Demon Magic and a Martini
The Guild Codex: Spellbound / Four
Annette Marie
Demon Magic and a Martini
The Guild Codex: Spellbound / Book Four
Copyright © 2019 by Annette Marie
www.annettemarie.ca
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Dark Owl Fantasy Inc.
PO Box 88106, Rabbit Hill Post Office
Edmonton, AB, Canada T6R 0M5
www.darkowlfantasy.com
Cover Copyright © 2019 by Annette Ahner
www.midnightwhimsydesigns.com
Editing by Elizabeth Darkley
arrowheadediting.wordpress.com
ISBN: 978-1-988153-29-2 (ebook)
ASIN B07NC9N863
Version 2019.04.04
Contents
Books by Annette Marie
The Guild Codex
Demon Magic and a Martini
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
The Alchemist and an Amaretto
Taming Demons for Beginners
The Steel & Stone Series
The Spell Weaver Trilogy
The Red Winter Trilogy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Annette Marie
The Guild Codex
The Guild Codex: Spellbound
Three Mages and a Margarita
Dark Arts and a Daiquiri
Two Witches and a Whiskey
Demon Magic and a Martini
The Alchemist and an Amaretto
The Guild Codex: Demonized
Taming Demons for Beginners
Steel & Stone Universe
Steel & Stone Series
Chase the Dark
Bind the Soul
Yield the Night
Feed the Flames
Reap the Shadows
Unleash the Storm
Steel & Stone
Spell Weaver Trilogy
The Night Realm
The Shadow Weave
The Blood Curse
Other Works
Red Winter Trilogy
Red Winter
Dark Tempest
Immortal Fire
The Guild Codex
Classes of Magic
Spiritalis
Psychica
Arcana
Demonica
Elementaria
Mythic
A person with magical ability
MPD / MagiPol
The organization that regulates mythics and their activities
Rogue
A mythic living in violation of MPD laws
Demon Magic and a Martini
Chapter One
“No,” I said.
“No?”
“No.”
Darren slammed his hands down on the bar top. “You’re the bartender. It’s your job to give me a drink.”
I thoughtfully tapped my chin as I appraised all six-foot-whatever of furious combat sorcerer trying to lean across my bar and tower over me at the same time. Darren wasn’t my favorite person when he was sober, and drunk he was as pleasant as a skunk and porcupine combined into one stinky, stabby animal.
“You’re cut off.” I buffed my fingernails on my apron. “Which I told you an hour ago. And half an hour ago. And ten minutes ago.”
“You can’t cut me off!”
“Yes, I can. I’m the bartender, as you pointed out.”
“I’m not drunk,” he snarled, leaning even farther across the bar and wafting my face with reeking alcohol breath. “Serve me or you’ll regret ever having—”
He broke off when I also planted my hands on the bar top and got in his face. Bullies never expected their intimidation tactics to be used against them.
“I’ll regret what?” I demanded as he backed up. “Go on, finish the sentence. Speak up nice and loud so everyone can hear how tough you are.”
Since I was already talking nice and loud, several people turned, their expressions brightening with anticipation. Tori was about to humiliate someone again and they had front-row seats. I swear that’s why the tables nearest my station were always full.
Ah, I love my job.
Darren sluggishly considered his options, then muttered, “Come on, Tori. Just one more drink.”
I laughed. “You can’t play nice after threatening me. Get lost, Darren.”
His hands clenched into fists, thick muscles bunching in his upper arms. He glowered like a two-year-old denied his sippy cup, but he was drunk enough to really lose his temper—assuming he could slur his way through an incantation. Better not chance it. Combat sorcerers were never pushovers, and Darren was meaner than most. He wasn’t a person I should antagonize.
Keeping that firmly in mind, I stuck my tongue out at him.
His eyes bulged, then he stormed back to his table. I smirked. See? I wasn’t scared. With careful nonchalance, I slipped my hand out of my back pocket where I’d been holding my Queen of Spades card, ready to whip the artifact out to defend myself.
Totally not scared at all.
But seriously, I wasn’t a dunce with no concept of self-preservation. I knew Darren could mess me up if he wanted to, but sometimes, showing no fear was the best defense.
My bad attitude—“bad” according to every former employer—was the reason I’d landed this job. A human bartender … working for a magic guild.
I glanced fondly across the pub. Busy for a Tuesday night, but the twenty or so mythics scattered around had quieted down since the dinner rush. It was almost eleven, and I planned to clean up soon. Tomorrow would be a crazy night—and I had no one to blame but myself.
It all started with pumpkins.
I’d spotted them at the grocery store in early October and got the brilliant idea to decorate my bar for the spookiest month of the year. But I couldn’t carry an armload of pumpkins home alone, so I called my favorite pyromage to pick me and my over-large squashes up from the store. Aaron, who can’t hear an idea without going enthusiastically overboard, added another ten to my order and drove it all back to his place.
The look on Ezra’s face when we walked in with the first load of pumpkins was only slightly less memorable than the look on Kai’s face when Aaron informed him we’d all be carving pumpkins before Halloween.
I smiled at the dozen jack-o’-lanterns arranged in clusters around the pub, their glowing orange faces grinning or scowling—or in the case of Kai’s single pumpkin, staring disapprovingly. How a pumpkin could convey ultimate displeasure, I didn’t know, but Kai had achieved it to great effect. I might have laid the guilt trip on too thick when I begged him to
carve “just one little pumpkin or else Halloween will be ruined.”
Somehow, the jack-o’-lanterns had led to orange and black paper streamers, which had mysteriously appeared on my bar top one afternoon. What else was I supposed to do except decorate the pub with them? Then Aaron had shown up with a box full of fuzzy, posable bats, which now hung from the ceiling. No one was taking credit for the red and orange lights strung across the liquor shelves behind me, but I suspected they were Clara’s doing.
And then, even more mysteriously, everyone started talking about “the Halloween party” and asking me what the plan was.
I wasn’t planning a party. I’d never intended to plan a party.
Footsteps thudded down the stairs that led to the building’s two upper levels. With her brown hair spilling out of its messy bun, Clara wheeled around the corner, clutching a bulging folder. She careened toward me, her face a mask of urgency.
“Hi Clara,” I said. “You’re working late tonight.”
“Candy corn!” she blurted. “We need candy corn for the party. It’s not Halloween without candy corn.”
“I’ll add it to the shopping list.” I pulled a paper out of my apron pocket and added candy corn to the “everything I forgot during my last shopping trip” list, then frowned at her. “You’re worrying about the party, aren’t you? You have enough to deal with. I’ll handle it.”
“I can’t help myself.” With that crisis averted—everything with the assistant guild master was a crisis—she set her folder down and slid onto a stool. “I can’t remember the last time we celebrated Halloween as a guild. It’ll be a full house. A lot of guildeds are bringing family members or dates.”
Yes, I’d firmly and clearly told everyone I wasn’t planning an event of any kind, but had they listened? Did they care? No. I was now hosting the guild’s biggest party of the year, all because I’d wanted to carve a damn pumpkin.
“We’ll help with bartending,” Clara added, straightening her folder, “so you can enjoy the party too. Have you chosen a costume yet?”
Parties I could do. Candy was awesome. Decorations were fun. But I hated dressing up. Before I could stop it, a scowl overtook my face. “Aaron wants to go as Jane and George Jetson because they’re both redheads, but Kai wants us to go as two characters from Mad Men. I’ve only seen, like, three episodes.”
“Kai just wants to wear a suit and call it a costume,” Clara observed wisely. “What about Ezra? You two can dress up as Jon Snow and Ygritte.”
“Game of Thrones?” I mused. “At least I’d be a badass wildling.”
Clara’s eyes lit up. “Ezra even looks like Jon Snow. You two in costume would be so cute. You only have a day to get it ready, though. I bet you could hit up the specialty shop on—”
I quickly waved a hand. “I’m good. Costumes are optional, and I’ll be wearing an apron anyway.”
Her face fell. “But it’s your party. You have to wear a costume.”
Holding my smile in place, I just nodded. My party. Ugh.
She picked up her folder and half the contents made a bid for freedom. I grabbed at the papers as they slid across the bar top, and together, we stuffed all the paperwork back into its cardboard prison.
“Thanks.” She heaved a sigh. “I have so much to do, and Darius wants me to—oh!”
“Oh?” I asked warily, disconcerted by her sudden horror.
“I forgot! Darius asked me two weeks ago to—but I got distracted by—and I didn’t tell you—”
“Tell me what?”
She winced guiltily. “Darius wants to update the pub menu. It hasn’t changed in years and we’re well overdue to spice things up. He suggested you might like to do it.”
“Me?”
“You and Ramsey work the most hours in the pub, but Ramsey is busy with his apprenticeship and doesn’t want the extra responsibility. I’ve mentioned to Darius several times that you might enjoy having a voice in the pub’s management.”
A voice in management? It was a paltry bone—not even close to a promotion—but giddy delight bubbled in my chest. Never at a single job in my life had anyone offered me a larger role or more responsibility than whatever grunt position they’d hired me into. I’d been demoted before, but that was it.
“I’d love to!” I grabbed my grocery list and flipped it over to take notes. “What do you need me to do?”
Clara blinked at my immediate excitement, then smiled. “Darius wants a written proposal that covers what menu items to remove and what to add. You’ll need to include information about pricing, ingredients, suppliers, prep time, etcetera.”
I scribbled that down. “Okay, sure. When does he want it by?”
“Ah.” She winced again. “He suggested it two weeks ago, so I think he’s expecting your proposal … next week.”
That might be a bit tight. “When next week?”
“Um, probably Monday. He likes to get the week’s paperwork done on Mondays.”
Five days, and one of them would be consumed by a giant party. I clamped down on my apprehension and smiled confidently. “Got it.”
“I can tell him I forgot and you’ll need more time to—”
“Nope!” I stuffed my notes in my apron. “It’s fine. No problem at all.” This was my chance to prove I was worthy of more responsibility and I wasn’t blowing it by asking for a deadline extension. If Darius wanted the new menu on Monday, then he’d get it on Monday.
I glanced at the back counter where my laptop was waiting, a half-finished college assignment on the screen. That might not make it to the instructor by next week, though. Hmm. I’d figure it out. I had two days off between now and Monday. I could do it.
Clara headed back upstairs to continue her late-night work session with Darius—odd but not entirely unusual. Darius, the guild master, traveled a lot and whenever he returned from a long trip, he and Clara would disappear for a day to catch up on all the work that required the GM’s input or approval.
That, or they were having a secret affair, and after his trips, they barricaded themselves in his office to … nah. Too weird with the guild officers’ desks right outside his door.
A few minutes later, I was sitting on the bar top and staring with mild panic at the chalkboard menu above the back counter. The stool behind me scraped across the floor as someone pulled it out.
“Do I want to know what you’re doing?”
I didn’t turn at the sound of Aaron’s voice. “What’s your favorite item on the menu?”
“The burger.”
“What about you, Kai? Ezra?” I didn’t need to look to know they were there too.
“The burger,” Kai answered without hesitation.
“The burger,” Ezra said in his meltingly smooth voice. “But it’s not a fair question.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s only one menu item.”
I twisted around to give him a puzzled look. “What do you mean? There are ten entrees.”
His dark eyebrows rose above his mismatched eyes. One was chocolate brown while the other was pale as ice with a dark pupil and outer ring, the iris damaged by the scar that ran from his temple down to his cheek. With his curly hair and the scruffy shadow along his jaw, he did kind of look like an olive-skinned Jon Snow.
He leaned on the bar and whispered conspiratorially, “Everyone orders the burger. I don’t think they stock ingredients for anything else.”
Huh. Now that he mentioned it, I always ordered the burger too. You’d think I would be sick of it after five months, but who could get sick of a delicious burger? “What’s your least favorite meal?”
They shrugged, leaving me to wonder if they’d ever tried anything else.
Kai sat on a stool. “Why the sudden interest in the menu?”
“Darius wants me to revamp it.” I hid my desperation. “He wants a new menu proposal on Monday.”
“Monday? That’s short notice.” Aaron propped his elbow on the counter. “How about Poison Ivy?�
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“What? You want to add poison ivy to the menu?”
“No, for your costume. You can be Poison Ivy and I’ll be Batman.”
I snorted. “Kai is way more of a Batman than you.”
Ezra laughed, while Aaron sulked. Feeling guilty, I hopped off the bar and faced the three mages. Aaron was perched on his favorite stool, his copper hair tousled and the sleeves of his casual sweater pushed up his hard forearms. Kai sat beside him, his dark hair a stark contrast to his fair complexion, the first few buttons of his shirt undone. Ezra had one hip propped against the bar, his black t-shirt declaring, “Winter Is Coming.”
Hmm, right, he was a Game of Thrones fan. Maybe I could convince him to do a couple’s costume with—wait, what was I thinking? I didn’t want to dress up.
“I’m not wearing a costume,” I announced fervidly.
“But it’s your p—” Aaron began.
“It’s not my party! These are my pumpkins. I never proposed a party, let alone volunteered to organize one! And I never said I would dress up like a—” As a grin took over his face, I cut myself off. He’d heard this rant two or three times a day since the party became a thing. “This is all your fault.”
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