Cindra would be at home in London for the holiday, but my parents and sister Bea had agreed to come over. They hadn’t sounded especially enthused, but then again my house didn’t have a double oven, soda machine, giant sectional sofa, big screen TV, or video game system like Bea’s did.
As soon as Bryson and I began to pore over his old family photo album together, I found myself surprised by how . . . intimate . . . this felt. Our heads leaning close as he played the entertaining tour guide, wittily captioning photos as the pages turned. Bryson as a baby. His siblings sledding in the snow. His parents’ laughing faces, as they posed next to a huge Thanksgiving turkey that dominated their cozy kitchen. Then a photo of Bryson himself, chilling in a recent selfie.
At the back of the book were some older photos of his grandparents and even great grandparents, giving me the chance to gawk at the funky fashions of the 1940s and 50s.
Finally we came to a tiny old black and white daguerreotype photo that had to be from the early 1800s. Even though the man wore Victorian dress and a formal, old fashioned expression on his unsmiling face, I could still the resemblance to Bryson.
“Oh, hey, you found Archie. This photo’s one of my most prized possessions.”
“Who is he?”
“Just another ancestor.” He grinned and flipped over the yellowed photo. “He even fought in the American Revolutionary War when he was a teenager. You’ll get a kick out of this story.”
“I’m already getting a kick out of his hipster mustache.”
“I know, right? Even funnier is the legend about him. People back then were so backward and superstitious, they believed in magic.” He shook his head at the notion. “And magical beings of all types.”
“Wow.” I tried to keep my face blank.
“These idiots actually thought my ancestor was some kind of demon.”
A chill ran down my spine. “Archie was a demon? Is what people said?” I added quickly.
Bryson shook his head ruefully. “Can you imagine? He was actually sentenced to death for some ridiculous crime that was obviously not real. Because there’s no such thing as the supernatural, of course.”
“What a crazy story,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear my heart pounding.
Demons weren’t actually evil, I reminded myself. But as beings from an alternate dimension, they were different enough from humans (including witches) that they often did things we would think of as evil. Interaction with such beings functioned best as an interdimensional partnership. With demons staying mainly in their own realms and we humans staying in ours.
Archibald Emory Smythe hadn’t stayed in his realm, and so Bryson had a demon in his family tree.
“Hazel, I didn’t realize hearing Archie’s story would unsettle you.” Bryson squeezed my arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, legend has it he escaped from prison and was never seen again.” Poofed back into his own dimension, likely, I thought. “But he left behind plenty of descendants—like me!”
Demon’s spawn, Gran’s voice echoed in my head.
“Don’t worry, Bryson,” I said,. “That story didn’t unsettle me at all. In fact, I think it just makes you even more interesting.”
“Oh good.” He smiled. “Those really were some hella good cookies. You got any more of those?”
“And that must be why he has weird sleep habits,” I explained to Britt and Max, who were sipping chardonnay and eating chips around the bakery’s corner booth at midnight the same night. “If he’s related to a Sandman demon, maybe doesn’t even need to sleep in the same way that we do. His demon heritage could also explain why he’s so relaxed and relaxing to be around. Maybe he’s lightly resting all the time.”
“Sounds creepy, yet basically harmless,” Britt pronounced. She’d fed on a cute bar customer earlier and was feeling chipper.
“I’m reserving judgment till we see his dream.” Max was not in a great mood herself, it seemed. She’d tried to talk to Kade today but he wasn’t at work nor answering her texts. I had to wonder if he’d seen the writing on the wall and skipped town.
“Wait a minute.” Max frowned at Britt. “Do you sleep like Hazel and I do? Now that you’ve turned?”
Britt smirked. “I sleep like the dead.”
“So sleep is when you’re most vulnerable to attack. Noted.”
“All right, let’s just go to the dream.” My hands were sweating from the anxiety, and I really wanted to get this over with. Though I knew Bryson was innocent, it was still scary to go deep into a person’s head like that. Even the most balanced people, I reasoned, had jagged places in their hearts. Beautiful but dangerous edges that it might hurt to crash into.
“Ugh, must we do this?” Britt made a face as she grabbed a final handful of chips. “His dream’s probably going to be super dull . . . sorry, Hazel.”
“Investigating him and Kade equally wasn’t my idea,” I protested. “It was yours.”
“I know, but thinking about it more, your Bryson’s too boring to be a killer.”
“Don’t be idiotic, Brittany,” Max said sharply.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Some of the world’s most notorious killers were boring SOBs,” Max went on.
I sighed and downed my wine.
Five minutes later, we plunged our stacked hands into the cauldron and let out a three part harmony of a scream. Max was alto, I was mezzo, and Britt soprano, in case you’re wondering.
Sunlight. Brightest sunlight. The morning sky in Bryson’s dream was three shades lighter than the sea in front of us. The scent of fresh baked goods permeated the air around us, drowning out the beachy smells I knew we should be smelling.
Because the setting of this dream was as familiar to me as my own body. We were on the sand, just blocks from downtown Ocean Street, watching a huge wedding procession approach the water.
It was Bryson’s wedding, and he walked with his veiled bride to where the surf lapped at their bare feet. As the preacher droned on, Bryson beamed down at his bride.
It was me, right?
Wasn’t it?
Frantically I tried to see if I could recognize my own family and friends in the crowd of guests, who unfortunately had their backs to me, but it was hard to concentrate because a Flamin’ Hot Cheeto had fallen on the sand.
With a squawk I reached out to nab it . . . I was a seagull? Ugh.
Did this particular Sandman have a real fixation with birds or what?
I heard a squawk and two other seagulls appeared, each ready to fight me and each other for the spicy snack. Max and Britt, I presumed.
As the ceremony concluded, Bryson gently lifted the bride’s veil . . . and I gasped to see my own face.
Yes, it was me and I looked exactly as I do on any given morning or late at night. No make up. Hair messily covering one of my eyes. But I was grinning beatifically. No wonder.
“I do!” Bryson declared, and the guests roared with approval. While I’d been messing around with Cheetos, our crowd had magically grown to include the entire town. “I love you, Haze, and I am never going to leave you. We’re in this to the bitter end, baby. You and me versus the world.”
A seagull squawked with joy as Bryson kissed my—well, Hazel’s—lips, and out of the cloudless sky, cupcakes began to rain down. The crowd erupted into cheers.
“You guys, he really loves me.” Back at the bakery counter, I dabbed away a tear and grinned victoriously. “Woo! I am loved. No need to investigate further, this guy is never going to leave me.”
Max and Britt exchanged an amused look.
“Told you it would be boring,” Britt said.
“Mm, ok, guess we can downgrade him as a suspect.” Max scrunched her shoulders and made a “whatever” face, like she didn’t take being wrong personally. She paused. “It’s a relief to know that he does sleep, in a way. Let’s start ramping up the effort on Drew and Jenna. After what Jenna’s kid Sophie said, they’re sounding like the strongest leads we’ve got.”
“And don’t forget Fred Kensington, the mean dog-kicker,” I said. After meeting Sophie, I really wanted it to be Fred, not Sophie’s mom. “Yaknow, I’m glad this went well,” I added, “but I must say I’m sick of you two calling my boyfriend boring. No really, I dare you to come to my house for Thanksgiving next week and actually get to know him.”
Max’s eyes widened. “Oh, Brittany, you cannot say no to this. Trust me, she is the hostess who does the mostest. Cooking is to die for . . . like, you’ll die again.”
“Sounds tempting, but will there be anything for me to drink?”
I paused, catching her drift. “If you must, my brother-in-law is fair game. I’ve always found him annoying.”
I brushed away the tiniest concern that hanging out with a vampire and a shifter might be nibbling away at my humanity.
The important thing was Bryson loved me, all the way down to his unconscious.
Sunday was my day off, but I was catering the Kensington’s family support dinner tonight, so I had plenty of baking to do.
I pulled on my stompiest, witchiest boots and barged into the bakery, where Gran was stirring batter for chocolate caramel miniwaffles.
“I figured it out, Gran. The real reason you hate my boyfriend.” I held out my phone, whose screen showed the pic I’d snapped of Bryson’s prized antique photo. “It’s his demonic ancestry, isn’t it? You must have sensed it in his aura.”
She smiled wanly. “Of course I did, Hazel dear. You would know too if you were anywhere near ready to take over the bakery. You can’t read auras. You can’t even teleport. Your magical training has a ways to go, my dear.”
“Maybe so but who cares if Bryson has an interdimensional ancestor? I did some research last night, and it turns out a lot of family trees have a demon in them somewhere.”
She shrugged slightly and I rejoiced that I’d gotten her to acknowledge a point of logic. “Sure, when you go back a dozen generations. But your Bryson is a different story. His aura contains a pronounced demonic mark. Extremely pronounced. You . . . you haven’t started learning how to read auras have you?” Her tone was hopeful.
“No,” I admitted. “He was just showing me his family photo album and mentioned the story about his ancestor. Who was persecuted by Puritans, by the way. Sound familiar?” Our own line has a few members who’d struggled with such issues. “If anything, our two families have more in common than not.”
“Yes, yes, but it’s not his family I’m worried about, it’s him,” Gran said. “His courting you so quickly, combined with what I see in his aura . . . well, it doesn’t look good, does it?”
I shook my head. “Who cares what it looks like?” Sure, there would be other witches who shared her prejudices, but what did I care if they looked down on us for Bryson’s heritage? Seriously, forget them. Fewer people to feed at the wedding.
As for Gran, she was turning out to be hopelessly old fashioned and prejudiced, but I still had to try. I decided to tell her the same thing I’d told Britt and Max.
Sheesh, what was it with people not liking my fiancé?
“All I want is for you to give him a chance.”
She folded her arms. “And all I want is for you to marry a man who’s not literally demonic.”
I ignored that. “We’re hosting Thanksgiving dinner this year.” My heart was pounding. The stakes of Gran’s approval felt so high. “Will you come, take the opportunity to get to know him?”
Her eyes darted to the right. “I’ll think about it.”
YES!
“But only because I’m so tired of your sister’s house. That grand staircase! Big pretentious entryway, and they call it a ‘foyer.’ Who do they think they are, dukes and earls?”
Great. So she would come over because my house wasn’t as nice as Bea and Grant’s place, therefore it irritated her less. That was slightly deflating.
But these days, I’d take my victories where I could get them.
Chapter 14
I’m not a very princessy person.
Like most Green witches, my hands are always busy, rolling out pie dough or pulling garden weeds.
Nevertheless, when the limo driven by Stephen, the Kensington family’s official chauffeur, swung by the bakery to pick me up at five, I felt just like Cinderella going to the ball.
And when the passenger side window rolled down and David called out, “Hop in, cake baker!” my tweenager heart soared like an eagle.
With Stephen’s help, it didn’t take long to load the trunk with my brand new Cambro insulated food carriers (a nervous investment in the hope of future catering gigs) filled with fresh pastries. Carefully I smoothed down my white linen blouse, which I was wearing with wide-legged trousers and a black wool cardigan, and sank into the sleekly curved, black leather couch seating.
I’d had a feeling my Sage’s Bakery T-shirt wouldn’t cut it for this event. Now that I was riding in a limo, sitting across from the hot photographer no less, I was extra glad I’d taken the time to look nice.
“Feel free to indulge in some treats.” David leaned back and gestured to the lit tray compartment between us holding seltzer bottles and elegant snacks. “I always do. I love riding in cars.”
“It sure beats driving,” I agreed, thinking that must be what he meant. Then I realized cars had to be rich-people code for limos. I dimly recalled as much from watching old movies. “Jeeves, would you bring the car around?” Car equals limo. There, I was already picking up the lingo.
Biting into a fresh blackberry and cream cheese toast tip was heaven. So was the seltzer David poured for me into a crystal glass containing muddled mint leaves and orange slices. As we rolled through downtown, I half-closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would feel like to be one of those people, the truly wealthy. But so much of that lifestyle was a mystery to me.
Including why David was even here tonight.
“Dumb question . . . what does a photographer do at a small, intimate family dinner?” I wondered aloud as our limo zipped up the hills into Blue Moon Heights.
“In this case, take some pictures of cute children,” David said. “It turns out Estelle’s—well, and Fred’s—young nieces and nephews will be there, so I’m arranging a little shoot in the parlor. Marina sewed the girls ladybug costumes and hung giant felt flowers from the wall.”
“Sounds adorable.” I noticed he’d almost forgotten to add Fred’s name, as if the old man were an afterthought. No wonder, if Fred was that unpleasant. “They’re lucky you were available tonight.”
“Oh, well, I always make myself available,” David tore into a chocolate covered strawberry, not meeting my eyes, as if the subject embarrassed him the tiniest bit. “The family sort of has me on retainer.”
“Seriously?” My eyes must have about bugged out. “They have their own photographer twenty-four seven?” Such wealth boggled my mind. “Do you . . . live at the house, too, like the assistants?”
David laughed, but his suddenly stiff posture told me he was still uncomfortable with this subject. “Hey, I know it sounds weird, but it’s pretty cool. Leeza calls me in whenever there’s an event or holiday. I show up and snap a few photos, but I don’t stay more than an hour or so.”
“Just long enough to enjoy that free champagne, huh?” I teased.
That got a grin. “You know it.”
I decided it was ok that I had a tiny, harmless crush on David. Yes, I was engaged . . . but I still had a pulse. And it’s not like our flirtation was going to go anywhere, even if I wanted it to. He was too gorgeous for me.
Mind you, Bryson was a little too gorgeous himself, but God love him, he was head over heels committed to me. His wedding dream had proved that.
Stephan pulled the car down a long private road, through a black metal gate that parted automatically to let us in, and into a long, curved driveway.
A stunning and kingly house loomed into view. It was, to my surprise, a rather new construction done in the Northwest Style of architecture. With deep o
verhanging eaves and huge, south-facing window walls that seemed to be rising straight out of the surrounding pine trees and majestic boulders. I blamed Hollywood for my disappointed expectations that the Kensington house would be some stately colonial-style mansion. Yet, though I hated to admit it, since Java Kitty Café had some similarities in its design, I quickly came around to seeing the building’s clean, airy appeal. It was modern to a T.
Waiting for us at the roundabout was Leeza, who ushered me straight into the kitchen while David veered off to do his shoot in the parlor. I guessed since he was on retainer he didn’t even have to carry his camera equipment with him.
While Landon busied himself prepping king salmon filets with a tarragon rub, his kitchen helper, a teenage girl named Daffodil, helped me arrange my sliders on the beautiful blown glass trays they’d selected for tonight’s meal. I’d bet dollars to donuts the glassblower would be a local artist, too. Estelle Kensington—and her human extension, Leeza—left no detail unobserved.
Leeza was still hovering. “Since it’s your first job with us, Hazel, I’m going to lay out the guidelines we use here to ensure a successful catering experience.” Oh boy, I thought. I hadn’t expected her to be laid back, but dang, she was absolutely no-nonsense in her professional element. “Your restroom will be the one between the kitchen and the staff room. Under no circumstances will you use the guest powder room.”
“Got it.” Who cared about weird bathroom rules. Every morsel of food I’d prepared was dosed with ramble juice. I was excited and nervous to see what truths it would reveal.
“You may greet the family when you serve the dessert pies, they appreciate a personal touch. But don’t linger. You’re welcome to rest your feet in the staff room till Stephen comes to drive you home. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I murmured, thinking how was I supposed to see people’s reactions to my ramble juice if I wasn’t at the table? Grr, Leeza always seemed to be thwarting my attempts to pick up information.
Hmm.
Fangs and Frenemies Page 15