Page 1 of Demon's Bane

1

Joan

Tea can speak, if you know how to listen.

A sprig of lavender whispering reassurance to an unsettled mind. Chamomile to give a gentle nudge toward a good night’s sleep. Some rose petals to encourage self-love and sensuality.

Standing over the workbench in the kitchen of Celestial Blends—the tea shop I own on the quaint, quiet Main Street in Beech Bay—I try to listen to all those voices as I put together a new blend.

It’s an imprecise art. Often it’s more about intuition or flat-out guesswork than any kind of science, but with the strands of my magick swirling through the air around me, it also feels as natural as breathing. A pinch here, a teaspoon there, inhaling the aromas of the flowers and herbs as I get closer and closer to the blend I have in mind.

The threads weave in and out and over themselves, tangling and untangling, their hum a familiar, gentle tune that lulls me into something I might almost call a trance with how hazy and peaceful my mind gets while I’m working.

At least until the shrill ring of a kitchen timer snaps me back to the present.

Huffing an irritated breath, I leave the half-finished blend behind and cross the room to take a tray of muffins out of the oven. A few minutes of working my next batch of scone dough and getting it in the fridge to chill overnight comes next, followed by a gigantic load of dishes I’ve been ignoring for the past few hours.

By the time I get back to the blend, something about it feels off, but I’m too tired to focus and my finnicky magick is apparently just as exhausted as I seal up all my cannisters and get ready to call it a night.

Doing one last sweep of the shop’s main room to straighten some chairs and get everything tidied for business tomorrow, my mind tumbles over and over a hundred different thoughts and worries and mental notes.

The problems with the blend I can’t quite pinpoint.

The meeting I have with my accountant later this week to talk third quarter taxes.

The schedule I still need to make for shop coverage for the rest of the month.

I toss each thought on top of the never-ending heap in the back of my mind, but even as distracted and exhausted as I might be by the end of each day, they’re all good problems to have.

I’ll never stop being proud of this place.

I might not have had much of an idea what the hell I was doing when I moved here right after college, when my best friend Allie gave me a heads-up about an empty storefront for sale. And even though I took that leap with nothing but big dreams about what I could make of myself here—in a new town, away from the Crescent Coven, with a life that’s all my own—I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Satisfied I’ve gotten as much taken care of as I can tonight, and with exhaustion sitting heavy on my shoulders, I head for the front of the shop to switch off the lights.

Only to stop dead in my tracks.

There, just on the other side of the shop’s front doors, is the very last person I’d ever expect to see in Beech Bay.

As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen High Priestess Esme Hawthorne outside of the coven hall, the residence she keeps beside it, or the ceremonial grounds outside the Veil.

Even more bizarre is seeing her in something other than her dark gowns or ceremonial robes. Tonight she’s clad in jeans and a casual sweater, grey-dusted brown hair hanging loose and wavy instead of pinned up in the intricate styles she usually wears. She looks almost… normal. Completely at ease on the quiet street as she approaches the front door, meets my eye through the glass, and arches a brow, clearly expecting me to let her in.

My stomach drops to somewhere near the floor.

All of a sudden, I’m six years old. It’s the earliest memory I have of being in the coven hall, listening to the newly ascended High Priestess address a full gathering of the Crescent Coven. Beside me, Allie—Esme’s daughter—and all around us the grandeur of the ascension ceremony. Hundreds of strands of witchmagick singing together in a chorus of power, the awe of it all making my tiny body tremble.

But I’m not that girl, not anymore. When I look at Esme now I don’t feel awe or yearning to be a part of it, to have some of that power for myself.

No, all I feel is vaguely nauseous.

What the hell is she doing here?

It should be absolutely no secret I’m not Esme’s biggest fan, not after everything that happened earlier this year with Allie and the Tithe and the renewal of the bargain between witchesand demons sealed by Allie’s marriage. Even before that, back when Allie and I both failed to make the coven’s cut to be accepted into their academy for training ‘gifted’ witches, I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder for the coven’s leader, and I’m far from the only Crescent witch who does.

I’m snapped out of my thoughts when Esme raises a hand and raps three times on the glass, her questioning brow now complemented by the barest hint of a disappointed frown.

Cursing under my breath, I cross the shop and crouch down to unlock the latch at the bottom of the door. Straightening and swinging it open, I greet her reluctantly.

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