Page 1 of Brimstone and Broomsticks
Chapter 1
Lucien
“Here? Seriously?”
I stared at the dilapidated building, at the flickering neon sign announcing the joint to be Pistol Pete’s, at the enormous oil stain in the parking space next to what I took to be the front door. When I’d told Charon to take me “anywhere”, I’d expected a swank club or a political fundraiser, or the middle of a gruesome battle, not a dime-beer bar in some rinky-dink town called Accident.
“Don’t judge a drinking establishment by its paint-peeled siding,” he told me.
I was totally judging this establishment. And the town. And by association all the residents. The only reason I wasn’t throttling Charon right now was because there’d been a strange zing of electricity we’d passed through about a mile down the road that had piqued my curiosity. Ley lines? Remnants from some arcane ritual? An old crossroad summoning?
“I’m trusting you on this one, Charon,” I warned.
The demon grinned. “Have fun. Call me when you’re ready to return to hell.”
I fingered the coin in my pocket and nodded, assuming this was probably payback for something I’d done centuries ago. No one held a grudge like Charon. And no one would dare to stick it to me like this besides Charon either. Outside of being summoned or granted what amounted to a travel visa, he was my only ticket out of hell.
And my only ticket back to hell.
Charon laughed, the sound very much like nails on a chalkboard, then vanished, leaving me to either find something to entertain myself in this…Pistol Pete’s, or walk down what looked like a long road and hope to come across an orgy, or at the very least someone screwing a goat.
I wasn’t into people screwing goats. Sacrificing a goat: yes. Screwing one: no. The entertainment in the latter would be the punishment of said individuals, not because of any sort of interest in the carnal act they were performing.
Punishment. That was the mission statement for hell’s minions and I embraced my job with all the wholehearted enjoyment of a spawn of Satan, because, well, Iwasa spawn of Satan. Technically this was a vacation, but when something was pretty much your entire reason for existence, was there everreallya vacation?
I headed through the parking lot and saw a group of women walking out the door of the bar—tiny, well-proportioned women with tight clothing and fuck-me stilettos.
Their skin was an odd pearlescent gray color. They had glittery, translucent wings and pointed ears that rose like pale, thin horns through the fine curtain of their identically shaded platinum blonde hair. They laughed, and it sounded like a high-pitched silver-bells sound that humans never have, no matter how much they like to describe female laughter as such.
I stopped in the parking lot and gawked. I’d seen fairies before, but not strolling out of a bar without any attempt at glamour to mask their non-human appearance. One of them saw me and flashed me a row of jagged teeth in her red slash of a mouth.
“Look girls, it’s a newbie!”
They strolled over towards me. If I’d been human, I would have been fighting the urge to flee, but instead I was intrigued. And entertained. Huh. Charon was right. This might be a fun evening after all.
“Let’s take him home,” one purred before giving me a toothy smile. “We won’t bite. Much.”
“Careful,” one of her friends warned. “We have to follow the rules.”
“Bah, rules,” her companion scoffed. “Those witches haven’t done anything to enforce the rules since the old lady died. We can do what we want. This newbie vanishes, and no one will know.”
“Or care,” one of the others added. “That stupid dryad of a sheriff can’t figure out his ass from a hole in the wall. And the witches don’t care.”
Normally I would have been all up for fairy orgy action, especially since they would have gotten the surprise of their dramatically shortened lives once they tried to kill me. But there was one word that pushed every thought of a fairy massacre out of my mind.
“Witch?” I stuttered, suddenly a bumbling fool instead of a powerful demon. We demons respected witches. In a disagreement, they were fully capable of opening a whole can of whoop-ass on us. But our relationship over the many millennia had rarely been contentious. Witch energy was like a drug—sensual and captivating. Getting summoned by a coven, becoming their go-to demon was the dream of every one of hell’s minions. Partnering with a witch meant the perfect power combo. We were stronger with them. They were stronger with us. Yes, there were some trade-offs on either side, but overall it was a win-win situation.
The only problem was that roughly two thousand years ago the humans had decided to kill off the witches. There were a few internet frauds and weak wannabes, but we demons hadn’t seen a real witch in a toad’s age. Was there really a witch in this town? Witches? Or were these fairies just blowing smoke up my ass?
One of the women sidled up next to me. “Don’t you worry about witches, sweetheart. They can’t even start a fire without a match and a gallon of gasoline. Unless they’re in the courthouse with their ex-boyfriend that is.”
The whole group erupted into their wind-chime laughter, leaving me wondering about the joke I’d obviously not gotten. Sonotreal witches, then. Damn. I’d hoped otherwise, but just because these fairies were bold enough to walk around without glamour didn’t mean there were actual witches nearby.
“Leave him alone girls,” a voice behind me rumbled. “Go find some pixies to torment.”
An arm came around my shoulder and I turned to see myself facing a satyr.
“Come on,” the satyr told me. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
