Page 9 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)

Tarts and Stamps

Willow

B rad's actually turning out to be surprisingly interesting, which makes this whole thing even more unfair.

Here I was, expecting to endure an hour of mind-numbing small talk about the weather and his job in accounting (thanks for that setup, Bethany), but instead he's animatedly telling me about how stamps might contain actual reaped souls. Like, what?

I wrap my hands around my spiced apple chai, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.

Through the window of Brews & Hexes, maple leaves dance past in shades of crimson and gold.

The café is perfect for a first date – cozy enough to be comfortable, public enough to avoid awkwardness.

Mismatched vintage teacups line the shelves, and floating candles cast a warm glow that makes everything feel slightly magical.

"That's actually fascinating," I say, and mean it. "But why stamps specifically?"

"Think about it – stamps travel everywhere, crossing boundaries between life and death, carrying messages between people.

They're like tiny portals." Brad gestures with his chamomile tea, nearly knocking over the plate of pumpkin bread between us.

"Sorry! But get this – there's an auction coming up where some of these soul-stamps might be available.

The collecting community is buzzing about it. "

I'm about to ask more when it hits me – that familiar tingle along my spine, the sudden awareness humming through the unwanted bond. No. No, no, no. He wouldn't dare...

The bell above the door chimes, bringing with it a gust of autumn air and the last person I want to see right now. Kane fills the doorway like he owns it, because of course he does.

What is he even doing here? Shouldn't he be in his fancy office tower, doing whatever vampire CEOs do during the day? Running hostile takeovers? Terrorizing board members? Not strutting into my favorite café during my carefully planned date.

The entire shop goes quiet. A young witch at the counter nearly drops her mug, and I swear I hear someone squeak. Brad's voice trails off mid-sentence about postal history, his were-fox instincts probably screaming 'predator.'

Kane's dark eyes scan the room before landing on our table with calculated precision. The bond flares with something that feels suspiciously like satisfaction. Of course he knew I was here. The question is how?

He moves with that liquid grace that makes me want to trip him, just to see if I can, and slides into the seat at the table right next to ours. Our tables are so close his shoulder nearly brushes mine when he sits. The bond hums with approval, the traitor.

"Good afternoon," he says to no one in particular, though his lips curve slightly when I narrow my eyes at him.

The owner herself hurries over, practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Mr. Drake! What an unexpected honor. What can I get for you today?"

Kane studies the floating chalkboard menu like it's a crucial business contract.

"I'll have the Honeycrisp apple and blackberry tea, steeped exactly four minutes, with a maple-bourbon poached pear tart.

" His voice carries just enough to ensure everyone hears him, the show-off.

"The tea should be precisely 185 degrees Fahrenheit. "

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Barely.

"So, Brad," I say pointedly, turning back to my date. "You were saying about the auction?"

"Oh! Yes, well—" Brad straightens his tie, clearly trying to regain his earlier enthusiasm. "There's supposedly a collection coming up that includes stamps from the original reaper binding period. The provenance is still being verified, but—"

A soft snort interrupts him. I kick Kane under the table without looking. Through the bond, I feel his amusement spike.

"Something funny?" I ask sweetly, finally turning to face him.

"Not at all." Kane's smile shows just a hint of fang. "Please, continue explaining the intricacies of necromantic soul binding to inanimate objects. I'm sure your understanding of the metaphysical principles involved is... comprehensive."

Brad's expression falls slightly. "You're familiar with soul binding?"

"One picks things up over the centuries.

" Kane accepts his perfectly arranged tart from the still-nervous owner.

"Though I find it interesting that you believe reapers would choose something as mundane as stamps for soul repositories.

Particularly given the inherent instability of paper as a binding medium for ethereal energy. "

I can feel a headache building behind my eyes. "Don't you have a company to run?"

Kane takes a deliberately slow sip of his tea. "I find it's important to take breaks. Maintain work-life balance." His eyes meet mine over the rim of his teacup. "Get out of the office. See what's happening in the neighborhood."

The bond pulses with something that feels like possessiveness mixed with challenge. I refuse to acknowledge it.

Through our unwanted connection, I can feel Kane's satisfaction rolling like honey, thick and sweet. It makes me want to dump my tea in his lap, which would probably just ruin his obscenely expensive suit. Actually, that's not a bad idea...

"The thing about soul binding," Kane continues, cutting smoothly into Brad's attempt to resume our conversation, "is that the containment vessel must have certain inherent properties. Sympathetic resonance, if you will."

Brad perks up despite himself. "That's fascinating! I hadn't considered—"

"Don't encourage him," I mutter, but it's too late. The bond thrums with Kane's victory as Brad leans forward, supernatural accountant enthusiasm warring with natural fox wariness.

A crash from behind the counter draws my attention.

The barista is mopping up what looks like an entire pitcher of pumpkin spice concentrate, her huge eyes darting between our tables.

Around us, the usual cozy atmosphere of B&H has shifted into something more like a supernatural soap opera viewing party.

A young witch two tables over isn't even trying to hide the fact that she's recording everything on her crystal ball.

Perfect. Just perfect.

"Tell me, Brad," Kane says, delicately spearing a piece of his pear tart, "what's the highest grade stamp in your collection?"

The way he says 'your collection' makes it sound like he's referring to a child's marble collection. I kick him again. He retaliates by deliberately brushing his arm against mine as he reaches for his tea, sending sparks through the bond.

"Well, I have a mint condition 1922 enchanted airmail stamp," Brad says, his voice gaining confidence as he discusses his expertise. "The enchantment still activates under moonlight—"

"Ah yes," Kane interrupts, "the Lambert series.

Interesting choice, though rather... common in serious collecting circles.

" He takes another bite of his tart, and I absolutely refuse to notice the way his lips curve around the fork.

"I believe there were several thousand printed before the enchantment was deemed too unstable for general use. "

Brad's face falls slightly. "Several thousand isn't exactly common..."

"Perhaps not for some." Kane's smile is all fang. "I've been considering acquiring the complete Mortemer collection when it comes up for auction next month. Purely for academic interest, of course."

Brad chokes on his tea. "The entire Mortemer collection? But that's—that's millions—"

"Is it?" Kane looks supremely unconcerned. "I hadn't checked the exact figure."

That does it. "Don't you have some souls of your own to go torment?" I snap. "Maybe a board meeting to terrorize? Stocks to manipulate?"

Kane's eyes meet mine, dark and amused. "My schedule cleared up rather unexpectedly this afternoon."

"How convenient," I mutter, just as Brad's phone chimes.

He checks it with obvious relief. "Oh! I'm so sorry, but I just remembered I have a crucial client meeting about... tax preparation. For kneazles. Very important."

"It's October," I point out.

"Early planning is key in accounting," he says quickly, already standing. "This was... interesting. Thank you for the tea, Willow."

I open my mouth to protest, but he's already heading for the door with impressive speed for someone not technically running. The bell chimes his escape, and autumn leaves swirl in his wake.

Kane sets down his fork with exaggerated precision. "Charming fellow."

That's when I spot it through the window – a sleek black car that practically radiates money and privilege, parked right in front of the café like it's too good for normal parking spots.

"Is that your car?" I ask sweetly.

"The Aston Martin? Yes." He actually preens slightly. "A recent acquisition—"

"If you ever pull something like this again, I will turn it into a pumpkin carriage. Complete with mice footmen."

For a moment, Kane just stares at me. Then his lips twitch. "Now that," he says, "would be worth seeing."

"What are you even doing here?" I demand, turning to face him fully. "How did you know where I was?"

"Would you believe I was simply craving their excellent pear tart?"

"No."

"Smart girl." He leans back, entirely too comfortable for someone I'm actively plotting to hexify. "Though it is an excellent tart. Would you like to try some?"

The bond sparks with heat as he holds out a forkful of perfectly poached pear. I narrow my eyes at him. "I would rather eat one of Brad's haunted stamps."

"Ah, but the stamps aren't actually haunted and he doesn’t actually have any yet," he says, popping the bite into his own mouth with obvious satisfaction. "The soul binding theory is quite wrong, you know. The real story is much more interesting."

Despite myself, I feel curiosity stir. "What's the real story?"

His smile is pure temptation. "Have dinner with me, and I'll tell you."

I let out a laugh that draws the attention of every supernatural still pretending not to watch us. "Absolutely not."

"No?" His smile doesn't fade. If anything, it grows more pronounced. "Afraid you might enjoy it?"

"I'm afraid I might commit homicide," I say sweetly. "And I just don't have time to hide a body this week. My schedule's packed."

Kane leans forward, close enough that I can smell his cologne – something expensive and woodsy that the bond immediately latches onto. Traitor. "I'm quite difficult to kill, actually."

"Is that a challenge?"

The bond pulses with his amusement, warm and rich like mulled cider. I hate that I can feel how genuine it is, how much he's enjoying this. Almost as much as I hate that some tiny, traitorous part of me is enjoying it too.

"You still haven't answered my question," I say, forcing myself to lean back. "What are you doing here? Don't you have a company to run?"

"Multitasking is one of my many talents." He takes another deliberate bite of his tart. "Besides, I own the company. That means I can delegate."

"So you delegated your CEO responsibilities to crash my date?"

"Crash implies accident. I prefer to think of it as... strategic intervention."

I gather my things, shoving my phone into my bag with probably more force than necessary. "Well, your strategic intervention failed. I'm not having dinner with you."

"Today," he adds, as if I hadn't spoken.

"Ever again."

Kane just watches me stand, utterly relaxed, like he has all the time in the world.

Which, being a vampire, I suppose he does.

"You know," he says conversationally, "you're the first person who's threatened to turn my car into a pumpkin carriage.

Most people try to be more... conventional in their threats. "

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, and there's something in his voice that makes the bond sing. "You're not."

I head for the door, ignoring the way every eye in the place follows me. Just before I reach it, I turn back. "Oh, and Kane?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"If I find out you sabotaged Brad's chances at that auction, I'll turn every vehicle you own into various squash varieties. Think how nice your parking garage would look filled with zucchini."

His laugh follows me out into the crisp autumn air, genuine and rich and far too appealing. The bond hums with delight, completely undermining my dramatic exit.

I make it halfway down the block before I realize I never found out the real story about the stamps. Damn it.

But I'm not having dinner with him to find out. I'm not having dinner with him ever. No matter how much the bond purrs at the thought, or how good he looked eating that stupid tart, or how interesting the mystery of the stamps might be.

I'm not.

Really.

...I wonder if the library has any books on stamp collecting.

The autumn breeze catches my hair as I walk, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and approaching rain.

I need to clear my head, and I know exactly where to go.

The Moonbloom Fields are just outside the city limits, one of those pick-your-own places that caters to both magical and mundane customers – though the mundane ones never quite manage to find the more interesting sections.

My shop could use restocking anyway. The lunar lilies should be in full bloom, their petals collecting moonlight even during the day, and I heard they've got a new variety of time-turning tulips that bloom in reverse.

Plus, the autumn crocuses are perfect for certain very specific hexes that I am absolutely not considering using on certain arrogant vampires' cars.

I check my phone's weather app. Plenty of time to gather what I need and maybe sit among the flowers for a while, letting their magic wash away the lingering effects of that disaster of a lunch date.

And if I happen to pick up some thistles – the extra prickly kind that love to find their way into expensive suit pockets – well, that's just good business sense.

The bond gives one last amused pulse, like Kane knows exactly what I'm thinking.

I ignore it and pick up my pace. Flowers first, plotting revenge later.

And I am definitely not going to think about stamp collecting or pear tarts or the way his laugh seemed to fill up all the empty spaces in the room.

Definitely not.