Page 45 of Curses & Cold Brew
“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 hadbeen 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.”
