by Kathryn Moon
“The markings look like nonsense,” Josie said, rising up. “Rinse it out and you should be good.”
“What do you want to do with this?” June asked, pointing to the athame.
Nolan and the ranger looked at each other with dull, mulling confusion. “Throw it out, I s’pose,” the ranger answered. “Don’t look useful.”
“You mind if I take it?” June asked.
Josie resisted the urge to turn and give her friend a massive ‘what the fuck’ stare. They did not need these guys thinking there was anything of interest here! To the sheriff’s department or to the coven.
But Mark Nolan was smitten. If June wanted a bloodied knife, then by god, that’s what she’d get. “Don’t see why not. S’not like it’s a real crime scene or shit like that.”
Josie cleared the laugh out of her throat before it could escape, and flashed June a look as she headed back toward the path.
“Just teenagers, fellas,” Josie said.
“Wish my kid’d study for his homework the way some delinquents will for trouble making,” the ranger muttered.
“Thanks for your help, June. Sure appreciate you coming up here. Imogen still up at the house alone?” he asked.
June stiffened and her steps leaned in Josie’s direction, shying away from Mark. When she took too long to answer, Josie slid in.
“Sisters are more sisterly when they don’t have to share a bathroom,” she said, bumping shoulders with June.
Mark Nolan, who had a sister of his own, laughed loud and long, and stopped at the picnic table to finish his beer with the ranger.
“Have a nice evening ladies,” the ranger offered, and Josie hustled to keep up with June as she motored down the hiking path back to her car.
Josie clicked her fingernails together as they walked, debating whether to say anything. June knew she knew where that knife came from, and it sure as hell wasn’t a boy ordering online. That was Imogen’s athame, and simple as it was, Josie knew there was no other like it because she’d heard June say their father had made them each one. June’s was meant to look like a silver branch with a small blade at the end, but Imogen’s was a long thin blade with a small handle, and it was currently crusted with blood and tucked into June’s purse.
They reached the car and shut the doors behind them, and Josie couldn’t keep her tongue still any longer. “I didn’t feel any magic at the site.”
“Neither did I,” June whispered, staring blankly out the windshield.
Josie waited for her to start the car, but June only sat with her purse in her lap. “Definitely not Imogen’s signature.”
June’s eyes flicked in Josie’s direction. She looked… exhausted. Hollowed out. And a little like she was doubting whether or not she should’ve covered her sister’s ass. If June was wondering if Imogen was involved with the ritual, how was Josie supposed to believe Imogen was innocent?
“I’ll talk to her,” June said. The keys missed the ignition twice before the car started, and June’s head shook minutely on her shoulders. “In the morning. I need a drink.”
Josie’s eyes widened. “Alright. Let’s hit up Gunney’s.”
Gunney’s Tavern was only a slight improvement on the general atmosphere of Sweet Pea, in Bell’s opinion. It was dimly lit, just a handful of bar lamps and the occasional illuminated beer logo hanging on the wall. There was a chalkboard menu behind the bar of pub food, with a printed out sign hanging above it that read ‘If you want something that ain’t microwaved go to High Top down the road.’ The bartender was a middle aged woman with gray roots to her dark dye job, who yawned from her stool perch and had her nose buried in a romance novel.
But when the members of Hell’s Bells stepped inside, the faces looking back at them weren’t wearing expressions of fear or distrust, just the usual welcoming smile of the locals.
“What’ll you have boys?” The bartender croaked without looking up.
Bell nodded Dante in her direction, and Aim and Barbie headed for the pool table, hovering behind two sunburnt men who still had sawdust on their work clothes. A fight would break out before the night was up, peace disrupted between the locals while the newcomers kept mostly to themselves in the shadows. Just a little light work for the evening.
Vinny stood behind Bell, scowling behind his red beard, and Bell narrowed his eyes at him. “Go find someone who looks like they’re having as lousy a time as you are,” Bell said, and Vinny snarled at him and paced to the back of the bar.
“I don’t like his attitude,” Bell said to Pie, watching Vinny’s broad shoulders vanish and reappear under the bar lights.
“Part of his charm, according to HQ,” Pie answered, eyes sliding sideways to Bell’s, who wondered why the demon chose glasses to wear when he always seemed to look around their edges. “But he is a soldier on this mission. He may need to be reminded of that.”
Bell grinned. “I invite you to tell him. For myself, I like waiting to see what kind of shit he thinks he can get away with around me.”
Dante reappeared at Bell’s side, sipping from a pint of dark ale. Bell raised an eyebrow and stared at the glass.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dante purred in false surprise. “Did you want one?”
“You know perfectly well…” Bell started, but then the pretty demon’s lion eyes were caught by a booth of women giggling in his direction, and he paced away before Bell could finish speaking.
“I’ll get the booth,” Ash said, a soft rumble from behind. “Grab me an IPA. Something hoppy.”
The bartender held her finger up to Bell as he tried to order, her eyes wide on the pages of her book, thighs pressed together and cheeks flushed as she held her breath and read on.
“Gotta catch Chrissie before she gets to the smutty bits,” an elderly man said to Bell out of the side of his mouth, and the line of patrons along the bar chuckled as Chrissie flipped him off and licked her lips as she read.
She was panting as she jumped down from her stool and put her hands on her hips, drawn-on eyebrow raising in indignation, as if Bell had caught her in the act itself instead of the reading of it. “Well? Watcha want?”
“Three lagers. Three IPAs,” Bell said.
Someone at the end of the bar snorted, and Chrissie rolled her eyes and clenched her jaw, pointing to a handwritten list above her head. “We don’t got those, and you gotta name the kind you want. I ain’t here to help.”
Given that was exactly what she was employed for, and she was unrepentantly rejecting her duty, Chrissie the bartender was Bell’s favorite person in town he’d met yet. He grinned and leaned forward on the bar, propping his elbows on the ledge. The ire in her eyes melted slightly as she took him in, realizing the man in front of her was as much a fantasy as the one she’d been devouring off the page.
“Surprise me,” Bell insisted.
Chrissie blushed, and the old man on Bell’s left whistled low, eyes volleying between them as she smoothed down the wrinkle of her shorts, tugging at their fraying hem around her generous thighs, and pulling out some glasses from the stack.
“You a cheapskate?” she asked.
Bell pulled a fifty out of his pocket and set it on the counter. “Choose what ya like and keep the change,” he said.
Chrissie preened, and the men at the bar laughed and returned to their conversations.
“You voting on the Merryweather Park sale next week?”
“Ehh, in my experience, County’ll do as County pleases.”
“Not sure I like the idea of Sweet Pea turning into a ‘destination’ like they’re sayin’. Might go and vote against.”
“Don’t seem right to take a gift of land, and turn it out for a profit.”
“A gift’s a gift,” Chrissie snapped to the greek chorus of Pabst drinkers as she sloshed Bell’s pints over her fingers, knocking them down on the bar top. “It’s up to the receiver to do as they please.”
“We’re talking about land, not jewelry, woman!” One man shouted back.
“Oh piss on y’all!” Chrissie spat, and slammed the last beer down, half its contents jumping free of the glass, and the fifty dollar bill now thoroughly soaked.
Bell grabbed the glasses and dodged away from the conversation, finding Pie and Ashtaroth at a booth near the pool table. Aim and Barbie had started a team round of pool with the local friends, who were already growling at each other under their breath. Something about who could afford to lose the bet. Vinny and Dante were chatting up a table of young women, Dante’s charms warming them up, as Vinny’s snap and bite made them edgy and nervous.
Bell took a seat by Ash so he could watch the front of the bar, the beers he passed around the table leaving behind wet streaks.
“The boys are making headway,” Ash said nodding toward the pool table. “Not so sure about the Casanovas.”
“Dante could start a catfight if he felt like it,” Bell said shrugging. “It’s only our second night. Anyone know the significance of the Merryweather land?”
“The preserve up the road from the house?” Pie asked, taking a drink.
Bell nodded. “The County is considering selling it.”
Pie’s smile flickered above his striped beard, and Ash hummed. “Depending on whose hands that land ended up in…” Ash said, and Bell lifted his glass in a mild cheers.
“Could be a mess for little Sweet Pea,” Bell said. “It’s a starting point. There’s a county meeting next week. Vote’s in a month.”
“Plenty of time,” Pie said, relaxing back into the worn bench of the booth.
Movement at the front door caught Bell’s eye, and he tensed in his seat as he watched the new arrivals walk in. The kitchen witch, petite and bouncing on the balls of her feet as she hurried to the bar before Chrissie got a chance to sit and take up her romance again. Behind her was a tall and willowy blonde, pale as a ghost with arms wrapped so tight around herself, she looked as if she was expecting to have an allergic reaction to the bar and its patrons.
“That’s the stitch witch I mentioned,” Ash said in Bell’s ear, eyes equally fixed on the two women.
Bell grunted in answer, but his eyes strayed back to the other one. Hello, Cupcake, he thought, perhaps too enthusiastically because she stiffened at the bar, and her head whipped over her shoulder, gaze immediately finding him. He grinned as she glared, and his fingers itched to reach through the air and guide her steps to him, see if she still smelled like vanilla and cinnamon outside of her little pink shop. Without the apron, he could see the curves of her, wrapped in soft halo pink and skintight black jeans. She turned to the other witch and rose up to her toes to whisper in her ear, no doubt warning her friend of their presence.
What had she decided about them? Bell doubted a human, even a witch, would believe there were demons walking on earth, tasked with disrupting the peace of a sleepy little hill town. It made him want to flash fire in his stare at her, grin with a wolf’s mouth, reveal himself and see if she ran, or if she just kept giving him that ‘don’t fucking start’ look.
The stitch witch took one look at them and turned back to the door, but Josie wrapped a small hand around her sleeve and held her still, whispering rapidly in her ear. Ash was as tense as Bell was, and Bell tore his attention away from the women to tilt his head in his soldier’s direction.
“You think you can break that one?”
There was a whiff of heavy gasoline on the air, and then it vanished and Ash relaxed backwards against the corner of the booth. “I think I can get through the wall she has up. No telling what then,” he said with a shrug.
A moment later, Josie the kitchen witch was dragging her friend in their direction, the tall glasses in their hands glittering with something stronger than beer, if Bell had to guess. He had barely scooted in, shoulder to shoulder with Ashtaroth’s enormous frame, before Josie was throwing herself down in the seat next to him, all but tossing the stitch witch down next to Pie.
“Cupcake,” Bell said.
“Mr. Bad News,” she said, and then scowled at him as his grin widened.
Ash chuckled. “Not a bad name for you, Bell. Hello again, June.”
June, the stitch witch, only blinked at him, her lips pressed tight together, refusing to join the name game.
“Bell,” he said, pointing to himself and then around the table. “Ash. Pie. How can we help you ladies?”
“What are you doing in Sweet Pea?” Josie asked, eyes narrowing at him, a flush high in her cheeks turning tawny brown to a flattering shade of rose. Bell opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off, words rapid fire like a machine gun running the demons down. “And what the hell are seven grown ass men doing moving into a house together like a bunch of frat boys? And why do you smell weird?”
“Josie,” June breathed, eyes wide and silver in awe or horror.
“Construction work,” Pie answered. “Paint fumes.”
“It’s not paint fumes,” Josie said, rolling her eyes at him. “Pie like the pastry or Pi like the math?”
“What kind of engine you got up there?” Bell asked, reaching up and tapping on Josie’s forehead, before promptly having his hand knocked away. She felt as soft as that sweater looked. “You run faster than my bike.”
“You fuckers are wrong somehow, and I wanna know why,” Josie growled at him.
Bell wanted to pick her up by her tiny waist, set her down on the table in front of him, and let her fire pestering, nosy, rude questions at him all day for his amusement. Instead, he lifted his hand up, showing three fingers.
“One. We heard it was a nice place with nice people,” he said, pulling down his index finger and then ‘tsk’ing her for proving that statement wrong. “Two, saving money.” He tucked his ring finger down and raised his eyebrows, saying slowly, “Three. Fuck you.”
Josie stared at his middle finger for two whole seconds, before a grin slanted across her lips and she huffed, turning to face a frozen June. She lifted her glass, chewing on the end of her straw. “Bullshit,” she said, shoulders dropping.
“You don’t see many motorcyclists here in Sweet Pea?” Pie asked.
“Of course we do, but you’re…” June trailed off, her wide eyes caught on Ash for a moment too long, before dropping to her drink.
“You’re a motorcycle crew. Not just a bunch of retired beer bellies touring the country,” Josie finished for her, eyes studying them, long black lashes nearly covering her stare. “And I don’t believe for a minute you’re here ‘cause you like the scenery.”
Bell leaned toward her, and her spine straightened, iron strong. “I’m acquiring a taste for it,” he said, drinking her in.
If Ash wanted to break the skittish stitch witch, then perhaps Bell should set his sights on this one. Not breaking. Defeating. And to set that trap, he might need to lay bait. Which shouldn’t be too hard. Those feather lashes blinked, and he caught her pupils dilating as he smiled at her, adding a little shine just for good measure.
“Man, I fucking told you!”
“Shit, you did not!”
Josie twisted at the end of the bench, and Bell sat up, looking over the back of the booth to watch the two friends who’d been playing pool against his men break out into shoving hands on chests and snarling in each other’s faces. Aim and Barbie strolled slowly away from the scene, in the direction of their booth, shoulders rolling with the victory of small chaos.
“Come on, Junebug,” Josie said, sliding out of the seat before Bell could catch her. She snared her friend by the elbow and nodded at a frowning Barbie. “Seats are yours, boys.”
“We keepin’ company with witches, Bell?” Aim asked, and Bell swallowed the growl in his throat as Aim admired Josie’s swinging hips as she walked away.
“We do if it serves the cause,” Bell said. “For now, we better get back to the club. I wanna be open for business
before next week.”
They downed their beers in one go and rose from the booth. Dante’s eyebrows twitched in interest, his expression bored despite the three young women doing their absolute best to keep his attention. Vinny had the fourth girl cornered, his beard on her throat as her lips hung open, chest panting and eyes fixed as wide as full moons up on the ceiling.
“Back to work, if you don’t mind,” Bell called to them.
Dante untangled himself from the girls, but Vinny took his sweet time, lifting his hand from under the counter and sucking on his fingers. The girl he’d been treating, or tormenting, whimpered and sagged against the wall, her face equal parts disappointed and relieved.
“S’dull as doornails round here,” Vinny muttered, leaping out of the booth over the back of the seat.
Whispers followed the crew’s backs as they headed to the door, and Bell stared too long at Josie’s back, waiting for her to turn at the bar and give him a parting look, preferably an irritated one. Her cheek twitched in his direction and then she turned to June, eyes out of his sight.
There was a trail of ash and sulfur poisoning the air down the hill from the front of Imogen’s cabin, onto Merryweather Preserve. Imogen took slow steps, catching flickers of heat on her fingertips as she followed the darkness, whisper soft brushes of razor edged power stinging her cheeks. This was what Josie spoke of at the coven meeting, and Imogen wondered if any of the others really understood what it meant. When you only worked in light magic, you forgot to prepare yourself for the darkest shades. Imogen Byrne was well versed in shadows.
The wards Imogen set around Sweet Pea had run sirens through her bones every hour for the past two days, warning her of an invasion across the border she’d built, dangerous and potent. One wearing the forms of men, apparently.
Imogen parted her lips and closed her eyes, lifting her face to the slow rise of the sun up the hill, and let the air she breathed in draw a flavor on her tongue. She coughed at the scourging sting, and tears rose to her eyes, all the moisture in her throat drying up as if she’d just stepped into an oven.