Page 10 of Hopelessly Teavoted
“Tea shop,” she bit out. “It’s a tea shop, you absolute ass.”
His brow furrowed. “I could have sworn there was somethingabout a fake psychic. Well. No matter. Clearly, this is a café,” he said, winking. “And now that you say so, it’s quite charming. Care to serve me a cuppa?”
Her glare was answer enough, and he stood up, smiling at her in a way that made her hair stand up and sparks run down her spine. The lilt of his voice was ageless, an accent born of centuries of bargaining across lands and languages. It was, regrettably, incredibly seductive.
“Is there anything else I should know about what I owe you?”
He flashed her a dazzling smile. “Just that if you behold any of the remaining objects in progress after the terms of your contract, they shall be incinerated per the terms of your contract on October 31 at sunset should you fail to fulfill your obligations. So, you know. Be careful what you touch if you happen to have an object with particular sentimental value; may be best to wait until after Halloween to lay hands on it. All standard stuff.”
“Incinerating my belongings is standard?” She stared at him. He was too good-looking to be so difficult. Or maybe just good-looking enough? She wasn’t sure.
“Not all your belongings, pet, that would be dreadful. Only objects that anchor a ghost, of course.”
“Of course.” She frowned, eyebrows knitting together.
“Is that a firm no on the tea, then?” The curve of his smile beckoned.
“It’s averyfirm no.” She ignored the way his eyes smoldered. Magical creatures could be so thirsty.
“Very well, then. I’ll be in touch about the first soul soon, Victoria.”
He vanished in a dramatic pufff of smoke that she was quite sure was unnecessary, and only after he had gone did she realize that part of the draw she’d felt toward him was natural.
In many ways, magical, at least, he had made her what she was.
CHAPTER 3Azrael
Azrael Hart had returned weak and weary from his flight and the taxi back to Hart Manor. He was broke, his screenwriting career had stalled, and his parents were dead. He had left behind California and the damp basement apartment in a house full of more cats than were ideal for an allergic person, especially because cats flocked to witches. Even the mundane ones had a sense for magic.
Which is precisely how he’d ended up bringing Emily Lickinson home with him. His former landlady had insisted that Emily could not be parted from him, and Az found himself flying home with a yowling cat, impervious to his snapping magic as cats so often were, who only curled into a corner of her carrier and settled once he had snuck his hand in to pet her.
Azrael found himself staying back in his old bedroom, at the mercy once more of both the house and his younger sister, who lived down the hall from him, just as she had in their childhood. He needed to pick up cat food, and he needed to talk to Priscilla when she got home from the Council meeting. But most of all, he needed time to clear his head. It had been years since he had seen the looming spires of Hart Manor, and he was surprised at how much he loved them again, even returning in grief.
The other things were too complicated, so he grabbed thekey and set out into the August night for the task that hecouldmanage.
The part of his heart that he had tried to carve out and throw away lingered here in Hallowcross, and his body felt physical relief at returning to it. Being here now, he was closer to feeling whole, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Victoria Starnberger, who he hadn’t seen in years, unless you counted that spectacular and then horrible time in her college dorm.
Which he most certainly did not.
Azrael had tried for years not to wish that a specific someone loved him. He had been so alone that it could have been anyone, as long as it wassomeone. But if he was honest, when he shut his eyes at night, a familiar constellation of freckles haunted him, and specified quite a bit more thanjustanyone.
Fortunately, there was a good chance Vickie wasn’t even in town. He stopped himself from looking her up when he could, and in the hectic haze of losing his parents and moving, it had been a while since he’d scried to make sure she was alive.
And when he did check in, it was out of friendship alone, of course.
He didn’t even deserve to search for her on the internet, let alone with magic, and he knew he should have worked harder to repair the friendship after that one time. But it had been too painful, and he had been too young. And too hurt to reach out.
Even the feel of her name across his brain made his chest ache and his wrists throb. Absentmindedly, he rubbed a hand over his heart. He looked up and saw that his feet had taken him back to the place his mother had loved so much instead of to the grocer he’d meant to visit first for the Friskies shredded chicken in gravy that Emily liked best.
Tea shop first, then. Priscilla had said he would love the new owner.
When he opened the door, the small skull bells tinkled in a way that reminded him of his mother enough to make him want to cry. Thank goddess the new owner had kept them. The windows were polished to a high shine, and the cozy assortmentof mismatched coffee tables of different heights and high-tops scattered among high-back chairs and couches were the same. The scent of coffee and the tea of the day—it must have been mint—hit his senses with a flood of memories laced with a third scent—one that made him think of warm summers and soft grass.
Strawberries.
His head snapped up as his heart recognized, before he saw her, what he would behold. Azrael was not a witch for nothing. He could sense the smell of her and the feeling of being close that he had forced himself to forget even after six years. The way his magic whispered in his ears and wound around his fingertips in response.Home.Her back was to him, her messy brown hair streaked with blond piled on top of her head, which she shook at the sound of his footsteps.
Priscilla would pay for this. He would have to prank her mercilessly for neglecting to mention that Vickie worked here now. Yes, he’d at the very least hex her favorite thriller novels so that knives shot out when she opened them. He’d spell them not to hit anything vital, but he might even enlist the help of the under-stairs haunt to serve her retribution for this omission.
