Page 14 of De-Witched

“Just...come on, guys. You want to stand in the way of someone who’s only trying to inherit his dead parents’ company?” She pressed on the weak chink in Tia’s armor, knowing her friend well. Sucker for family, that one. “That’s low.”

Sure enough, Tia’s shoulders slumped.

“It’s our place, he’d have to abide by our rules,” Leah pointed out. Nudging, nudging. “You could do it so you’d be comfortable. A few shifts here and there.”

Emma nibbled at her thumbnail, said nothing.

Progress. Leah backed off. “Just think about it. All I’m saying is, if you don’t want people suddenly wondering why you don’t let witches come around, it might be best to let one in under your terms.”

By the end of the week, after much cajoling on Leah’s part and apparently some relentless pushing on Gabriel’s, it was settled—Gabriel Goodnight was coming to Toil and Trouble.

4

Toil and Trouble was every bit as bad as he’d thought it would be.

Gabriel had finagled, twisted arms, pressured and bribed, and yet, as he listened to Tia Hightower list all the ridiculously named drinks on their cocktail menu, he violently wished for a dark corner to hide in.

At least the apartment by Lake Michigan was tolerable, open plan and a decent square footage. He’d left last-minute instructions for Mrs. Q—not that she needed them since she’d kept their houses since he’d been a boy—said a final goodbye to Melly, and portalled to Chicago.

As soon as he’d set foot in his new apartment, the clock had started. When he’d gestured unthinkingly to turn on the lights, a low-grade buzz had vibrated through him. According to James and a few others from the board who’d placed the binding on his powers, he was allotted a certain amount of magic a day. Each use, depending on the complexity of the spell, would increase the feedback from mild irritation to bone-rattling pain. A reminder that he should be learning to live as they lived. Gain a new appreciation and empathy for the people the company was trying to help.

The first clue it’d be tougher than even he’d predicted had come when he’d tried to use the toaster. It seemed to need some kind of degree in engineering. No matter the amount of times he pushed the lever, no matter the amount of force he used, the bread wouldn’t stay down. Finally he’d just eaten it as is, irritated as the appliance seemed to mock him from its perch on the counter.

It had gone downhill from there.

Tia had met him at the door with a chip on her shoulder similar in size to the bags of ice she’d made him lug upstairs, downstairs and then upstairs again. He needed the job too much to call her out on what was clearly a challenge. Besides, although annoying, he could handle it. And he had a feeling if Tia decided to fully haze him, she’d have him stripped to his underwear and singing along to the karaoke machine in ten seconds.

Karaoke.

Spell him with a sickening curse now.

Three months, he reminded himself as he repeated the drinks back to her scowling face. He only had to make it three months.

Unimpressed with his memory, Tia gave him final directions about the register, carding people who looked below twenty-one—as if he’d know?—and playing nice with others if he could possibly manage that, before she set him loose.

He knew she expected him to fail, but he’d prove her wrong if he had to study bartending every night. Goodnights didn’t fail.

He tried to remember that he liked learning new things. That was why he’d been so successful at enhancing the different departments at Goodnight’s Remedies. Seeing all the parts that make up a whole, how they worked, how they could work even better. This was just one more new thing. One more bleak, miserable thing.

His first customer was a woman in a blue skirt-suit. She looked old enough to drink, but with Tia watching, he dutifully asked her for proof of age.

“You think I’m that young?” The human batted her eyelashes.

“I have to ask,” he answered evenly.

She slid her ID over the counter, brushing her fingers along his and keeping hold of the card. “How old do you think I am?”

He paid no attention to her coy tone, focusing instead on sliding the ID away from her. “Forty?”

Offense simmered in eyes gone a dark blue. “I’m thirty-five!”

“If you let go, I’ll verify that and get your drink.”

She scowled. “You really thought I was forty?”

“You have some lines,” he commented, checking the date after she finally relinquished the ID.

That interaction earned him a five-minute lecture on being friendly while keeping his damn mouth shut. When he pointed out he’d just been honest, he thought the vein in Tia’s forehead would blow like one of Melly’s potions.

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