by Kate Moseman
He stole two fries.
She shielded her plate with her hands. “Get your own, demon.”
He stuffed both of the stolen fries in his mouth with a rebellious air. “What am I supposed to do?”
Raya pointed her knife at him. “I’m not telling you to do anything. But for someone who doesn’t have to worry about dying, you sure don’t seem to be doing much living.”
For once, he seemed to be at a loss for a comeback. Instead, he picked up a fry and pressed it to her lips in a shushing motion.
She bit it and grinned. Point scored.
13
The last day of the convention required hard choices as Raya crammed everything she possibly could into her workshop schedule. When the line for “Supernatural Summonings: Binding and Banishing for the Advanced Witch” stretched all the way down the convention hall, virtually guaranteeing she wouldn’t get in, she detoured to “Macaron Magic: An Introduction to Kitchen Spellcraft” instead.
After all, she’d done pretty well with binding and banishing all on her own, considering she’d managed to bind Phoenix on the first try. She tried to picture binding Cosmo, or even George, to do her bidding, and had to brush away the uncomfortable thoughts like cobwebs. Those ideas were easier to swallow when you hadn’t actually spent time with a demon—let alone toasted one with absinthe and shared a plate of steak frites.
But macarons and magic in the same workshop? Snacks and spellcasting in one fell swoop?
Talk about a win-win.
The meeting room contained a temporary kitchen set up in the front of the room with a large tilted mirror overhead. The macaron ingredients appeared in the reflection, along with an assortment of kitchen utensils, plus an additional tray of arcane ingredients and tools.
The show kitchen faced a long row of tables loaded with materials for the participants. Raya took a seat next to the table and eagerly examined the items on the table.
A woman in a chef’s uniform—with a wand stuffed jauntily into the brim of her toque—stepped up to the kitchen set. She adjusted the microphone headset. “Is this thing on?” The sound boomed through the room. “I guess it is.” She chuckled and adjusted something on the headset.
Raya leaned forward.
The chef smiled and continued. “So often we talk about putting love in our cooking. The secret ingredient is love, is it not? We think of this as a metaphor. But what if you literally put love into what you bake?”
One of the witches raised her hand. “You mean a love spell?”
“Not a love spell, exactly. By putting your heart into a recipe, you create a spell to unlock feelings. Does that make sense?”
The questioner nodded.
Raya wished she’d picked a different workshop, one that didn’t involve unlocking feelings. She glanced discreetly over her shoulder.
The doors were already closed.
The other workshops in this time slot were surely full by now, anyway. She released a quiet sigh and returned her attention to the speaker.
“As I was saying, we will learn to incorporate our intentions into each step of the recipe, from handling the ingredients, to making the batter, to the baking process itself. Since we have already combined the almond flour and the sugar for you, let us begin by beating the egg whites to stiff peaks.”
Raya reached for the bowl and the whisk, determined to do it well even if she didn’t particularly want to do it at all.
While riding the Métro back to her hotel at the end of the day, Raya examined the paper sack filled with her handiwork: a dozen or so slightly misshapen macarons from the kitchen magic workshop. She didn’t dare throw them away. She brought the bag closer and inhaled the scent. They smelled so delicious—even if they were a bit lumpy.
Surely one bite wouldn’t hurt.
Yes, it would. She’d probably confess some deep, dark secret to the nearest Métro passenger.
Raya quickly stuffed them out of sight in her bag before she did anything she would regret.
Out of sight, out of mind. She’d figure out how to dispose of them later. Right now, she had to get ready for the party.
She hadn’t brought anything fancier than her usual little black dress, an all-purpose garment she relied upon for just about any occasion. The leather jacket would dress it up with a bit of an edge.
She examined her nails. Lizzy’s nail polish was remarkably tenacious. Perhaps she could pick up a red lipstick to match from Le Bon Marché.
Raya dropped off the day’s swag, papers, and questionable baked goods in her hotel room before heading out on foot in search of a new lipstick.
The cosmetics clerk, despite not speaking any English, understood Raya’s intention well enough after Raya pointed to her red nails and her lips several times. The contrast was obvious. The clerk pulled a sleek black case from a tray and demonstrated the color of several lipsticks with a quick swipe on the back of her hand.
When she found a close match to the nail polish color, Raya gave her a thumbs up.
The clerk rang up her purchase, and Raya left with her pockets lighter but carrying a pretty little shopping bag with her new lipstick tucked inside.
She opened the door to her hotel room to find Phoenix sprawled on the bed, his red wings flapping slowly as he changed channels with the remote. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“Thank you. I will.” He stopped on a program of French cartoons.
“You’re watching cartoons, yet you call me a philistine?”
“Like I said, I choose to ignore the contradiction.”
“Suit yourself. I need to shower and get ready for the party. Think you can behave yourself for a few minutes?”
He spared her a brief glance before returning his attention to the TV screen. “No.”
Raya rolled her eyes and retreated to the bathroom with her outfit. She showered quickly and dressed, then set her unruly hair with a little extra mousse and a minute or two under the hair dryer. She applied the makeup she’d brought with her, then added the new lipstick as a finishing touch.
When she emerged, she found Phoenix still sprawled on the bed watching cartoons, but with crumbs all down his front and a crumpled paper bag by his side.
Raya covered her mouth with her hand to muffle a gasp.
He glanced up from his cartoons and eyed her, his gaze traveling efficiently from her bare feet to her styled hair. “You clean up nicely.”
“Did you eat my macarons?”
“Were those yours?”
“They were in my hotel room, Phoenix—who did you think they belonged to?” She picked up the crumpled bag. Empty. “You ate all of them? You don’t even like eating!”
He shrugged. “They were lumpy, but they tasted pretty good.”
Panic rose within her. She didn’t even know what the spelled macarons would do to a demon. Sweat prickled on her brow as she slipped her feet into a pair of black ballet flats.
She needed to get out before he developed an urge to share his innermost feelings. “Why don’t you just hang out and watch TV? You’re welcome to stay.” She arranged the leather jacket over her shoulders like a cape.
He made an assenting noise, his attention riveted by the antics onscreen.
Raya slipped out, closing the hotel room door with a quiet click.
14
Raya descended the weathered stone steps to the sidewalk along the left bank of the Seine. The bateaux bobbed alongside the pier, their windows shining in the evening sun. The sound of music wafted on the river breeze, punctuated by distant laughter.
She matched the name printed on her ticket to the name of the largest boat at the pier, then presented the ticket to a uniformed attendant. She stepped aboard and felt the deck pitch ever so slightly as the boat rode the gentle waves of the Seine.
A squeal to her left alerted
her to the presence of Lizzy.
“You made it!” Lizzy tottered over, wearing four-inch stiletto heels and balancing a full glass of champagne in one hand. Her gold bag swung from her shoulder as she carefully leaned forward to embrace Raya with one arm. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” Raya stepped back to take in Lizzy’s hot pink sheath dress and sparkling gold eye makeup. It worked, somehow. “You too.”
Lizzy fluttered her free hand. “I’ve lost Nathan. He’s gone off to hide somewhere.”
“Do you want me to help you look for him?”
“No, I’m sure he’ll turn up. Let’s get you some champagne! Have you tried any of these?” She snagged a morsel from a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Raya selected one for herself and followed in Lizzy’s wake as she sailed through the crowd.
When they found a serving table filled with champagne glasses, Lizzy handed one to Raya and took a second glass for herself. The two witches faced a window as the sunset painted the sky a warm shade of pink.
“Are you so excited?” Lizzy didn’t wait for an answer. “I am so excited! But also kind of sad.” Her lower lip formed a pout as she frowned. “It’s over all too fast.”
“I can’t believe it’s already over. Seems like I just got here.” Raya sipped from her flute.
“Are you staying, or are you flying home right away?”
“I have a few days extra. I thought I might as well enjoy Paris while I’m here. Who knows when—or if, on my salary—I’ll ever get back.”
“Of course you’ll be back. I’m staying a few days more, too. So is Nathan.”
“No kidding?” Raya turned from the window and scanned the crowd. Black was a popular color tonight, liberally garnished with sparkling jewelry. Witches liked to be dramatic in their clothing choices.
“Speak of the devil—there he is!” Lizzy headed toward the back of the boat.
Raya spotted Nathan, clad in his usual tweed jacket with elbow patches, leaning against the rear railing. His conservative attire stood out among the glittering raiment of the rest of the witches.
His expression didn’t change as they approached.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding yourself.” Lizzy handed him a glass of champagne.
“I wouldn’t call it hiding.” He raised the glass and took a small sip. “Hello, Raya.”
“Nathan.” Raya acknowledged him with a nod and let her gaze travel over the banks of the Seine. Floodlit buildings retreated as the boat rumbled to life and powered through the water.
Lizzy nudged Nathan. “Raya says she’s staying a few extra days.”
“Really.”
She leaned closer to Raya. “Nathan’s working on something hush-hush.”
Nathan shot Lizzy a look. “Lizzy seems to not understand the ‘hush-hush’ part.”
Lizzy laughed off his remark and sipped her champagne.
Raya blinked. Someone was calling her name. The sound traveled oddly, as if it were coming from the air and bouncing off the water.
Raya looked around the deck. No one else was looking in her direction. She peered into the interior of the boat, where groups of witches mixed, mingled, and danced the night away.
Nothing seemed to be amiss.
“Raya!”
Oh, no. She knew that voice.
A crosswind kicked up, accompanied by the sound of flapping wings.
Outlined in the glow of the city’s evening illumination, Phoenix hovered in the air behind the boat.
Horrified, Raya backpedaled from the railing, unable to take her gaze from the demon coming in for a landing.
Lizzy followed Raya’s gaze and her mouth fell open in shock.
Nathan’s eyes widened as he perceived the demon. He looked from Raya to Phoenix and back again.
Phoenix dove and landed on the deck, facing Raya. His hair blew in the wind as he approached her.
The noise of the party ebbed from the back to the front of the boat as the assembled witches sensed the intruder. A crowd slowly formed as witches drifted closer to the spectacle.
Raya trembled as adrenaline coursed through her. “Phoenix, you have to go.” Under normal circumstances, he knew better than to risk being seen by hundreds of witches. God only knew what other effects the magical macarons were having on him.
The demon cast a contemptuous glance over the crowd. “Are you embarrassed of me? In front of your friends?”
Throughout the crowd, clothing rustled as hands fluttered to wands. Some witches stared with frank hostility. Others eyed Phoenix like he was a free sample tray at a gourmet grocery store.
Nathan maintained his position in front of the crowd. “You didn’t tell me you had a pet demon.”
Phoenix looked Nathan up and down. “Who’s this, then? Oh—you’re the one who couldn’t get enough power on your own, so you got a couple of witches to do the hard work for you.”
Nathan’s lips quirked with dark amusement.
“He’s not my pet!” She stepped closer to Phoenix and spread her arms to shield him from the other witches, who were pressing closer by the second. “Phoenix, get out of here.”
He touched her cheek and looked into her eyes as if no one else were present. “But I’m lonely, Raya.”
Oh, God. She felt sick. He wasn’t in his right mind. She had to make him leave, now, before some enterprising witch decided to banish or bind him right there on the spot. “Phoenix, go away!”
“But—”
“Go, Phoenix!”
Her words landed like blows. He reeled back as if struck, hurt emanating from his eyes. His crimson wings snapped open like a reproof, and he shot into the air, lost to sight in the shifting shadows of the Parisian night.
PART II
PHOENIX
15
Phoenix tumbled through the dark sky, riding the downdrafts in a wild freefall only to soar upward at the last moment.
Good thing ordinary Parisians couldn’t see him. He was putting on quite the air show.
He surged higher and angled toward a more disreputable neighborhood, leaving the Seine and the boat full of witches behind him. If Raya wouldn’t help him, he could at least drown his sorrows at Cosmo’s bar.
A tiny voice in the back of his mind told him he wasn’t making the best decisions at the moment, but he ignored the voice and plunged ahead.
This time, he didn’t need to take the stairs up. He aimed for a window on the second floor and dove through it at full speed, passing through the glass like it was only fog. He skidded to a stop in the middle of the bar as the wind of his landing blasted through the room.
George cradled a fruity drink in both hands and shot him an aggrieved look. “You nearly knocked over my beverage.”
“Sorry, mate.” Phoenix ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head as if to clear it. “I’m a little off my game.”
George carefully set his glass down on the table. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were passing the time with that witch—the one who’s not so bad—what’s her name?”
“Raya. Apparently, she is that bad. She told me to go away.”
George snorted. “What’d you do to her?”
“Do to her? Nothing. I just told her I was lonely.” Something sounded wrong about that. Why had he told her he was lonely?
Why in Lucifer’s name had he touched her cheek like that?
Cosmo came around the bar and sat next to George at the small round table. “You told someone you were lonely?”
Phoenix rubbed his eyes. “It seemed like the right thing to do. I’ve never felt so—strongly—about anything.”
Cosmo and George looked at each other, then at Phoenix.
“That’s not like you,” said Cosmo.
George shook his monstrous head, a look of concern
on his face.
Phoenix dropped into a chair. “I need a drink.”
Cosmo assessed him with a glance. “Maybe the last thing you need is a drink.”
“Cosmo, don’t be difficult.”
She shrugged and went to the bar.
Phoenix rested his head on his arms. “Is this how humans feel all the time?”
George raised an eyebrow like a furry caterpillar. “I wouldn’t know.”
Cosmo placed a bottle of champagne and a glass in front of Phoenix.
He sat up. “Oh, goody. Little bubbles to make the feelings go away.” He filled the glass to the brim and drank it all in one shot.
Cosmo and George exchanged another look.
“Did something happen to you, Phoenix?” Cosmo tried to slide the bottle out of reach.
Phoenix pulled the bottle back and hiccupped. “Nothing happened to me. I watched some cartoons, I ate some macarons, I followed Raya onto a boat full of witches and told her I was lonely.”
No, that still didn’t sound right at all.
“And some smug little bastard called me Raya’s pet demon. Me! A pet.” He refilled his glass and slammed the bottle on the table. He tossed the drink back.
Anger felt so much better than loneliness.
George attempted to subtly move the bottle away.
Phoenix glared at him. “Stop it, George. I’m not a child.”
George harrumphed. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, which was approximately 200 years out of date, and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. He put them on, leaned closer, and peered at Phoenix.
Phoenix blinked. “You’re a demon, George. You don’t need glasses.”
Unperturbed, George gripped Phoenix’s jaw with a clawed hand and examined his face. “You’re a demon, Phoenix. You don’t need to dress like a GQ model pretending to be a motorcycle hooligan. Are you sure you haven’t been hit with a spell lately?”
Phoenix pushed George’s hand off and waved the idea away. “I’d know if I had.” He abandoned the glass and drank straight from the bottle.