Page 23 of Curses & Cold Brew (Maple Hollow #2)

RAMONA

W e placed the newly carved pumpkins on the porch, and I stepped back to admire our work. It was clear that I didn’t carve all of them, but something in my chest swelled at the sight of our pumpkins butted up next to each other.

I indulged myself for the briefest of seconds, imagining what it would be like if the two of us always decorated the stoop every Halloween— our stoop, the one we owned together. What would it be like if this were just a normal night for us and not only a quick flash of stolen time?

“Not bad for a couple of townies.” Iris’s shoulder nudged mine, pulling me from my dangerously wistful daydream. “You need some candles floating around in the air. Really sets the tone.”

“Using magic is against the rules,” I chided.

“Didn’t realize demons were rule-abiding citizens.”

“If I cheated at every game, winning wouldn’t be as much fun.”

Her soft teasing tugged at an itch that was growing more precarious the more comfortable she grew around me.

It had been such a long time since I’d had someone, a long-term companion.

Disregarding the friendships I held onto, it had been centuries since I had more than the occasional lover or one-night stand.

Loneliness was par for the course as an immortal being.

I’d outlived generations of humans, several vampires, and even some demons on this plane.

But there was something special about the way Iris looked at me like I was an equal.

A hot equal, but an equal, nonetheless.

She didn’t care that I was hellborn. And instead of feeling disrespected by her lack of adulation, I couldn’t get enough of it.

“If there were no rules to follow, I wouldn’t have a job,” I finally said after a long pause.

“I guess I never thought about it like that.”

“What do you think about?”

It was a wide-open question. She could say that she thought about her cat, that sassy little furball that clearly ran the apothecary with demanding authority. She could say she thought about Jordyn, or the coven, or the day-to-day of living in Maple Hollow.

She could say she thought about me.

She twisted her lips to one side and furrowed her brow, assessing the stoop again before saying, “I think I might have an idea if you have some paper, tape, and string?”

I didn’t know what I was expecting, but that answer made me smile. “Come on. I’ll let you raid my arts-and-crafts closet while I make you dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes? Don’t witches eat?” I raised a brow at her. “Don’t get any ideas, witchling. This doesn’t count as the date you owe me. Our deal still stands. We’re just on pause while I protect your life.” Her cheeks flushed, and by Lucifer, that did things to me. “How does pasta sound?”

“Perfect.”

I gave the street one more cursory glance, searching the shadows in case Esme was lurking within them.

But when I couldn’t sense the presence of any other beings, I led Iris back into the house.

As we walked into the kitchen, I waved my hand and cleared the pumpkin guts from the island.

Any normal human would have found the little trick awe-inspiring, but my little witchling didn’t pay it any mind.

She was right on my heels as I opened the small closet under the stairs to reveal a treasure trove of beads, fabric, yarn, and a myriad of other craft essentials.

“You really weren’t kidding about having hobbies.”

“Eternity can get tedious,” I dryly replied. “Use whatever you like.”

By the time I got the water boiling and took out the veggies to chop, Iris was already sitting down with an armful of supplies on the table. Our hands were busy with our individual tasks, and light conversation drifted between us while we cut and sautéed.

“Sorry if this sounds rude,” Iris eventually said, piquing my interest, “but do demons have to eat and drink to survive?”

“No, but we enjoy the act just as much as any others we partake in.” I shot her a suggestive look.

“Oh.” Iris swept a lock of hair behind her ear, and I wondered how long I could elicit her blushing response. “So it’s not boring?”

“Cooking is its own kind of magic, like any other potion or intentional activity. It takes energy but also creates it. That’s all magic is, after all.”

“You make it sound so simple, but I’ve been learning how to use magic my entire life and will likely never master it.”

“Do you want to master it? Is that a goal of yours?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I was born to wield magic. What else would I do?”

“Is there anything else you always wished you could master instead of the art of magic? Like cooking or an instrument or a video game?”

Great. I’m asking about her life goals already. Soon, we’ll be comparing star charts.

I wondered if anyone in her coven had ever given her a choice in the matter.

There were plenty of witches who’d left the coven.

Iris’s little sister was dating the daughter of a witch who’d left, after all.

Magic was certainly their primary calling, but I could tell that Iris had many talents that had nothing to do with the sparks that danced on her fingertips when she was angry or scared.

“You should explore more of your interests,” I encouraged. But then I looked at the paper ghost she was hot gluing to a long string . . . and my Italian marble. “Though, I don’t suggest art.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Iris jeered. “I may not have ultimate mastery of my own power yet, but I’m still deadly with a pair of scissors.”

“Are you threatening to scissor me?”

Her gasp of surprise sent me into another fit of laughter.

“Ramona!” she chastised, waving the glue gun at me.

Lucifer, I loved the way her cheeks pinked up for me.

The timer on the oven took my attention away.

“Dinner’s ready,” I announced before I took a couple of plates out of the cupboard. “Wash your hands.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Iris slipped behind me, her hip brushing mine as she turned on the tap.

The smell of her cut through the plump shrimp, lush butter, and wine sauce I was spooning over the nests of coiled spaghetti.

She smelled like rosemary, amber, and incense—a warmth that mirrored her soul.

Everything about her was inviting and cozy and tinged with electrifying spice.

“Wine?” I held up the bottle of the Chardonnay I’d used to make the sauce and Iris nodded.

There was over half the bottle left, and it would be a shame to waste it in the fridge. And I felt like I needed some liquid courage as I danced so close to something I was afraid to name.

I picked up the plates and set them on the island, where I ate all my meals. The table felt too formal and empty. Iris came to sit next to me and without hesitation began to dig into her shrimp scampi. She devoured half her plate before she slowed and gave a satisfactory hum.

I grinned, watching in delighted fascination as she feasted on my cooking.

“This is amazing, by the way,” she complimented around through a mouthful. “I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me.” She pushed at a shrimp on the edge of her plate.

“I can’t remember the last time I cooked for someone.” I stole a glance over at her and saw a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Did you ever cook for Esme?”

I had a feeling she wasn’t talking just about cooking. “Never.”

I could tell her line of questioning was far from over, so I offered an explanation that didn’t feel like I was cutting my abdomen open and spilling my entrails all over my polished wood floor: “Esme and I became friends at a dark time in my existence. The Pope had just embraced the practice of exorcising demons and the like back to hell. It was relentless, not to mention painful. Nothing quite like being ripped out of a body. And every time I battled my way back earthside, having to start fresh, my ledgers wiped clean, I’d immediately be cornered by exorcists or hunters again.

Very en vogue for the times. But then Esme saved me from an ambush in central Europe. ”

The memory of that night burned brightly. The blood flooding the alleyway, how she’d refused to drink from the men who’d called her an abomination. But spilling their blood and leaving it to rot had fed her in different ways too.

“It took us a few more run-ins to form a bond. I owed her my life and repaid her, then she repaid me. On and on, around the world we went until we ended up in New York City. By then, we were inseparable. But I was blinded by friendship and I didn’t recognize that she was the reason hunters were always finding us.

She left a trail of bodies in her wake. When we made our way to Maple Hollow, she’d promised to stop. To embrace a quieter life. She lied.”

“That’s when the hunter came to Maple Hollow,” Iris supplied.

She was sitting so close to me now that our knees touched under the island. The barest contact had heat coursing through me.

I nodded. “The witches in the coven at the time helped banish her from the town, along with what was left of the vampire clan. She couldn’t have returned unless someone powerful within several miles of the county line invited her back. I still have no idea who did it.”

“Avery?” Iris mused. “She said she spotted her a few towns over. Maybe she did more than she’s saying?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m surprised they trusted you enough to not invite her back.”

I huffed out a bitter laugh. “Me too.”

“Then who was it who welcomed her? Who’s more powerful than you?”

“That is what I’ve been asking myself since the day of the knitting circle,” I replied, the delicious meal souring in my stomach. “And I still don’t have answers.”

“We’ll figure it out. Then I’ll be out of your hair . . . and house.”

I don’t want that.

The knee-jerk reaction in my belly was proof.

I wanted her to stay.

I wanted her tucked away doing arts and crafts, laughing, and cooking until we crawled into our bed at the end of the night.

Together.

The simplest of simple pleasures, the most terrifying to attain.

But Iris wasn’t here for that. No. She was only here for protection and a debt that she still owed . . . and perhaps the curiosity of what one night with a demon could be like.