Dark Bonds: The Spell Caster Diaries, #3

By SF Benson

A determined demon. A reckoning from voodoo spirits. Mankind's demise.

When the Red Witch and Melisande Mercier need an intermediary to the loa, they beat a path to Edwina Devereux's door. Reluctantly the new wife and mother agrees to intercede, but helping them means facing her past.

Edwina thought she made peace with her witchery and vampirism centuries ago. To appease the loa and stop the demon wanting humanity to suffer an early apocalypse, she must take a historical journey.

In the end, it will take a team effort—a Celtic witch, a Gothic witch, and a hybrid witch—to keep humanity safe and send the Son of the Horseman War back to Hell.

From the world of Falls Creek comes Book Three in The Spell Caster Diaries; a paranormal suspense series by author SF Benson!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avanturine Press
• Release date: May 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223038436

SF Benson

SF Benson, a Michigan native, resides in Southern California with her husband, a human daughter, and a couple of miniature fur kids (two female short-haired guinea pigs). At one time, she wrangled a household which included three Samoyeds, saltwater fish, a hamster, and three guinea pigs. She’s an avid bookworm who appreciates a well-written book regardless of genre. SF prefers writing stories about strong, diverse protagonists set in dystopian, science fiction, or paranormal worlds. Connect with Author SF Benson: Be the first one to find out news about releases and giveaways! Email List https://bit.ly/3GnDYCk Facebook www.facebook.com/bensonsf Twitter @bensonshantella

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Prologue

FROM: The Malebolge, the Eighth Circle of Hell

TO: Disbelievers of Truth

---

Iknow what you’re thinking. After reading the Gothic Witch’s tale, you doubt me . You think all of this is because I’m a jilted lover.

Wrong. Wrong! Wrong!!

No one has ever forsaken me, but plenty have unfairly accused me. Those witches would have you believe I am a heinous demon hellbent on revenge. I assure you I am no such thing.

As I have stated before, I am nothing more than an innocent creation. I impart this story out of benevolence. Ask any of my brethren, and they will tell you I am a kindhearted soul. My only desire is sparing mankind unwarranted grief. If you don’t wake up to the ploys of those two witches, misery will take place!

Perhaps if I shine a light on the exploits of another female, your eyes might open. If I told you there’s someone who uses her witchery and her vampiric genes to take down humans, would you believe me then?

History has proven repeatedly how this bloodthirsty wench will do anything—and I mean anything—to achieve her goals. She cares not for humans or supernaturals—to be honest. She’s a threat to anyone who walks the earth and should be stopped.

Once again, I implore you to embrace my words and then act. For if you fail, every man, woman, and child will surely be doomed.

Chapter 1

In the Beginning

(ACCORDING TO THE DEMON)

September 1790

Esuk Mba Slave Market in Akpabuyo

War was as common to those people as breathing. On a typical day, slavers raided villages and captured women, men, and children. And every day that the villagers remained free, they thanked their ancestors and the Lwa . Despite the constant threat, one family and its fellow tribesmen lived as if the likelihood of battle didn’t exist. But it existed and eventually came to their doorstep.

A radiant sun shone and warmed the land. The elders worked the fields while the young ones played senseless games in front of the huts. Those children deemed too old for play but not ready for work sat among the trees and watched for assailants.

In a blink, that blissful state shattered.

Uncle Olaudah, an elder, blew the horn, sounding the alarm.

Seraphine! yelled Faizah. I’m scared!

No time for fear! Run! Seraphine told her.

They ran for their homes, but the effort was in vain. Screams split the air as the villagers ran for safety. Strangers scooped up the villagers like farmers gleaning the fields. The Akan, humans who had no issue trading goods or people for profit, killed anyone who caused trouble.

The children cried as their captors led them into a clearing. Their parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents—bound by chains around their necks and shackles on their wrists—waited there. A few of the little ones broke free, but Seraphine ran behind them.

Silly girl, I thought as I watched the proceedings from a nearby tree. Did she not realize her destiny had been written?

No! shouted an Akan trader.

Suddenly, the rapid click of weapons pierced the surroundings, and the elders warned the children to stop.

Smart move.

That coffle walked for two or more nights. The Akan could have been demons, not caring for the comfort of the captives. Whenever the little ones complained, the elders whispered to the young ones, "Stay strong."

But how was strength even a factor?

Strength definitely didn’t help those who tripped over their own feet and fell to their knees. Strength certainly didn’t prevent the cutlass or gun from ending their agony. But the weapons motivated the survivors to step over the dead and keep walking. The villagers had to be hungry and beyond tired. If they’d been animals, the men might have offered a sip of water.

Honestly, I had no interest in their well-being, but something about their predicament drew me in. So I continued following the coffle. Their journey ended at Akpabuyo—a trading post for goods, food, and people. The Akan marched the villagers into a large castle-like structure built by the Europeans. The building was a factory housing the captives until it was time to set sail.

After they crammed the captives into the lower-level rooms, I walked around the marketplace, noting all the activity, before leaving.

Weeks later, I returned and saw that same group of villagers leave the building. Their number had decreased, and they were much skinnier. The Akan warriors marched them up to a platform where the white traders assessed them. Eventually, those clueless warriors walked off with an assortment of manillas, crescent-shaped copper bracelets and armbands, and brass bells.

What imbeciles!

The traders had grossly cheated the Akan, while the Europeans didn’t know what they’d purchased. The people of that village were far from ordinary. They were witch doctors and diviners—nganga—with superior spell-casting abilities. Sadly, the nganga didn’t readily reveal their powers to anyone. Doing so could have had deadly consequences.

If they’d used their magic, the villagers might have saved themselves. Instead, they prayed to the Lwa and the ancestors. But it was my voice they heard.

Be patient, my children.

Those fools listened as they marched to the shore. They listened as the traders pushed them into the hull of a great ship. The men placed each person onto shelves like boxes. Forced servitude, or slavery, was centuries old and common amongst the people of the African continent. But there was a grave difference between their traditions and what the Europeans would institute.

Traditionally, enslaved persons could elevate their status within the African nations. They formed communities and were treated fairly well. But all of that would end and be replaced by a harsh new system.

Ihe etiti ụzọ, also known as the Middle Passage, claimed the lives of many people. Those who couldn’t endure the ruthlessness sought solace in a cold, watery grave. The rest—either too afraid to jump or hopeful for a brighter tomorrow—suffered in the dark hull of the boats.

Still, they prayed to the Lwa.

They prayed for vengeance or deliverance back to their homeland.

I heard their pleas and encouraged their wrath. They raised their fists and attempted to defeat their tormentors. Poor misguided fools! They met the same fate as those who took their own lives.

Little by little, the threads of dignity unraveled. The process would take centuries to complete, but those on the Guineamen were the beginning. Lying in the darkness, shackled at the wrists and ankles, they tried to keep their thoughts neutral and not give up hope.

This too shall pass, I whispered.

---

Summer of 1791

Devereaux Plantation, Louisiana

Thanks to uprisings in Haiti, those villagers went from Sainte-Domingue to the States. Gerard Devereaux, a man claiming to be a Bible-toting Christian, purchased young Seraphine and her cousin Faizah. He believed God condoned his actions. He even identified passages in that good book to confirm his convictions.

Devereaux assigned the enslaved unfamiliar names, and he tasked a group of men with supervising the slaves’ labor. Those men, as well as Devereaux, had no code of ethics. Repeatedly those in charge, beating the chattel till they bled, withheld food and water and took liberties with the African women. The overseer motto? Do whatever it took to get the job done.

Forgive me, but I must digress. At any point, I could have raised a finger and put an end to that farcical existence, but I wanted to see how things would play out. Eventually, I’d encourage the mistreated to rise up. My intervention, however, would be a long, long way off.

Those heinous foremen believed the enslaved were the heathens. They thought the slaves beseeched demons and such. The fools were unaware of the crux of the matter. No one needed to summon evil. The overseers and masters embodied it and spoke my brethren into existence.

Truthfully, the vast majority of the Africans were just hard-working, honest people who wanted to return to their homeland and embrace their loved ones again. Those who possessed power were rare on the Devereaux plantation.

Forgive the interruption again, but I must fast forward. Otherwise, it will take me forever to get to the good stuff.

So it went like this…

Faizah met a slave named Jobah, and they had a little girl named Amandla. Gerard Devereaux sold Jobah and then Faizah. Seraphine was told to raise the child.

When the female complained, I reminded her, You have much to do.

Raising Amandla was part of that work.

As soon as she was old enough to be assigned chores, Mistress Devereaux demanded the girl—called Amanda—work in the fields. Being young would not earn her favoritism.

Much later, she would learn privilege—and heartache—came with skin color. That would be the denominator separating the African people. Those who were a darker shade—like Seraphine and Amandla—worked the fields. They weren’t the ones Gerard sought for relations. Instead, they were the female overseers used on a drunken night—which was often.

Amandla, a stunning woman with skin like mahogany, learned more about the hierarchical system amongst the enslaved when she attracted the attention of Master Devereaux’s son. Kindhearted Edwin was nothing like his father. The younger Devereaux tried to find the path to least resistance, but that didn’t erase reality. Being the son of a slave owner came with expectations.

But that girl said she loved Edwin, and he loved her. Eventually, his constant trips to her cabin got her pregnant. Reluctantly, Seraphine helped birth the wretched thing.

The female prayed for guidance, and of course, I answered the call.

What should I do about the babe? We don’t have time to tend to her?

Tell Amandla children aren’t a blessing.

To what end?

Help her see Gerard Devereaux could separate them. Sell them off to new owners.

The advice emboldened Seraphine. She spat out the words to Amandla, exactly how I instructed.

But Mas’er won’t do anything to upset Edwin. He has his papa’s favor.

Only for so long.

But Amandla and Edwin played a dangerous game. According to France’s King Louis XIV and the Code Noir, the child and her mother should have been sold. Gerard Devereaux argued that very point to his son.

I can get good money for the nigger and her child.

"My child," stated Edwin. You will not sell my child.

If the authorities find out, I’ll have to pay a hefty fine.

Edwin shook his head. The authorities will never know. I’ll make sure of it.

Keeping secrets should have been the least of Gerard Devereaux’s concerns since his so-called property had powers. If only those enslaved revolted or used their abilities… But they were afraid. Why?

Gerard was a superstitious SOB who instilled fear.

If he saw a finger twitch and misfortune came to someone he knew, the bastard cut off the offending digit. A great number of enslaved worked the fields with eight or fewer fingers. And if one of them blinked and someone fell ill, Devereaux instructed a foreman to pluck out the scurrilous pupil.

Naturally, those outside of his plantation grew curious about the eye patches and missing fingers. That asshole simply laughed and said, I got me some clumsy ass niggers.

So those from Seraphine’s village kept their powers hidden.

And they waited.

They kept one eye fixed on those in control and the other eye on the sky. They watched for signs from the Lwa. Signs that deliverance was on its way.

But the spirits never gave them what they needed. I wanted to tell somebody the spirits didn’t care.

Out of all the enslaved, Amandla was the most compliant. That woman believed a good seed could flourish even in putrid soil. It simply needed proper nourishment. To her, the plantation was the soil while Edwin Devereaux was the good seed. Love was the nourishment he required.

Seraphine never liked Amandla. It didn’t matter to the former that they were kinfolk. Seraphine often said Amandla didn’t have a lick of good sense about her because the young female refused to see the truth about Edwin. He was no more trustworthy than a serpent. Common sense dictated that a person didn’t lie with a viper (something I knew very well). But Amandla did. Repeatedly.

For ten years, Edwin and his little family had good fortune. Not one overseer mistreated Amandla or Edwina. When the mother went to the Big House to work, so did her daughter.

Everything seemed good, and then things got out of hand…

Chapter 2

Delta Ava’s Disappearance

Edwina

---

Present Day, New Orleans

Personally, biting the neck of a meth addict might have been more preferable than teaming up with the Red Witch and the Mercier sorcière. We had a tumultuous history, and no amount of magic would make me feel better about working with them. But my dumb ass already agreed to speak with the Vodou priestess, Delta Ava, and possibly get her help to circumvent a hellish apocalypse.

My dislike for the witches had nothing to do with their inherent nature. One of my issues with Elsbeth stemmed from her lording her superiority over everyone. Yes, there were those who owed her a debt of gratitude for bringing supernaturals to the New World, but not me. My powers came from Nigeria’s nganga, not the Red Witch. She also didn’t bring me or my people to the continent. Slavery did that.

The other issue had to do with her magic. The female liked to remind me that hers—Celtic in origin—was supreme. I begged to differ. Much like most supernaturals, the witch had no clue about the power given to me by the ancestors. My witchery freaked her out, along with the rest of our community. People didn’t understand my abilities and assumed they were inherently evil.

And Melisande?

I just didn’t like the female. She was too damn pretentious. She wore a chip on her shoulder so fucking huge it surprised me she could hold up her head. The fact she was a Mercier only made me dislike her more. That family didn’t have friends. Only allies and enemies. Sometimes, their comrades became their enemies. All said, nobody liked the Merciers. Folks tolerated them.

Being in the same room with the two witches made me question my sanity. Most people wouldn’t believe we could work together. I’d second that belief. But if Elsbeth could put aside her issues with Melisande—and they were tremendous—maybe I should do the same. Well, as long as we didn’t have to share a space for too long.

Honestly, once I spoke with Delta Ava, I would be done with the whole affair. Elsbeth only required insight to solve the problem with War’s son. If the priestess agreed to be the go-between with the Lwa, then my job would be over.

Stepping through the portal, I blinked against the bright daylight. Out of habit, I fingered the intricate medallion around my neck. The amulet, sporting a variety of vampire glyphs and symbols, allowed me to walk in the sun. Although I fused the closure and secured it with a spell, whenever I went outside, I made sure the latch hadn’t been tampered with.

The squeak of Elsbeth’s peacock-blue leather pants and knee-length coat snagged my attention as she stopped beside me. Is this it?

It is.

Standing in front of the buttercup-yellow Victorian double with navy-blue shutters and white trim was a female dressed in lilac leather pants and a matching jacket. Add in my black leather pants and jacket, and the three of us resembled a bad supernatural version of Charlie’s Angels.

I wondered if my hubby would play Charlie.

It took you two long enough to get here, whined the Gothic Witch.

Be grateful I came, I said.

Frankly, I avoided Bayou St. John. Before I became a discriminating vamp, I once had the misfortune of biting the neck of a man from the neighborhood. My snack hadn’t bathed in days and smelled like a brewery. Unfortunately, it had been a while between feedings and the prospects were scarce. Plus, I was starving, so I couldn’t be too picky. After getting intoxicated and throwing up the tainted blood, I never made the mistake again.

But plenty of people—human and otherwise—frequented the priestess’s shop. One could buy tarot cards and other such paraphernalia, get their fortunes told, and browse all the occult artifacts Delta Ava displayed on the walls and shelves. Positively not my kind of place. Although I was undead, I preferred hanging out with those who had a regular pulse.

Um…that’s odd, said Melisande.

What is? asked Elsbeth.

That. The Mercier witch pointed to a black-and-red sign on the door.

For Sale. Contact Kelly Williams of K. Williams Realty.

Melisande added, That wasn’t there the last time I was here.

How long has it been since ya saw Delta Ava? I asked. When Melisande didn’t respond, I walked up to the wooden door and grasped the Art déco-styled glass knob. It’s unlocked. Shall we go in?

Elsbeth didn’t wait for an invitation. She pushed past me and stepped into the shop.

A bit eager?

The Red Witch stopped in the middle of the room and tapped her scarlet stiletto boot against the floor. Something’s not right.

What do ya mean? I asked as I crossed the threshold. The chill blasted me. It wasn’t the cold usually found in an abandoned building. The sensation was more like an emptiness. Like something despicable happened within those walls. A fight happened here. I’m picking up two different energies.

Melisande’s nose wrinkled as she tilted her head. Agreed. It was a familiar evil.

Was it the son of War? I asked.

No, not Rowe. Melisande pursed her lips and sniffed the air. Brimstone taints his signature. Although he cloaks his essence, it reads like a funky layer. This one doesn’t have a stench, so it belongs to someone else. Unfortunately, I can’t pinpoint it.

Is the witch telling the truth? How could she recognize the evil but not the perpetrator? Personally, I’d blame another Mercier for the impression.

I suggested, Then let’s search the rooms, but stay sharp. Anything could lurk in this place.

Elsbeth pivoted on her heel and walked down the hall to the rear of the shop. Melisande and I stepped through the colorful beaded curtain to the left of the counter.

No Delta Ava.

She was here, said Melisande, tapping the round wooden table. This was one of the last places that stripper—

Tabitha was here?

The unfortunate girl became a vampire thanks to the same asshole who turned me—Alexander St. John. Kragen Bonaparte, the former leader of the BlackGuard Society, protected the asshole and mandated that none of the agents touched the wayward vampire. Problem was, St. John ripped out Tabitha’s heart. Morgan Vladislav, a former BGS agent, walked in on him. When she saw what the bastard did, she beheaded him. Good riddance! Someone needed to do it. If I’d had the opportunity, I wouldn’t have stopped with decapitation.

Yes, but she wasn’t here long, and she wasn’t alone. A man… Melisande cocked her head. Odd. I’m sensing another Mercier.

I knew it!

Who? I asked.

Bishop’s kid.

Colby was also Morgan’s son.

Pick up anything else?

No.

It would have been nice to know what they discussed. Glaring at Melisande, I wondered if she knew more than she let on. Tabitha knew Delta Ava before becoming a vamp. Was the visit about that connection or something more?

Elsbeth returned to the outer room and placed her hands on her bony hips. No one back there either, but I sensed a presence.

Melisande’s eyebrow quirked up along with the corners of her lips. We’re in a shop owned by a priestess. There are probably tons of souls lurking around here.

I stifled my laughter.

Elsbeth glanced at the doorway, bouncing her foot. We should talk to the other shop owners in the area. See if they know anything.

Anxious much?

I would have thought someone her age—practically seven hundred years old, give or take a decade—would have looked forward to commiserating with the ancestors even if they weren’t related to her.

Ya realize what we look like? I asked. When nobody spoke, I said, "Ever hear of Charlie’s Angels?"

Melisande’s eyes narrowed, and she held up a tapered nail. No way, vamp. I look better than all three angels put together, and there’s nothing celestial about me.

The female was right about that last attribute. She sure as hell wasn’t a saint. Besides, angels couldn’t fly with that much ass. Melisande’s appearance was comical. Had she checked herself in a mirror? If a certain rapper chick saw the witch, she might sue the female for appropriating her look.

Rather than comment, I said, Let’s get out of here.

Before I could reach the door, though, Elsbeth cut me off. Apparently, the magic of the ancestors unnerved the Red Witch. Since she came off all holier than thou to everyone, it was nice to see something scared the shit out of her.

As we vacated the shop, I thought maybe we should split up, but I didn’t get the chance to ask. Melisande and Elsbeth walked into the first business they came upon—a bakery specializing in Doberge cakes. Too bad I couldn’t eat food anymore. The layered desserts smelled delicious.

A plump, brown-skinned woman glanced up as we entered. How can I help ya ladies?

I stepped forward. We’re with the NOPD. Have you seen the tarot card reader?

Ava? Naw. I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen her in days. Come to think of it, there ain’t been any customers over there, either. She could be on holiday.

People who go on vacation don’t put their businesses up for sale.

Well, thank ya for ya trouble.

No trouble at all. Always glad to help N’awlins finest.

Unfortunately, every business we visited gave us a similar story. No one had seen Delta Ava in at least a week, maybe two. I smelled foul play cooking amongst the delicacies permeating the air around Bayou St. John.

There were a few shops on the opposite side of the street I wanted to investigate, but then Miss Gothic Pain-in-my-Ass stumbled and twisted her heel. Ow!

Walk much? I quipped.

Very funny, Melisande said. She leaned against the building and rubbed her ankle.

I glanced down at her purple leopard-print shoes. Who the hell traipsed around town in six-inch pointy-toe pumps? Yes, I wore stilettos and so did Elsbeth, but our shoes didn’t end with a severe point. Melisande could have conjured up a sensible pair.

Frustrated with the female, I said, Nobody told you—

Maybe we could have some lunch, suggested the Red Witch.

Did they forget about me?

I know just the place, said Melisande.

Of course she did.

Miss I-Got-All-the-Benjamins took us to a restaurant offering vegan soul food. Although I wasn’t able to digest solids, even I knew vegan and soul didn’t go together. Thankfully, the place wasn’t crowded. The server seated us right away at a table near the back. Elsbeth ordered the jambalaya while Melisande decided on a nacho salad.

Nacho salad? In a vegan soul food joint? Just wrong!

The brunette asked, And you, ma’am?

Oh, no, she didn’t. My hand fisted beneath the table. Did I look like someone’s ma’am?

Through gritted teeth, I asked, Can I get a cup of coffee?

Sure thing. Be right back.

Elsbeth’s eyebrow shot up. You can drink that?

Hell, no! My fangs itched. I’ll fill it with blood when the server turns her back.

The Red Witch nodded and then said, So Melisande, you never told us the last time you saw Delta Ava.

Melisande rolled her eyes. Before Rowe possessed Marsilius.

I asked, So…um…a few weeks?

She nodded.

Pulling out my phone, I clicked on my husband’s name. Hank could use his resources at NOPD to find out more about the mysterious Delta Ava.

Our server returned with my coffee, and I thanked her. As soon as she turned around, I touched the cup. The brown liquid swirled, vanished, and then room temperature blood filled the vessel. Others might have smelled the sharp metallic aroma, but to my nose, it was like a rich Bordeaux. I lifted the mug and took a healthy sip.

A deep male voice asked, Hello?

Lowering the cup, I said, It’s me, Hank.

Hey, Angel. His sexy voice went straight to my core, and I squeezed my thighs together. What’s up?

Ever since our first time together, Hank referred to me by the nickname. When I asked him why he used the term, he said, "Because being inside you is like entering the gates of Heaven. You cleanse me, purifying me of my sins. Afterward, I feel worthy again. It’s as close to a celestial experience as I’ll ever have."

His words meant the world to me. Before we became an item, I’d hooked up with an incubus. Everybody knew Lilin—the inclusive name for incubi and succubi—didn’t fall in love. Stupid me didn’t heed the warning. Cash Martin broke my damn heart. Hank picked up the pieces and taught me it was possible to love again.

Do ya remember Delta Ava? The priestess in Bayou St. John?

Vaguely. Why?

I don’t know if we need to be concerned, but I think she’s missing.

What do you mean?

There’s a for-sale sign on her shop, and nobody’s heard from her in days. I fingered the edge of the mug. But here’s the weird thing. Some of the neighboring shop owners think she went on vacation. If that’s true, would she have left her front door unlocked?

Sounds fishy to me. Why don’t I drive over and check it out? I’ll check in with the nanny, and then I’ll head out.

Sounds good. Call me when ya get to the shop.

Will do.

I ended the call and returned to my meal.

When the server came back, I placed my hand over the cup as she set plates in front of Melisande and Elsbeth. Can I get you anything else?

We’re good, I said curtly.

The woman, with long multi-colored braids hanging down her back, rolled her eyes and walked away.

Elsbeth asked, Must you be so rude?

If ya looking for sunshine and flowers, I suggest ya find someone else to help. I ain’t that girl.

Melisande scoffed. Please. You haven’t been a girl in ages.

Watch it, witch, I warned.

She flexed her fingers, and purple energy sparks danced around her manicured pink nails.

Elsbeth raised her hand. Do I need to remind you I outpower both of you? Keep it up, and I’ll show you what I can do.

Melisande gripped her fork and dug into her food.

Finally, I said, Why don’t ya fill me in on the situation? I know what the War’s son is after, but I don’t know the reason. How did this whole mess get started?

Elsbeth jerked her thumb at Melisande. This one thought sleeping with the demon was a good idea.

Her mouth fell open—thankfully she remembered to swallow first—and exclaimed, Hey! I didn’t know he was a demon. He presented himself as Tarif Al-Amin. Even Kenrick believed him.

Kenrick? I asked.

Melisande’s cousin, said Elsbeth.

Oh. I peered into my empty cup and gave myself a refill. What happened next?

The Gothic witch’s cheeks colored. I kind of got pregnant.

Whoa. There’s no such thing as kind of pregnant. That was like telling someone I might have bitten someone a little. You either did the deed or you didn’t. Same with pregnancy. If ya spread ya legs, there’s a chance ya gonna get knocked up. Didn’t ya mama teach ya that?

Melisande shot me a nasty look. Then I guess it’s a good thing vamps can’t get pregnant. Otherwise, you’d be spitting out kids year-round.

I bolted to my feet, knocking the chair over, and my fangs punched through my gums. Whatcha trying to say?

The few customers in the restaurant stared at us.

People are watching, ladies, Elsbeth mumbled. Edwina, put your fangs away. Melisande, lose the attitude and the horrible humor.

We glared at each other a second longer before I picked up my chair and sat down. Slowly, my fangs returned to their resting place.

The server chewed at her lower lip as she came near the table, holding a coffee pot. Elsbeth held up her hand. We’re good. Could you just bring the check? After the girl scurried away, the Red Witch said, I’ll have to wipe memories on our way out. Do you think you two can behave?

Melisande poked out her lips like the spoiled brat she was. The vamp started it.

My fangs reappeared.

Enough! Elsbeth addressed me. Edwina, we could really use your help. I know being in the same room with us is difficult…

Understatement.

But if Melisande can’t control her mouth, then I expect you to do so. She’s a mere child compared to us.

Oh, the Red Witch wanted to bring up age?

The child at the table crossed her arms but remained quiet.

When nobody spoke, Elsbeth gave a deep, gratifying sigh. With that settled…

Rather than mention the obvious, I asked, So Melisande’s mistake brought ‘bout the demon’s wrath?

Pretty much, said Elsbeth. "Now, we have to figure out what our next move should be. Plus, we have to find a priestess to help us.