years old, and were just tall enough to see the village at eye level.
They were mesmerized.
While the children’s attention was occupied, Kitty caught the mother’s attention from inside the shop, and quickly held up two cookies with a questioning look.
The parents smiled and nodded.
When Kitty came out of the shop with two gingerbread cookies in her hand, the kids went from mesmerized to jumping-up-and-down thrilled.
Kitty was pretty thrilled herself. Actually, she was better than thrilled; she looked content, the glowing kind.
I grinned. “Gingerbread,” I said when the family continued down the snowy sidewalk, the kids biting the heads off the gingerbread men.
“Gingerbread.” She smiled and shrugged. “It was time.”
“The perfect time.”
“I’m a baker. It’ll be Christmas before we know it. It needed to be done.”
Truth wasn’t all that could set you free. Gingerbread worked wonders, too.
Yes, her three-greats-grandmother had been that witch, but Kitty had faced her demons—literally—and had accepted that gingerbread baking was part of her heritage, and one bad cookie in the batch wasn’t reason to abandon what you were good at.
“Come on in,” she said. “I have a few things to finish up in the back, and then we can go. I’ll fix you a hot chocolate while you wait.”
Kitty opened the door and went inside. I paused, sensing someone watching me.
I turned to look across the street.
A tall figure in a long, dark coat stood beneath a streetlight. The young family crossing the snowy street saw a tall, dark, and absurdly handsome man. I saw a tall, dark, and absurdly handsome goblin.
“Your new partner’s here,” I told Kitty.
Again that mysterious smile. “He’s not mine.” She continued inside. “Hmm, I’d better make that two hot chocolates.”
“Rake likes hot chocolate?”
“I found that out last week while he was helping with the installation.”
“Helping?”
“Helping. And he’s mad for double chocolate chip cookies.”
I waited by the door as Rake crossed the street.
It wasn’t his usual big cat, predatory stalking walk. Rake Danescu crossed the street like a normal man. Hands in the pockets of his coat, dark head slightly down against the snow that was coming down harder now.
After what I’d witnessed under Bacchanalia, I knew Rake was as far from normal as it was possible to be.
That knowledge didn’t bother me. I smiled. Though I was going to have trouble reconciling the mage who hauled me out of a Hellpit and then helped Kitty close it, and the mage who just might know Lucifer—or at least one of his generals—with the man who loves hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookies.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, yourself. Is Kitty inside?”
“Oh . . . um, yes.” No come-ons? No bedroom eyes? If we SPI agents are anything, we’re adaptable. Just go with it, Mac. “She said she had some things to do in the back.” I opened the door. “She was going to fix us some . . .”
Two steaming mugs of hot chocolate were waiting at a small corner table with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. The store lights were off. The window lights were on, illuminating the gingerbread village, and one of those tiny lamps that you’d find in those romantic restaurants glowed beside the plate of cookies.
Kitty was fixing things, all right.
Rake’s dark eyes gleamed in the dim light. “You think it’s a trap?”
“Oh, I know it’s a trap.”
“Shall we trip it?”
“If Kitty went to all this trouble, we’d better. Besides, I want that hot chocolate.”
Rake didn’t say what he wanted, but his eyes were doing a fine job of saying it for him.
Now that was the Rake I knew.
I took an exploratory sip of the hot chocolate. Too hot. I blew on it. “Thank you for taking care of Kitty’s kitchen.”
Rake nodded. “I offered another store location, but she wanted to stay here.”
“I’m glad she did. Don’t let anyone run you out of a place you love.”
“Have you decided what to do about your apartment yet?”
“I figure I’ll wait until the work’s finished, then go over and see what kind of vibes I get. Homey vibes or Amityville Horror ‘Get Out’ vibes.”
“My offer still stands.”
I reached for a cookie. “I know. And I appreciate it.”
“But you won’t accept it.”
“Probably not.”
“Why?”
He seemed genuinely confused. Maybe a goblin woman wouldn’t feel odd about accepting an apartment from the playboy owner of a sex club. Then again, I didn’t have any evidence about Rake’s playboy status. I’d always just assumed. Maybe I should ask.
I felt suddenly awkward. “I think I’m still a small-town girl. Old-fashioned. At least when it comes to accepting a luxury apartment from a mysterious goblin billionaire.”
The edge of a smile appeared. “I’m mysterious?”
“And that’s putting it nicely.”
“What if I told you that deep down I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
“Don’t make me choke on my cookie. You’re a spymaster. I’m sure you’ve had practice being just about everything.”
“What if I told you I wanted to have more practice being someone your grandmother would approve of?”
“You couldn’t practice enough to fool her. Advance warning: her favorite weapons are a shotgun, a cast-iron skillet, and a butcher knife. Usually two at the same time.”
He didn’t even bat an eye. “Duly noted.”
It didn’t look like Rake was afraid of Grandma Fraser. He should be. Passing a contract to the devil himself for his reading enjoyment was one thing, ticking off Gra
ndma Fraser was just plain dangerous.
I smiled. If that ever happened, I wanted a front-row seat.
“I’ve had plenty of experience persuading women not to kill me,” Rake said.
“I’m sure you have.” I took a sip of hot chocolate. “What about Bacchanalia?”
Rake shrugged. “It’ll go down as another New York club that had its time in the spotlight and then faded away.”
“Or in this case was swallowed by a Hellpit.” Then I snorted a laugh. “I’m sorry; I can’t help it.”
“You’re not in the least bit sorry. Yes, I know. The irony is priceless. A den of sin gets swallowed by Hell itself.”
“So you’re taking that as a sign and aren’t rebuilding?”
“No, I’m taking it as what you would call ‘a blessing in disguise.’”
“Pardon?”
“The reason that Hellpit wasn’t found until it was nearly too late was because I hadn’t been to the club in over a week. Businesses like Bacchanalia require hands-on management.”
“Pun intended?”
“Actually, no. If I had been there like I should have been, I would have known the moment that pit first started to open. But I wasn’t, so I couldn’t, and as a result . . .”
“Hell ate your building.”
“Quite so.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“After my lawyers and I fight with the insurance company over a settlement, I’ll take my money and invest it in a business or a building that I don’t have to be personally involved in with day-to-day operations.”
“How about your employees?”
“Those who need assistance, I’ll see to it that they find alternate employment, but most of them have already been offered well-paying jobs. I spent a good deal of time while running Bacchanalia fending off other nightclub owners who were constantly trying to steal my staff.” He shrugged. “Now, they have what they wanted.”
“I think you also gave Alastor Malvolia what he wanted.”
I hadn’t been the only one who’d heard the goblin lawyer laugh in Rake’s late, great wine cellar.
“Isidor got away.”
“For now. And thanks to you and Al, he’s got bigger trouble than you hunting him down.”
“I want confirmation.”
“So call up His Dread Majesty again and ask.” I hesitated, suddenly uneasy. “Do I want to know how you contacted him to let him know to eavesdrop?”
“It didn’t involve a virgin sacrifice, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You’d have never made it to Bacchanalia in time if you’d had to run around looking for one of those.”
“Probably true. Let’s just say I have a few highly placed connections in warm climates, and leave it at that.”
“Fine with me.”
“Though I’m going to be busy enough with all of Alastor’s other instructions.”
I gave him a questioning look.
“In addition to seeing to it that his copy of Silvanus’s contract was brought to me, Alastor named me the executor of his estate—and then left me most of it.”
I barked a laugh. “Not bad from a guy who didn’t like you when he was alive.”
Rake wearily leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t put a dint in wading through Alastor’s corporate holdings.”
“A lot?”
“Oh yes. I’m certain I’ll find things he willed to me that would be the last thing I would want to own. A man who hated you will leave you some nasty surprises.”
“Do you really think he hated you?”
“I may have had his respect on occasion—”
“That wasn’t what I asked. Did he have any family?”
That earned me a puzzled look. “None that were referenced in the will.”
“No family, no children. He had a lot but no one to leave it to.” I smiled. “We can’t pick our family, but we can pick our friends. I think Al Malvolia just might have considered you a friend, or perhaps even the son he never had. He obviously respected you. That’s one small step from admiration. You’re just as sneaky as he was, maybe even more so. He had to admire that. It’s something to think about.”
Rake’s lip curled. “I’d really rather not.”
He said it, but I didn’t think he really meant it. I was certain Rake had done plenty of thinking since last Wednesday, about a lot of things.
“I think Al’s fixed it so you won’t have any choice. Sneaky and manipulative from beyond the grave. But deep down, he knew he could depend on you to do what needed to be done. So did Kitty.”
“Once you told her.”
“What do you mean, once I—”
“I have sisters. I know all about nonverbal communication between women. Kitty wanted to know if she could trust me. That nod of yours assured her that she could.”
“Kitty was looking for trust, but she needed bravery. You dove headfirst into a Hellpit of brimstone, and then carried me out like a backpack. I’d call that brave.”
Rake gave me a sheepish grin. “Or insane. I’d used that shielding spell before for fire, but brimstone isn’t exactly something you get an opportunity to practice with.”
I blinked. “You didn’t know if it would work?”
“I suspected it would. Strongly suspected.”
“Maybe that makes you insanely brave. Either way, any man who’d dive into a Hellpit is certainly up for a little Hellpit slamming.”
Rake’s sheepishness spread into a full grin. “I didn’t slam that Hellpit, either. That was all Kitty.”
“But you—”
“Didn’t give her a power infusion. For one, by then I didn’t have it in me to give. I barely had enough to stay on my feet. Kitty needed to do as much by herself, unaided, as possible. Magic takes strength, but it also takes confidence. You have to believe that you can do it. Kitty had had too many anchor mages fail her. That affected her confidence in her own ability. Soon thoughts began to run through her mind. Maybe she hadn’t been good enough. Or if she’d been stronger, her anchor would have survived. Doubt is like poison. Once it gets in, unless stopped, it will run its course and kill you. In Kitty’s case, it wasn’t her body that was in danger, but her spirit. I gave her just enough of a boost to make her feel secure and confident in her own power. To let her know that I was there and that I wouldn’t leave.” He glanced toward the kitchen door. “Kitty has enough power of her own, a truly astounding amount.” Then he leaned forward. “You say you trust me, but you don’t.”
“I trust you.” I paused. “Your motives, not so much. On the other hand, you could say that I do trust your motives. I trust them to be devious. That is on those rare opportunities when I even know what the hell they are.”
“I’m a goblin. It’s how we are. Though I promise you, I swear to you, that I have no ulterior motive when it comes to you. What Isidor said—”
“What Isidor said doesn’t matter,” I lied.
“Oh, yes, it does. It’s what you’ve thought since we met. I am being honest with you. I need you to be honest with me.”
“I have been.”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve been avoiding me.”
I folded my hands on the table in front of me. “Okay, then. I’m here. No avoiding. Why are you interested in me? I’m a small-town girl. I clean up well, but I’m not beautiful.”
Rake started to interrupt.
I held up a hand. “Let me finish. You could have any woman you wanted, and you probably have. Yet you want me. The one thing I am that they aren’t is a seer. You tried to hire me that first night.”
“And you said no.”
“And you’ve been after me ever since. I want to know why.”
“Do I have to have a reason?”
“Goblins always have a reason.”
I reached for another cookie. Rake’s hand arrived at the same time. He let go of the cookie and took my hand. He started to cover it with his other hand, and then stopped.
He wa
s giving me the option to pull away.
I didn’t.
“Makenna, I don’t know what it is that we have, or what I feel. Believe that, believe me. What I really want is a chance, a chance to get to know you, to find out what we do have, what we could have. And I promise not to ravish you.” He gave me a slow, wicked-sexy smile. “Unless you want me to.”
I gave him a flat look. “Rake.”
“Sorry. Old habits, hard to break and all that.” Rake gazed at me a moment across that small table, his expression unreadable. “I jumped into a pit of brimstone wearing a shield that might have failed. If that had happened, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation. I wouldn’t jump into a pit of fire for a potential employee.”
If that shield had failed, Rake would have been burned to death, and I would have been . . . well, whatever would have happened to me in Hell. He was right; we most definitely wouldn’t be talking now.
“The only reason I dove into that pit was because you were there,” he said. “I had a chance to save you and I took it.” He gave me an exaggerated frown. “I was really glad it worked. I wasn’t keen on being vaporized. It would have only hurt for an instant, but still. I’m not ready to die yet. I have things to do.”
I couldn’t help it. I felt a smile coming on. “And seers to acquire for mysterious reasons?”
“There are other seers. Who knows? Maybe even better seers.” His eyes lit with mischief. “And I only hire the very best.”
“I probably wouldn’t even make the final interview.”
Rake raised my hand to his lips, his eyes solemn. “There are other seers. There is only one Makenna Fraser.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Shearin is the New York Times bestselling author of the Raine Benares novels, a comedic fantasy adventure series, as well as the SPI Files novels, an urban fantasy series best described as Men in Black with supernaturals instead of aliens. Lisa is a voracious collector of fountain pens, teapots, and teacups, both vintage and modern. She lives on a small farm in North Carolina with her husband, three spoiled-rotten retired racing greyhounds, and enough deer and woodland creatures to fill a Disney movie.
Visit her online at lisashearin.com, facebook.com/LisaShearinAuthor, and twitter.com/LisaShearin.
