10
Thanks to Clay’s brief obsession with home renovation shows, I decided the Laurie was a no-tell motel in another life. The seedy side of town was blossoming, its businesses either rehabbed or on their way. The result was trendy stores, trendy colors, and trendy people walking cracked sidewalks without a fresh can of pepper spray tucked into their palms or tasers hidden in their oversized bougie purses.
The Laurie itself was one story, an L shape, with a sparkling pool out front to attract roadside customers.
Part of me appreciated that these days, businesses owned by individuals could provide no-contact check-ins. It was quicker, easier to hide when you showed up with blood spatter, and less invasive.
Plus, a locker system allowed guests to receive mail, which meant we now had Asa’s new suits.
But, if the pattern held, whoever owned this place was likely responsible for summoning Old Man Fang. We needed to verify that. Quickly. Before Parish yanked us out of Tupelo as he had the previous towns.
This case was starting to feel more like a game of hot potato than an assignment.
“I’d like to touch base with Meg. See if she’s got the inside scoop on Old Man Fang.”
We found our room, let ourselves in, and I searched for anything that might hold water.
What I found was a petal-pink box with a chocolatier’s name stamped on the top.
“That looks pricey for a welcome gift.” I flipped the lid. “Do you think the previous guest forgot it?”
A grid of nine elegant compartments with handwritten labels informed me of the contents.
Champagne gummy bears, cold brew cordials, ganache hearts on top. Dark demitasse squares, raspberry crescents, praline stars filled the center. Chocolate lava cake, crème brûlée, and black forest cake truffles rounded out the bottom row.
Asa took one look, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Another gift from Father.”
“How can you tell?” I sniffed them. “They only smell chocolatey to me.”
“The chocolatier is a desirae daemon. He can imbue his products with those emotions. Father sends the altered treats to his future conquests to make them more open to his suggestions.”
“Let me make sure I understand this.” I slammed the lid shut. “He sent me roofied candy?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Yes.”
“Teach me how to return to sender?” I drew my wand, tapped the box top, and reduced its vile contents to melty goo. “This time, I want him to know for certain who’s rejecting him.”
“All right.” He forced his fingers open. “Flatten your palm above the object you wish to spurn.” He demonstrated, and his hand quivered with his fury. “Then speak these words.”
He enunciated them clearly in daemonish, and, being a witch, once was enough for me to commit them to memory. The power in my voice was also enough to activate the return to sender spell on the first try.
“That is super handy.” I walked into his embrace and placed his arms around me. “Thank you.”
“I won’t let him hurt you.” He fisted the back of my shirt. “Even if it requires a coronation to do it.”
“I know.” I kissed the spot over his heart. “Help me find a bowl?”
Asa cupped my face between his palms, lowered his mouth to mine, and accepted my reassurance his heart was the only one I craved.
Which, okay, a black witch—former black witch—admitting that would terrify rather than comfort most.
I let him break the kiss, breathe me in, and settle his nerves while I plotted his father’s eventual demise.
No child should grow up believing they were unlovable, that parts of them ought to remain hidden. They shouldn’t doubt their acceptance by their peers or conceal who they are to fit their parents’—or anyone else’s—idea of who they ought to be.
When he withdrew, he had fewer lines biting the corners of his mouth and tightening his eyes. I couldn’t tear down his wrong opinion of himself overnight, but I was willing to put in the work to renovate his confidence.
“Found the ice bucket.” Asa lifted what resembled a desktop trash can with a liner. “Will this do?”