Page 2 of Demon's Bane

“Esme. Can I help you with something?”

“You can let me in, for a start.”

I could turn her away.

The thought breezes through my mind for all of two seconds. It disappears into whatever obedient instinct still has me in a choke-hold when it comes to the coven and its leadership. So many years ofyes, ma’am, andno, ma’amand knowing when to hold my tongue and bow to my elders.

Besides that, the very last thing I need is some kind of showdown with the coven’s most powerful witch in the middle of sleepy, mundane, exceptionally non-magick Beech Bay.

Without a word, I step back and swing the door open wide enough to let her in.

Esme walks into the shop like she owns the place.

With all the same grace and confidence and the unshakable air of authority I remember her having when I was a child, she sweeps in and surveys the space. Her assessing gaze reveals nothing about what she makes of the scuffed wooden floorboards and eclectic mix of furniture, the overgrown plants hanging in the windows and set on every spare surface, lush and verdant and a tangled mess.

Not that it matters. Not for a single damn second.

She can think what she wants to about Celestial Blends.

“What do you want, Esme?”

I’m not sure I’ve ever had the High Priestess’s full attention on me. Not like this. When Esme turns around and gives me a once-over, when the strands of her witchmagick seep into the air between us—iron-steady and pulsing with power—I’m not sure I’m breathing.

It’s like every panicked nightmare I had as a young witchling growing up in the shadow of the coven hall come back to haunt me. The distinctly unpleasant sensation of being watched, studied, evaluated, of having my magick laid bare and found wanting, of never being quite enough.

“I’ve come to ask for your help.”

Those memories of nightmares vanish like crows scattering from a rooftop, and I’m left with nothing but a vague sense of the world tilting somewhere between sideways and upside down completely.

Out of everything she could have said, I’m not sure if there’s anything that would have surprised me more.

The strongest witch of her generation—the strongest witch ofseveralgenerations, if the gossip that went around the coven while I was growing up was true—needs my help?

“Really?” I ask, not bothering to hide my skepticism. “With what?”

Instead of answering right away, she turns and heads for the nearest table, sinking down into one of the mismatched chairs like an empress on a throne.

“Sit,” Esme says, nodding to the empty seat across from her. “And let’s talk.”

Again, the immediate compulsion to obey wars with the indignation of having her here, in my shop, with the gall to be giving out orders.

Isn’t this why I put so much distance between me and the coven? So I never had to deal with any of this bullshit again?

Even when Allie came to my shop looking for help with the grimoire that ended up being key to saving the bargain between witches and demons, I’d talked such a good game. Calling Esme on her shit, encouraging Allie to stand up to her mother.

Where is that energy?

Why, when I’m facing a situation where I might do the same, can I not take my own damn advice?

I want to, I really do, but up is down right now and I can’t make sense of it. The strongest known witch in the world is asking for the help of a failed initiate whose magick is barely strong enough to string together a good blend of tea, so on legs that feel like wooden, disjointed marionette limbs, I do as I’m told.

Esme cranes her head toward the front counter. “Would it be presumptuous to ask for a cup of tea?”

I let out an irritated sigh and half-rise from my seat, but she stops me with a careless wave of her hand.

“Name the blend.”

“Clove and honeysuckle,” I say, narrowing my eyes at whatever tricks she’s pulling. “With lemongrass and a hint of vanilla. Third shelf, second canister, to the right of the cash register.”

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