Minions and Magic: Accidental Witches Book 5

by Dunbar, Debra

  That made no sense. The crossroads might have referred to the demon I met Saturday, but Ophelia’s fork-in-the-road prophecy didn’t seem to mesh with that interpretation. And I had no idea what any of this had to do with Stanley. The red paint, the cologne, yes, but the rest?

  “Can you tell when the danger occurs?” I asked, leaning forward to look into the mirror which seemed like just a plain old mirror to my eyes.

  She shook her head. “No, although the plate seemed to be falling into the grass, so maybe a picnic? Or the werewolf barbeque? Or Stanley grilling in his own backyard?” Ophelia sat back with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Glenda. The only other thing I’m getting is a vision of a big huge truck and trailer. It’s fancy. I don’t know what the heck that has to do with Stanley or even you, but it makes me happy.”

  I snorted. “A fancy new truck and trailer would make anyone happy. Maybe I win the lottery and replace my catering van? Or you guys raise enough for that new ambulance you all wanted?”

  She smiled. “Or Stanley is the one who wins the lottery and heads to the Ford dealership, then decides to get a camper and tour the U.S. as a nomadic werewolf? No idea.”

  I stood and came around the table to give her a hug. “Thanks, Ophelia. I owe you one.”

  She squeezed me tight. “You owe me nothing. Well, except for some of those chocolate walnut cookies that Nash likes so much.”

  “Done.” I made a mental note to bake cookies this weekend after the barbeque. I could give them to Ophelia at Sunday’s family dinner.

  Then I left, waving once more to Skip as I headed to my car. It was already late morning, and I had a gazillion things to do to prep for my catering jobs this week.

  Chapter 9

  Glenda

  Once home I threw on an apron and got to work. There was the schallea to check on, adding the fruit puree that would make it especially appealing to the gnomes. I also needed to start pickling the turnips and marinating the slugs in the special herbs and spices I’d gotten from Alberta.

  Ugh. Slugs. It wasn’t the first time I’d made food for a client that I never wanted to eat. Catering jobs where a customer had completely different ideas of what constituted a delicious meal were always a gamble. I couldn’t judge if I was getting it right or not and had to blindly rely on research, recipes, luck, and skill. Not magic, because although my magic potions healed, they tasted horrible no matter who drank them and I’d always been worried that combining my magic with my cooking would result in something inedible.

  Oddly the excitement I normally would feel over a busy day in the kitchen wasn’t there today. My career was rewarding. It was my life, my passion, the thing that put a spark in my heart and got me happily out of bed each morning. But today that spark just wasn’t there. The thought of spending all day prepping and cooking seemed unusually depressing, and I felt an urge to…I don’t know. I looked over at my cell phone wanting to call Adrienne or Sylvie, but it was Monday and I knew they were both busy with their jobs.

  I was lonely. I lived alone. I worked alone. I had no friends beyond what I would call friendly acquaintances. Other than a few quick visits here and there like my trip to the firehouse this morning, I didn’t see my sisters much beyond our family dinner. That had never been a problem before. In fact, that’s exactly how I’d structured my life, how I wanted my days to be. I’d always enjoyed filling up my time with my work and peaceful solitude, but today it all felt…bleak.

  I took a deep breath and ran my hands through my hair. Time to end the mopey pity-party and get to work. If I was feeling lonely then there was no one to blame but myself. I’d get all my prep-work done for the events, make the scones that Hollister had requested for some guests he had staying over tonight, then if I was still feeling blue, maybe I’d walk downtown and see what was going on. Dinner at the diner surrounded by others might help, or perhaps a trip out to Pete’s for a beer, even though there wasn’t much action Monday nights at the bar.

  I pulled the turnips from the storage bin and began washing them when my doorbell rang.

  Who the heck could it be? My sisters would have walked right in, and as I’d just been sulking about, I didn’t have many friends that would come to call on a Monday. The bell rang again, so I put down the turnips and went to open it.

  There was a demon was on my porch—the demon from the Allen engagement party. For a second I stared at him in confusion since I’d expected never to see him again. I mean, he did leave without even saying “goodbye”. Or “thank you for the food”.

  “May I come in?”

  My manners instinctively took over and I stood back, waving my arm for him to enter.

  “Thank you.”

  His smile was charming, and it sent all sorts of happy tingles through my body. Once inside, he looked around, nodding in approval. I’m not sure if he was admiring the fact that my living and dining room had been converted into one giant kitchen, or if he had a thing for stainless steel.

  “I don’t really have anywhere for you to sit,” I apologized. “One of these stools, maybe? Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Lemonade?”

  He looked intrigued. “Lemonade?”

  I got to work, because lemonade was better freshly made. As I squeezed lemons and pulled the simple syrup out of the fridge, I watched the demon. He looked oddly comfortable on the decidedly uncomfortable kitchen stool, and was taking in the ovens, refrigerators, and giant Hobart mixer.

  “What’s your name? I didn’t get it at the party Saturday.” I asked.

  “Xavier.” That slow sexy smile curled up the corners of his lips again. “And you are Glenda Ann Perkins, witch of the town of Accident.”

  Yes, it was mildly creepy that he knew my name, but I wasn’t terribly surprised since he’d probably found that out to track down where I lived. Of more interest was his name.

  “Xavier? That’s not a demon name. That’s a name that should belong to a sexy somewhat-evil twin brother on a daytime soap.”

  He shrugged. “I go by many names. I’ve had thousands over the last hundred years alone. Right now I go by Xavier, so that’s what you may call me.”

  I barely restrained an eye-roll at that. “And I will grant you the supreme honor of calling me Glenda.” I placed his lemonade in front of him and took a sip from my own. “Now, Xavier, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  He lifted the glass to his lips, his eyes widening at the taste of the lemonade. “This is quite good.”

  I waved a hand in false humility. “I use a specific lemon variety then throw in a little lavender, and my simple syrup is a bit different.”

  Because I wanted to show off, I pulled some dried apricot and dark chocolate cookies from a container and put them on a little plate, sitting them on the counter between us. Was he here just to eat? It wouldn’t be the first time I’d lured a man in with my culinary skills, but those past relationships had failed spectacularly. Having a man who loved your cooking more than he loved you was a road that led straight to heartbreak.

  “So why are you here?” Please don’t say my food. Please don’t say my food.

  I watched as he ate a cookie, thinking that the expression on his face was pretty close to what a guy looks like when he shoots a load. Conflicting emotions raged through me—pride and a giddy happiness that he loved my cooking, and a worried sorrow that he wouldn’t love me nearly as much.

  But what did I care if some crossroads demon loved me or not? I’d just met him two days ago, and I was too busy for love.

  “What do I need to do to get that ginger cake recipe?” His eyes were full of heat and promise and sin, but my heart sank. Of course that’s what he wanted. I should have known.

  “Trade me your soul,” I teased. He was a crossroads demon, after all. I assumed this was the sort of thing he said to the humans who called upon him wanting wealth, or love, or fame.

  “If I had a soul it would be yours.” He smiled. “Perhaps there is something else you would like in exchange?”

&n
bsp; Wealth, love, fame? But instead of pledging my soul to him in return, I’d be handing over a three-by-five recipe card?

  “You can buy a cake, but not the recipe,” I told him, thinking that he probably couldn’t replicate it even if I did sell it to him. It seemed ridiculous that he’d tracked me down just to know what went into my cake. Yes, it was a darned good cake, but I wasn’t quite so vain about my cooking that I’d think a demon would be willing to offer me more than just money for it.

  But maybe the cake was an excuse and he was here to see me? I wiped that thought right out of my mind, because as confident as I was in my cooking, I was less than confident about my attractiveness. He was probably in town to see Lucien about some hellish matter and had stopped by hoping for lunch and a slice of cake.

  “Who said anything about money?” The demon’s eyes glowed, his smile downright sinful as his gaze focused on my mouth. The heat coming off him was delicious and his aura shifted, the swirls of orange growing brighter and countered by a deep violet.

  I never gave away my recipes. Never. But something about this demon tempted me. Actually a whole heck of a lot about this demon tempted me. Plenty of boyfriends had loved my cooking more than me, but I’d never had anyone seriously offer to exchange sex for food—or a recipe. Figuring I’d play along with this, I turned on whatever sex appeal I might have and leaned forward onto the counter—which pushed my boobs together and upward.

  “What exactly are you proposing?” I asked.

  He eyed my breasts and wiggled his eyebrows. “How about one night where I make all your dreams come true.”

  “You’ll do all the dishes, my taxes, and get me the catering job for the next inaugural ball?” I fanned myself. “Wow. You demons really do know what a woman wants.”

  He scowled, but I saw a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of my slowly removing your clothes, spreading you across your bed, then tasting every inch of you.”

  The demon went on to describe in incredible detail all the X-rated things he was going to do to me. I’m not a prude, but I was pretty sure my face was bright red by the time he finished. I’ll admit, it did sound like something I would enjoy, and I did hesitate a few moments before answering him, just to make sure I’d fully considered his proposition.

  But ultimately, I decided my ginger cake recipe was worth far more than one night of mind-blowing sex.

  “Think I’ll pass on that,” I told him. “But if you’d like to stay and help me while I cook as well as wash the dishes, I might let you lick the spoon.”

  Something sparked in his eyes. “Can I lick other things as well?”

  I smirked, thinking how shocked he’d be if he tried to lick the bowl I used to marinate the slugs. Although maybe demons liked slugs? The demons I knew seemed to have fairly human food preferences, but perhaps that was because we’d never offered them slugs.

  “Maybe,” I replied as I reached in a drawer and pulled out an apron. “Here. Put this on and go wash your hands.”

  “I need to clean my hands before I wash dishes?”

  “Absolutely. Cleanliness is next to godliness—or satanliness, in your case. You might need to hand me a bowl or utensil before you do any washing. And I’m thinking you might make a good turnip stirrer. Are you a good turnip stirrer?”

  He followed me, a bemused expression on his face. “Turnips? I’m intrigued to find out what magic you’re working that involves turnips.”

  “No magic, just food for a birthday party I’m catering on Wednesday.”

  I surveyed my ingredients. Vinegar. Sugar. Dill. Salt. Chilis. Some sliced beet to give them a pink color and an earthy flavor that I knew gnomes loved.

  “You’re preparing a dish with turnips for a birthday party?”

  “Gnomes,” I said, thinking that would explain it all.

  It didn’t.

  “You’re cooking gnomes and turnips?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s a gnome birthday party. Pickled turnips are one of the dishes on the menu.”

  The look of revulsion on his face was hysterical. And kinda adorable. I patted him on the shoulder and got out the saucepan, then walked over to the sink to add water.

  “You’re catering a party for gnomes?”

  Putting the saucepan on the stove, I added my ingredients to the water, and turned it on high. “Last week I did a merfolk party. The week before that a centaur party. It’s Accident. I need to be just as good at pickled turnips, sashimi, and oat-molasses bites, as Beef Wellington, Smith Island cake, and key lime pie.”

  He washed his hands and put on the ridiculously lacy apron as I peeled the turnips. Since I was already working on those, I asked him to dice some onions and prepare the marinade, then slice the slugs and add them to the bowl. Watching his face as he handled giant slugs made me laugh.

  “Not quite what you expected, huh?”

  He laughed, and the sound went right through me, making me catch my breath and press my thighs together.

  “Not at all. I’d hoped for ginger cake, pie, or maybe even a smoked brisket.”

  I bit back a smile. “Well, I will be making sour cherry pie tomorrow, because in spite of their unusual taste in food, gnomes do love a sour cherry pie.”

  “I’ll happily sample that.” He smiled and for a second I forgot what I was doing.

  “And brisket…I’ll be making that for the barbeque Saturday. Werewolves love meat, so I’m cooking a lot of meat.”

  “Do you love meat?”

  There was a whole lot of innuendo in that question. Once again I felt myself blush as I bent over and stirred the turnips with more force than necessary. “Only if it’s well prepared.”

  “Noted.” There was a moment of silence, and I felt the tension stretch out to the breaking point before he spoke again. “So what do we do when the turnips and slugs are done? Can I suggest something?”

  I contemplated that for a moment, then chickened out. “No, you cannot. I’ve got a lot of prep work to do today for Wednesday’s catering job. We’ll cook today, but if you come back to help me tomorrow, I’ll feed you lunch.”

  “What about I feed you lunch?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Can you cook? I mean, you’re doing a good job marinating those slugs over there, but what’s your idea of lunch? Bologna on white bread with mayo?”

  The smirk he sent my way was one-hundred-percent sexy. “Oh, I definitely can cook. Let’s say we have a little bet. A contest. Tomorrow we’ll both make a lunch dish. Whoever makes the best gets whatever they desire.”

  My heart skipped a beat, then I thought of my conversation yesterday at Cassie’s. Lucien had warned me against bargains, contracts, bets, or contests with a crossroads demon. But I couldn’t help feel a surge of competitive instinct at his suggestion. I’d win. I knew I’d win. No one was as skilled at cooking as I was.

  But there was a little voice inside me that screamed caution.

  “You need to specify what you will get if you win,” I told him. “Because I’m not giving you my soul.”

  “How about your body?”

  I sucked in a breath. Even with his flirting I’d expected he would ask for either my soul or my recipe for the ginger cake, not sex. I wanted to say “yes” to that bet. I wanted to say “yes” to him, but I was scared to admit that I wanted this demon. I’d just met him. I didn’t know him. The logical, cautious me urged an answer of “no”, but the thrill that ran through me at his suggestion, made me want to do something completely unconventional.

  “Sure.” I kept my voice casual, even shrugged as I pulled a container of flour out of the cabinet. “Why not? Come back tomorrow and we’ll have a lunch-time battle of the chefs. Right now I’m too busy to think about lunch or even what I’m going to ask for when I kick your ass. So get your mind in gear, because we’ve got more cooking and a ton of dishes ahead of us.”

  “What else do we have to do?” He scrunched up his nose. “Please tell me I don’t need to cut up mor
e slugs.”

  “No, you need to make the sauce.” I laughed at his horrified expression. “It’s not that bad.” I handed him the bag of herbs and spices that Alberta had given me. “Grind these up together with that mortar and pestle. Make them as fine as you can. Add them to a cup of chicken stock and a quarter cup of wine, then stick it all in the fridge.”

  He did as I instructed, whistling cheerfully in the background as I worked on my dough. We chatted about movies, music, our favorite crêpes. He finished before I did, then slid the bowl of sauce into the fridge before coming over to me.

  “Bread?” He leaned over my shoulder and I resisted the urge to shift back just an inch so I’d be touching him.

  “Yep. Gnomes love a good hearty bread. This recipe is based on a Russian black bread. A little sweeter but with the same thick, chewy texture and crumbly crust.”

  “And that?” He pointed to the ingredients I had on another table.

  “Sour cherry pie. If you’re a good boy, I’ll make you cinnamon pinwheels with the leftover dough.”

  I felt him edge closer, felt the brush of his chest against my back. His arms came around either side of me to cage me in against the edge of the stainless steel table. “What if I’m a bad boy?”

  “Then you might get a whole lot more than cinnamon pinwheels.”

  I felt my heart stutter, heat rising in my cheeks as I said it. This sort of banter wasn’t anything I’d ever done before. Of all the Perkins sisters, I was the one least likely to naughty-talk, the one least likely to indulge in a one-night stand with a stranger. This was so out of character for me, but it felt right. I hoped he was a bad boy, because if he made a move, I wasn’t going to say “no”. Heaven help me, I never wanted to jump anyone as much as this demon.

  I set my dough aside to rise, worked on the pastry for the pies, then showed Xavier how to use the cherry-pitter, leaving him to it as I checked on my bread dough and made the pinwheels.