Page 56 of The Misfit Mage and His Dashing Devil

“You thought you were the first?” Mora retorted in the same tongue. “Besides, Kell invited him up. I must say, I didn’t piece it all together, but those Alden boys have quite the assets.”

“I know you’re both talking about me. I heard Alden, but I’m going to ignore you.”

“Pourquoi si sensible?” Mora asked.

“He speaks French,” I replied.

“Mon ami. Tu as choisis un sacré Alden,” Mora said. “Je suis curieux de goûter.”

“Anyway, Diabolic mean girls’ shenanigans aside, I think I have a plan,” Walter said, biting back an exasperated exhale. “It’s gonna take time to enact.”

“Time?” I cocked my head, curiouser and curiouser over the Alden mage attached to me.

19

19

Walter

I grabbed the steaks Bez tossed into the basket and placed them back on the grocery shelf with all the other meat products. He whined, as he had down nearly every aisle because I’d said no to most of what he wanted to buy, which was practically everything in the store. We only needed a few essentials. Mostly, I planned on using the cashback option at the checkout to pay for our motel since Mora made it abundantly clear we’d overstayed our welcome after my recovery. Not that I blamed her, given how everyone pursued us. As the alleged misfit mage behind the attack, I was on the Collective’s radar.

I stared at the dye in my basket, wishing I’d kept Al’s glamouring ring, but I couldn’t trust it wouldn’t be tracked again. If that was how Ian actually found me. Had to be. Maybe. There was a chance he’d simply kept close tabs on Vanguard Corvine, too. Or Ian had mastered divination incantations and could locate me at any time. I tugged at the strap of the backpack Mora had given me. There was a chance Ian was tracking the grimoire inside it, ensuring he recovered it before it exposed him. Al believed it held secrets, but I had doubts. I swallowed, burying the concern of him lurking around every corner, ready to kill me, kill Bez, frame us, and destroy the Collective.

Bez picked up the steaks again.

“No,” I said firmly. “I’m already getting you two bags of candy. Besides, you don’t even need to eat.”

“It’s not about needing. You don’t need that attitude, yet you choose it.” Bez pointed. “She doesn’t need that flamboyant dress, yet here she is. He doesn’t need all those tattoos, yet he’s inked himself in them again and again. Those children don’t need to screech down the aisles, yet imitating banshees clearly offers them delight. It’s never about needs, Walter. It’s about wants. Desires. Cravings. Satisfaction. And what I want is my steaks.”

“Fine.” I offered my basket for him to place them. “Then I’m putting your candy back unless your wants come with helping pay at checkout.”

“You can’t put the candy back.” Bez pouted. “What am I supposed to season the steaks with?”

“Gross.” I bit back the urge to gag, imagining all the Twizzlers, Starbursts, and Jolly Ranchers mashed or melted on top of his steaks.

“Your mortal palette is weak. Everyone knows sweetmeats are the best.”

“You realize we won’t have a grill or stove or oven of any type. Not even sure the motel I picked comes with a mini fridge.” I’d specifically looked for the cheapest, cash offer, no ID checks, pay by the day or hour place. And based on the terrible reviews, it’d offer the most anonymity—something we desperately needed, especially with Bez strutting around the store, tilting his sunglasses, and exposing his Diabolic eyes.

“It’s better without all the cooking, anyway.” Bez further rolled up the sleeves of the suit Mora had offered him. The pants didn’t cut off at his calves like the last pair.

“You’re going to eat it raw?” I gagged, unable to hold it back this time.

“Not all of us like to cook out the flavor.” Bez opened his mouth wide, sticking out his tongue and jabbing it with his finger, mocking my disgust with his own.

“Well done is a perfectly valid way to cook and eat a steak.”

“Your tastebuds are criminal.”

“Whatever. You’ve got your steak and candy. Wants fulfilled. That’s all you’re getting because you don’t need to eat.” And I did, so I had to make certain I had enough money to buy food for myself too. The Collective might not have frozen my accounts, but after years of poor pay, I wasn’t exactly swimming in cash. Especially since my mother had taken back my trust fund when I changed regiment pathways from the sentinels to the archivists. “Why are you obsessed with food? How does it even work? I was under the impression Diabolics didn’t require anything to survive.”

I walked close to Bez, ignoring my doubts, regrets, and anxiety and replacing it with curiosity for how Bez worked both physically, magically, and maybe one day mentally—that’d be a much harder thing to gain a grasp on. His personality was scary and annoying but also intriguing and considerate. Bez masked himself in such contradictory layers.

“Unlike mortals, I don’t require nutrient sustenance. But food makes me happy, so I sometimes alter my anatomy when in host bodies to accommodate for more of it.”

“That’s pretty mortal, eating more than you need and making room for even more.”

“There are so many flavors, and I want them all.”

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