Yeah, this had turned out to be a hell of a night.
But something inside me said this was just the beginning.
2
I stood before the bathroom mirror, naked, my eyes traveling down my arms where most of the scars were. The skin was marred in various shades of beige and red and pink. My palms were the worst—thick with scar tissue.
I let out a sigh and stuck my fingers in the Gypsy No. 5 Skin So Soft Healing Balm and scooped out a large gob.
“Please work.” I rubbed the green-colored ointment on my arms and then my hands. My nose wrinkled at the smell of mushrooms, earth, and vinegar. If it had smelled like roses, I would have had my doubts. The worse it smelled, the better the ointment. That’s when you knew it was going to work. Or so I hoped.
First, my skin pricked and tingled where I’d administered the ointment, and then it cooled like I was applying Vicks VapoRub. Ah-ha. It is working.
I looked at myself in the mirror again, my pulse throbbing. Nothing. Well, nothing yet. The bottle said to expect results in two to three days. I had to give it time. My Aunt Evanora, the wisest and most powerful dark witch in the entire North American continent, told me the ointment wouldn’t work. She’d said my scars were too deep, too thick, that the damage done to the tissue was irreversible. Nothing would smooth out my skin ever again.
And yet even the wisest people in the world could be wrong sometimes.
I had to keep hoping. I wasn’t ready to give up. I wanted to rid myself of more than just the unsightly burn marks. The memories that came with them needed to go as well—specifically, my dear ol’ dad.
The scars were a constant reminder of what had happened to me when I was eight years old. My father had tossed me into a fire like I was a piece of driftwood.
I hated the bastard. Whenever I looked at my arms and hands, his face would flash in my mind’s eye. He was dead to me, and I wanted to stop him from creeping into my thoughts.
I stood facing the mirror for a long time, wondering if Logan could see past the scars. I didn’t know why I was wasting my time thinking about him or the kiss we shared a week ago. It wasn’t like I’d ever see him again. He was an angel-born, after all—a mortal blessed with angelic essence in his veins—whereas I was a dark witch with demon essence flowing inside me. The angel-born and dark witches were like oil and water to each other. We just didn’t mix. No matter how much you stirred, we always split apart. Some things just weren’t meant to go together.
As a dark witch, I shouldn’t even be bothered by scars. Most of us had plenty. As a general rule in our practices, it was customary to lose limbs, teeth, and parts of your soul when you borrowed magic from demons. It was just how things worked around here. My ex-boyfriend lost two pinky fingers when he tried to trick a mid-demon into giving him its powers. I always thought he was a dumbass. If I’d been the demon, I would have taken his head.
Still, I just couldn’t get Logan’s kiss out of my mind. It had been a damn good kiss—the kind that sent my knees wobbling like an idiot. Yeah. It was that good.
Why hadn’t he stepped away? Why did he keep kissing me? Maybe he just wanted to know what it felt like to kiss a dark witch. Wouldn’t be the first time. A male faerie had stolen a kiss from me when I was thirteen. I made sure he had no more mouth to kiss anyone after that.
After an insanely ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, I pulled on a clean pair of jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and finally, my black leather fingerless gloves. I let my wet hair hang down my back as I pulled open the door and headed for the staircase. The thought of chicken tandoori and creamy butter chicken had me salivating as I walked down the stairs.
“Is the Indian food here yet?” I called when I reached the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
My grandfather stood by the kitchen island, a navy-blue bathrobe hanging on his shoulders. At six feet tall with a head full of thick white hair past his ears and white bushy eyebrows, he was ninety-two but didn’t look past seventy.
“Here. Taste this,” said my grandfather as he handed me a glass of clear, light blue liquid, his eyes alight with joy. “It’s my newest batch. Finished boiling it in my cauldron just this afternoon,” he added, smiling proudly. The fair skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled in seams and fine wrinkles.
“So, that’s what the smell was.” I reached out and took the glass. “What am I drinking? Gordon’s Broomshine? Or is this something else?” I tipped the glass to my nose and made a face, eyes watering. “Smells like rubbing alcohol.”
“That’s because it is,” came a voice. A flutter of wings rose in the air to my right and a large raven landed on the granite counter next to me, his feathers gleaming under the kitchen lights like black silk. “You sure you want to drink that? It might be better served to wash the toilets.”
My grandfather glared at the raven with his lips pressed into a tight line. “What do you know of refined gin-making skills, demon? Of the craft and hours of endless and meticulous preparation?” He pressed his hands on his hips. “I’ll tell you. Absolutely nothing.” He looked at me, his blue eyes expectant. “Go on, Samantha. Have a taste and let your palate dance with the delights of the grain spirits and natural botanicals.”
“More like magical botanicals,” grumbled Poe as he ruffled his feathers.
I had to agree with my familiar on that. I knew gin wasn’t made the same way as wine. The process was somewhat faster. Still, there was no way my grandad had brewed a new batch in a few hours without some magical help. If I took a sip, I’d be subjecting myself to whatever magic he’d used to speed up the process. And knowing my grandad, this stuff had more magic than it did liquid.
My gaze went to my grandfather. “I thought gin’s supposed to be a clear liquid. Why is it blue?”
My grandfather’s eyes widened. “Blueberries. You like blueberries. Don’t you?”
I thought about it. I did like blueberries. I liked them in my cereal or in a pie with ice cream. Never in a magically induced alcoholic beverage.
I swished the contents in the glass, eyeing the liquid. “And you’ve tried it already?”
Poe laughed softly and I bit my tongue to keep myself from laughing.
“Cauldron be damned. It’s not poison!” exclaimed my grandfather as he grabbed the bottle on the counter next to him, poured himself a glass, and chucked the entire contents in one shot.
He smacked his lips. “There,” he wheezed, his face turning a slightly darker shade. “See? It’s not poison.” He coughed, and coughed some more. “Nothing to it.” His gaze fixed on mine, eyes watering. “Better do it in one go,” he advised.
“Right.” I put the glass on the counter. “I think I’ll wait for the food.”
Poe snorted—because birds can actually snort—and I looked at him. A large diamond ring was wrapped around his leg like a metal leg band, winking in the light.
I leaned closer. I didn’t know much about diamond rings, but I did know the larger the stone, the larger the price tag. And this one happened to be the size of a large pea.
“Poe. Where did you get that ring?” Cauldron help me if the raven started to steal from the local jewelry stores.