"Oh, no.” Mariel spark stared at the startled chicken that had materialized on her kitchen counter. “That wasn’t what I meant to do.”

At the kitchen table, Calladia Cunnington nearly choked on her tea. “Well, that’s surprising. At least they both have wings.”

Mariel gave her friend a look. She’d recited a summoning spell for an air sprite, not poultry. “Literally the only thing they have in common.”

“Points for creativity?” Despite the joke, Calladia’s wince was sympathetic. As a witch and Mariel’s longtime friend, she knew how upsetting it was for Mariel to mess up a spell yet again.

“It’s a basic summoning spell, not a Jackson Pollock painting.” Mariel blew a stray curl out of her face, frowning at the surprise avian guest currently preening its ruffled feathers next to her toaster. Her spells often backfired, but this was a new level of fucked-up-ness.

“Well, I think it’s cute,” their other friend Themmie—short for Themmaline—Tibayan said from where she sat cross-legged in midair. The pixie’s iridescent wings fluttered as she took pictures of the bird with her smartphone.

“Sure, but what do I do with it?” The chicken was now scratching at the chalked pentagram beneath it. What would soothe an alarmed bird that had been teleported into a witch’s kitchen?

“Can you send it back where it came from?” Calladia asked, tightening her blond ponytail. She looked disgustingly peppy for a Friday morning, her blue tank top damp with sweat from a recent gym visit.

Mariel bit her lip, trying not to snap. Calladia was the best person in the world, even if she set unreasonable fitness standards, but she’d never struggled with magic the way Mariel did. “Maybe. If I had any idea where it came from.”

She wasn’t sure how she’d summoned a chicken to begin with. Granted, her mind had wandered to her grocery list while chalking the spell, but it had been a brief distraction, hardly worth noting. And why a live chicken, rather than chicken cutlets or brussels sprouts or a gallon of milk?

Themmie cooed at the chicken as she took more photos. “Cluck for the camera, cutie. Strike that pose!” As a social media influencer, the Filipino American pixie documented everything, and her look changed constantly. This week, her straight black hair had been bespelled green and pink, and a nose ring winked in the sunlight cascading through the kitchen window.

Calladia rolled her eyes. “What is this, America’s Next Top Chicken?”

America’s Next Top Witch was a popular national TV show among both magic and nonmagic humans. The America’s Next Top Model spinoff focused more on lingerie than spellcraft, but the models still cast illusions or shape-shifted during photo shoots. Mariel had enjoyed the show up until she’d realized as a teenager that she was way, way behind even those reality TV disasters in terms of magical competency.

“On the bright side,” Themmie said, “you probably rescued it from the cruel world of cage farming.” Environmental activism was never far from Themmie’s mind, and her face lit up. “We can build it a coop.”

“I’m not keeping it,” Mariel said. Even though it did look adorable as it goggled at her air fryer.

“Try reversing the symbols,” Calladia suggested. “That should send it back.”

Normally her friends didn’t sit in on her spellcraft practice sessions, but in this case, Mariel was glad they’d come. They didn’t judge her for mucking up magic the way her family did.

Mariel took a deep breath, then marked the counter with chalk again. A pentagram, then the reversed summoning marks in each arm of the inverted star. Her handwriting wobbled with the attempt. Hecate, why was writing backward so hard? At least this was a fairly simple summoning and wouldn’t require any of the big witchy guns like salt, sage, or newt sperm. The more complex the spell, the more opportunities to fuck it up.

For the billionth time, Mariel wished magic was as easy as baking or gardening. But while Mariel had perfected a killer cranberry tart and raised beautiful flowers, she couldn’t manage even a simple cleaning spell without making a horrible mistake. Embarrassing for any witch, but doubly so for the prophesied Spark heir. Before Mariel’s birth, the wind, earth, and stars had all signified that she was going to be the strongest witch in generations of the famed magic family.

Joke’s on them, Mariel thought as she marked another uneven rune into the pentagram. I suck.

The chicken flapped awkwardly, then plummeted to the floor in a rustle of feathers. It started clucking, pecking perilously close to her ankles.

Mariel closed her eyes and thought about her spell. Magic incantations weren’t spoken in Latin, much to her chagrin, since at least Latin had a logical structure. Magic had a language all its own—one that was frustratingly complex. It was full of roots pulled from dozens of languages, as well as some that seemed made up wholesale, and the rules of grammar and conjugation were chaotic at best. Sometimes she was tempted to light the dictionary on fire.

“Uh, Chanticleer just took a dump on your floor,” Themmie said.

“Chanticleer was a rooster,” Mariel said, eyes still closed.

“Excuse me, Chaucer enthusiast. And, ew, that chicken apparently eats a lot of fiber.”

Great. Mariel scrunched up her nose and dug for the words that would send the chicken back home before it sullied her kitchen further. “Adolesen di pullo!” she proclaimed.

The chicken exploded.

      *

“AUFRASEN,” Calladia said gently while Mariel scrubbed the floor. “The correct word was aufrasen.”

“Too late.” Tears pricked Mariel’s eyes, and her stomach churned with nausea. She was generally okay with blood, but she’d just exploded a very cute chicken, and it felt different. Not to mention the gristly, bony . . . bits . . . that were sprayed all over her countertops. Her magic was apparently more like a Jackson Pollock painting than she’d thought. Mariel had a batch of muffins to make for Ms. Rostow down the street, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stomach it.

Themmie, too, looked nauseated. She was hovering near the ceiling, as far from the carnage as possible. “At least it died quickly.”

And at least Themmie had stopped documenting the scene. Her followers probably wouldn’t enjoy a chicken snuff film.

Mariel sat back on her heels and wiped her brow. Her skin came back streaked with blood, and she groaned, realizing chicken chunks were probably all over her, too. “I suck.”

“You don’t suck,” Calladia said, coming to Mariel’s defense as she always did. “Learning how to summon takes time. And you’re amazing at nature magic.”

Sure, it took time, but the two witches were the same age, and while Calladia had been successfully summoning for over a decade, Mariel was twenty-eight with the skills of a fifteen-year-old. Except when it came to plants, but—“You know my mom doesn’t think much of nature magic,” Mariel said morosely. Understatement of the century.

“Your mom’s taste is questionable in general. Who cares, so long as it makes you happy?”

“I care. Mom says she’ll only pay for grad school once I improve in teleportation and transmogrification.”

Her mother, Diantha Spark, was one of the best teleporters in the world and couldn’t understand why Mariel struggled with that skill, especially considering the prophecy. While Diantha had insisted on paying for college and a house for Mariel (in fact, it had been a battle to convince her that Mariel only needed a small bungalow, rather than a mansion with a bowling alley), she’d balked at the idea of grad school. And not because it was too expensive—a dragon with a hoarding problem and a black Amex couldn’t dream of making a dent in the funds the Sparks had been building for centuries. No, Diantha simply hadn’t wanted to fund “boring magic.” It had taken Mariel a long time to convince her that an SoD—sorcery doctorate—in Magical Herbology was a good idea, since her mother didn’t think plant magic was flashy enough. Eventually, they’d struck a compromise: if Mariel could show improvement in her nonnature-based spellcraft, her mother would release some of the vast Spark funds to pay tuition.

Calladia made a rude noise. “She’s swimming in gold. She should support you without strings attached.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to Sallie Mae.” Mariel sighed. “At any rate, blowing things up isn’t going to help my case.”

“Maybe the issue is that you’re summoning boring things,” Themmie suggested from on high. “Who cares about some air sprite? You should conjure up a boyfriend.”

Mariel rolled her eyes. “Just because I’m not dating doesn’t mean I want to.”

Themmie shrugged. “Then conjure a fuck buddy. Seriously, you’re way too uptight about this whole Spark family legacy thing.” Themmie was still in college, but even with her eyes glued to a phone all day, she’d managed to accumulate far more worldly experience than Mariel or Calladia had, with partners across the gender and species spectrums.

“Getting laid won’t make me better at summoning.”

“No, but it’s a great stress relief.”

Calladia crouched next to Mariel and reached out a hand as if to pat her shoulder. She hesitated, then pulled the hand back, and yep, there were definitely chicken bits all over Mariel. “I know you’re worried about living up to the prophecy. But you’ll master the skills on your timeline, not your mother’s.”

Mariel sighed. “I hope so.”

      *

Although Calladia had offered to clean the kitchen with a spell, scrubbing it by hand felt like penance. Calladia and Themmie left her to it, promising to meet up soon. The moment they were out of the house, Mariel let a few tears escape for the dearly departed. “Sorry,” she whispered to the gross mess in her garbage can. Being both a chicken and spectacularly dead, it didn’t respond, but who knew? Maybe there was a separate spectral plane for dead poultry and the chicken’s soul was staring across the veil right now, clucking the bird equivalent of What the fuck.

One long, very gross shower later, Mariel felt a bit better. She filled a watering pot and headed into her backyard, where a small greenhouse sat amid beds of herbs. The glass house was her favorite place in the world.

Gardening was one area in which Mariel excelled, both magically and nonmagically. She’d won Best in Class for Dianthus and Alstroemeria at the previous year’s Pacific Northwest Floral Championships—Supernatural Division, which was one of the tentpole events of the annual Glimmer Falls Autumn Festival. In just a few weeks, Mariel would be gunning for Best in Show with a display of magically enhanced blooms.

Thousands of tourists of all species descended on Glimmer Falls for the Autumn Festival, and it was one of Mariel’s favorite times of year. Autumn’s fiery shades swept over the majestic Cascade Mountains, and the town nestled into the foothills sparkled with magic shows.

Glimmer Falls would have been like any other twenty-first-century American town—mostly human, with a lively and visible subculture of witches and other supernaturals—except for a rare confluence of ley lines that infused the land with magic. As a result, the town drew a vast array of magical humans and other creatures. There were nonmagical humans, too, of course, since society had been integrated for all of recorded history, but while witches and warlocks comprised fifteen percent of the human population worldwide, in Glimmer Falls it was more like seventy percent . . . and that was before considering the centaurs, pixies, sirens, werewolves, and other species who called it home. Glimmer Falls was exciting, unpredictable, and wonderfully weird, and Mariel loved her hometown with all her heart.

Her shoulders relaxed as soon as she inhaled the warm, fragrant air inside the greenhouse. “Hi, babies,” she told the plants. She started watering them, testing the soil in each bed with her finger to ensure nothing was still damp. As she passed, the blossoms tilted towards her as if she were the sun.

“Good girl,” she murmured to her fire lily as it caressed her fingers with its long red petals. She could feel the plant’s contentment, a soft happiness at having its needs fulfilled.

Garden magic lacked the drama of transmogrification or teleportation, but it was the one magical skill Mariel had taken to instantly. Even as a child, plants had leaned towards her, and her first pet had been a rosebush. As Mariel walked up and down the rows of plants, she infused each one with a brush of magic, feeding the roots with life. Thanks to her skill, her plants blossomed year-round, unaffected by the outside weather. October was already digging its chill fingers into Glimmer Falls, but inside the greenhouse, time seemed to stand still.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and Mariel groaned. Time for her mother’s daily check-in. The plants recoiled in sympathy. Mariel answered the phone, already dreading the interrogation to come. “Hi, Mom.”

“How is your spellcraft going?” Diantha Spark’s strident voice burst through the speaker, and Mariel pulled the phone away from her ear. “Did you summon an air sprite correctly?”

“I summoned,” Mariel said, omitting several key facts.

“Oh, good. Useless things, always flittering about, but they’re helpful when you need a stiff breeze to blow up some bitch’s skirt. Speaking of bitches, did I tell you I ran into Cynthia Cunnington the other day?” Cynthia was Calladia’s mother, as well as Diantha’s frenemy and magical rival. “She wanted me to know all about her daughter’s transmogrification practice. Are you still hanging around that girl?”

“Yes, Mom.” Mariel pinched the bridge of her nose. She and Calladia—rhymed with Cascadia—had been best friends since elementary school. It was an odd pairing on the surface—rough-and-tumble Calladia had been suspended more than once for fighting, while dreamy Mariel had spent her recesses playing with weeds on the playground—but they fit together. Add the stress of a matching pair of overbearing mothers, and there had been no separating them.

“Well, keep an eye on her,” Diantha said. “Keep your enemies close, but not close enough to exchange fluids, that’s what I always say.”

Mariel made a face. “Calladia isn’t my enemy.”

“Everyone’s your enemy when you’re the best. I know you don’t know how that feels yet, but there weren’t any prophecies delivered at Calladia’s birth, so I’m certain you’ll show her up soon. You’re the daughter of the best teleporter in three hundred years, after all.”

“Two hundred and eighty,” Mariel said, taking secret glee from repeating her mother’s least favorite fact. “Griselda Spark was better.”

Diantha made a rude noise. “The historical record is full of inaccuracies.”

If her mom started griping about family history, there would be no escaping the call anytime soon. “I’d love to chat,” Mariel said, sandwiching the phone between her ear and shoulder as she caressed the leaves of her jade vine, “but I’m in the middle of gardening.”

“You and your plants. It’s a marvel you have the focus for that, but not for fulfilling your destiny. The stars didn’t say anything about daisies, you know.”

Mariel rolled her eyes. “I like gardening. I got two awards for it last year, if you’ll recall.”

“Ribbons,” Diantha said scornfully. “Do you know what they give Best National Spellcaster? A golden trophy studded with precious jewels.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” There was a display case of trophies in the entry hall of her parents’ house, a constant reminder of the family legacy she was failing to live up to. Moving out of that house for college had been a massive relief, not least because she no longer had to look at those stupid trophies every time she came or went.

“You’ll get one this year, I’m sure of it. You’re just a late bloomer. Your father says sometimes genius works like that. A witch seems like a useless idiot for years, and then something clicks. Have you tried Ritalin? I heard it does wonders for improving focus.”

“I don’t have ADHD, Mom.”

“Yes, I know, but abusing drugs can be surprisingly useful. I once went on the longest cleaning spree after snorting coke with your father in college . . .”

Mariel let her mother yammer on, knowing there was no stopping it unless she outright hung up. Diantha Spark was a force of nature, known for her strident opinions, alarming uses of teleportation, and questionable boundaries. She was both beloved and feared in Glimmer Falls.

Talking to her mother, much like gardening and baking, required patience and precision. Mariel bided her time, waiting for the perfect moment to escape.

“—and you know she lords it over me, the salty bitch. Best pie, never mind that I teleported chocolate from Belgium and wasted two hours of my time trying to show her up.”

Mariel rolled her eyes. She’d been hearing about Cynthia Cunnington’s levitating rhubarb pie ever since last year’s Autumn Festival. Funny how her mom had derided baking until her “friend”—aka magical nemesis—had decided to try her hand at enchanting a pie.

“Baking is beneath me,” Diantha said, “but she said that nasty thing and I had to destroy her somehow, and your father wouldn’t let me port her into a volcano. Do you think she bribed the festival judge?”

“No.”

“You have such a trusting nature. You should work on that. Anyway, this year I’m going all out. A chocolate truffle pie with truffles imported from France, topped with authentic gold leaf and ensorcelled to shoot fireworks.” She cackled. “Let her try to beat that!”

Mariel seized the moment. “Speaking of teleporting truffles, I hate to cut this conversation short, but I need to bake some muffins.”

“Ugh. I bake out of spite; I would never willingly subject myself to it otherwise.” Diantha sighed. “All right, dear. Make sure to teleport the ingredients from abroad.”

“Will do.”

“Only the best for the Sparks, that’s what I always say.”

“Yep.”

“You’ll live up to the family reputation soon, I’m sure of it.” Diantha made smacking kiss sounds into the phone. “Goodbye, Mariel dear, make your ancestors proud today.”

“Bye, Mom.” Mariel hung up, then sagged against the glass wall. “I’m exhausted,” she told her tulips. “It’s ten a.m., and I’m exhausted just from listening to her.”

The tulips nodded in sympathy.

“ ‘Make your ancestors proud today,’ ” Mariel mimicked. It was her mother’s standard sign-off. “Josiah Spark was a garden witch, and no one makes fun of him for it.” Because he’d been dead for three centuries, probably. Diantha Spark, for all her flaws, held the past in high regard. Legacy was everything to her.

“Maybe she’ll be proud of me if I get hit by a bus.” Mariel sighed as the jade vine brushed her cheek. “I don’t mean it. I’m just tired of never being good enough, you know?”

Her plants didn’t know though. They, unlike Mariel, were perfect. She’d made them that way, yet she had no talent to do the same thing to herself.

“Whatever,” Mariel muttered, standing straight again. “I have muffins to make. And unlike Mom’s pies, they’ll actually be good.”

Ten minutes later, Mariel had a bright orange apron tied around her waist and a mixing bowl in front of her. She reached for the flour, then hesitated. While she liked keeping baking separate from magic—it was nice to have a hobby totally unconnected to the Spark legacy—she had told her mother she’d import the ingredients.

She huffed and reached for the chalk. This time she drew the pentagram on the floor, not wanting to take up precious counter space. What was the rune for food again? She drew a wobbly line with three crosshatches in the top spot, then filled the rest of the pentagram with summoning signs and more specifics about what she wanted. Then she closed her eyes, reaching for her magic.

Magic is half intention, her mom had taught her. You have to want something to make it happen.

What Mariel wanted was to feel like less of a failure. She wanted flowers and muffins and the contentment of being exactly enough for someone.

She racked her brain, trying to come up with the spell. Conspersa was Latin for flour, but that wasn’t right. Harina wasn’t right either. This was one of those weird magic words that didn’t take its root from any known language. Ozro, maybe? Or something like that for the noun.

After lengthy consideration, she finally had the spell sorted out. “Ozroth din convosen,” she said, infusing the words with a wish to get this right, for once. She’d sell her soul for the chance to live up to her stupid legacy. She was sick of being the failed Spark.

A crack of lightning split the air, and Mariel jumped, eyes flying open. A pillar of smoke rose from the pentagram, spiraling towards the ceiling. Then it faded, revealing . . . a man?

Mariel shrieked and jumped back. She held out her hands as the man stared at her. He must be so frightened! “I’m so sorry, sir. It was an accident. I meant to summon some flour, and I must have gotten the spell wrong, though I don’t know how I bungled it that badly. But you haven’t exploded, so that’s good news!” She winced. She babbled when she was nervous. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

The man’s forehead furrowed. Mariel blinked, taking in the details of his appearance. He was tall and muscular, with golden skin and jet-black hair. His black jeans and T-shirt matched the intricate tattoo wreathing his left bicep. Had she subconsciously channeled Themmie’s fuck buddy suggestion? But then he cocked his head, and wait, were those horns flowing in elegant onyx lines along the sides of his head?

Appreciation turned to dread. I would sell my soul . . . “Oh, no,” she said, realizing the true extent of her fuckup. “This isn’t good.”

Ozroth the ruthless had once been the best at his job. He’d collected human souls for centuries, driving such hard bargains that even millennia-old demons had whistled in appreciation. The demon plane was filled with evidence of his work, the golden soul orbs drifting through the air, filling the plane with magic and life. He had been feared and respected, and he’d liked it.

Now one tiny slipup later, he’d lost it all. Ozroth the Ruthless was a laughingstock. The only demon to accidentally gain a soul, rather than take one. He could feel that soul in his chest now, an uncomfortable, ominous warmth. He kept himself under tight control, but there was always the threat that the soul might act up. That he might—horrible thought—feel too much.

He stared at the witch who had summoned him to Glimmer Falls. It was rare that anyone requested him specifically for a bargain. Most desperate witches and warlocks cast a wide net with their spells, assuming any demon would do—an idea Ozroth sneered at. Some bargains were more intricate than others, and some demons were denser than others. Why use a blunt instrument for precision work?

Ozroth had built a fearsome reputation from his vengeance bargains in particular. The last time someone had summoned him by name, it was because the warlock had heard about his bargain with a sheriff whose wife had been killed by mobsters. The five assassins had all died in bizarre natural disasters, with no one to point a finger at.

This woman didn’t look the type to strike a revenge pact. Her expression was alarmed, rather than desperate, furious, or cunning. Her generous curves were wrapped in an orange apron, her curly brown hair was tangled and spotted with leaves, and her cheek was smudged with dirt. She was shockingly pretty.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said, launching into a babbling explanation that made little sense. She was summoning . . . flour? She was happy he hadn’t exploded? And what kind of witch called a demon “sir”? Ozroth cocked his head, growing more intrigued by the second.

Then her eyes drifted up to his head, and fear washed over her face. “Oh, no,” she said. “This isn’t good.”

That was more in line with the reactions Ozroth was used to. He stepped out of the pentagram and spread his hands. “It is I,” he intoned—experience had taught him witches preferred their demons on the dramatic side—“Ozroth the Ruthless. Tell me what you would bargain your soul for.”

She frantically crossed her hands in front of her in the universal sign for no. “That’s not what I want. No bargaining. Nope, not me. Um, go away?”

Well, this was confusing. “You can’t tell me to go away,” he said, baffled by the very idea. “You summoned me by name.” And to Glimmer Falls, no less, which was renowned across the planes for being a hot spot of magic. Every time a generic bargain summons emanated from that town or one of the dozen or so other magical hot spots on Earth, demons nearly knocked each other over in their urgency to teleport to Earth and hopefully gain a powerful soul. In this case, the witch had requested Ozroth specifically, when most witches didn’t even know they could choose a preferred bargainer.

“No, I summoned flour by name,” she corrected. “You showed up.”

“That’s not how it works.” He crossed his arms, and her eyes darted to his tattoo. He had been marked by his mentor as a child, the runes spelling out his responsibility as a soul bargainer. “Now tell me what you would trade your soul for, mortal.”

“Nothing.”

He shrugged. “A poor choice, but if you want to give it to me—”

“No!” she yelped. “My soul is not up for grabs. Go back to Hell or—or wherever you came from.”

He squinted at her. “What are they teaching in universities these days?” he asked, too appalled to maintain the dramatic demon act any longer. Humans and magical beings had been living side by side for all of recorded time, and even schools that didn’t teach magic ought to offer basic Interspecies Relations courses. “There’s no such thing as Hell. I live in the demon plane.”

“Well, go back there, then!” She planted her hands on her hips, looking madder by the moment. That was unusual, too. No one talked back to a demon, much less Ozroth the Ruthless.

“I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth. Must he endure the disrespect of mortals, too? “As I explained earlier, you summoned me by name. I’m bound here until you complete the pact.”

“Oh, Hecate,” she said, stamping her foot. “Why can’t anything ever be easy?” She opened her cabinet, pulling out a bundle of sage, a saltshaker, and various small bottles.

He studied her intently as she arranged the items on her countertop. There was something odd about her—well, there were a lot of odd things about her, but something was making his skin prickle. A nearby movement caught his attention, and he watched as a houseplant on the windowsill reached out a tendril as if to stroke her.

He couldn’t sense the magic of any other creatures, including demons, but witch magic glowed like a beacon. Still, he normally didn’t feel it like this—not without focusing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that prickling energy, opening all his senses to it.

Power. Pure, raw power. The hair on his arms rose, and he shivered in appreciation. The witch was brimming with it—golden, brilliant magic such as he hadn’t seen in centuries. While witchery traveled down family lines, it was rare for someone to inherit not just the innate talent for spellcraft but the raw power to achieve substantial works. Her soul would be a brilliant source of energy for the twilit demon plane.

His eyes snapped open. “You,” he said, “are very interesting.”

His pulse sped as excitement built. No one believed him capable of striking difficult deals anymore. To claim a soul this powerful . . .

You’re useless to me like this, his mentor, Astaroth of the Nine, had spat when Ozroth had first returned with an inconvenient mortal soul lodged in his chest. I need you cold and efficient.

Honor and duty were important concepts to demons, and the honor of collecting souls to benefit the demon realm—whether through straightforward bargains or more complicated ones requiring trickery, threats, or violence—was the greatest of all. With the witch’s soul in hand, Ozroth would prove his worth and regain the honor he’d lost.

“I am not interesting,” the witch said, shaking her head as she drew a wobbly pentagram on the countertop with chalk, then circled it with salt. One of the leaves in her hair came loose and fluttered towards the floor, changing its trajectory partway down so it could cling to her shin instead. “I am very boring. I like to garden and bake, and I am not even a little bit interesting, and I would really appreciate it if you forgave this little . . . misstep and went back to Hell. The demon plane.” She waved a hand. “Wherever.”

Ozroth definitely wouldn’t be leaving, even if he could. This short, curvy, odd witch was exactly the leverage he needed to regain his fearsome reputation. Accidentally bargained or not, her soul could light up the demon plane all on its own. “No.”

She made a low sound that was almost a growl as she dotted pungent oil in the arms of the pentagram. Then she lit the gas stove and ignited the sage in the flames. “Begone, pest,” she said, waving the smoking sage in his general direction. “In the name of Hecate, I expel you from this realm! Relinquosen e’ daemon!”

Ozroth sneezed.

The witch waited a few seconds, staring at him as if hoping he would vanish. Then she shook salt in a new pattern over the pentagram. “Destruoum te ollasen!”

The teapot on her stove shattered, and Ozroth shielded his eyes as ceramic shards pelted him like shrapnel. The pieces clattered to the floor in a musical cacophony.

The witch looked at the remnants of her teapot, face painted with tragedy. “I really liked that teapot,” she whispered. Then she glared at Ozroth. “This is your fault.”

Ozroth picked ceramic pieces out of his hair, grimacing at the cheerful yellow flowers painted on the porcelain. “I don’t see how.”

“Ugh!” She threw up her hands and stomped away, then started rummaging through a bookshelf in the hall outside the kitchen.

He crossed his arms and leaned back against her counter, beginning to enjoy himself. Not that soul bargainers ought to enjoy things, he reminded the unwanted soul in his chest, which was apparently determined to have feelings about everything. Still, an accidental summoning was at least intriguing.

She muttered to herself as she tossed books over her shoulder. They were mostly cookbooks, along with a few self-help books: Never Good Enough? and The Magic of Dating: A Practical Guide for Lonely Witches. Finally, she straightened with an “Aha!,” a thick, leather-bound tome in her hand. She carried it into the kitchen, dropping it onto the table with a whump. The Omnibus Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures was scrolled across the cover in gilt script. She pointed at Ozroth. “I’m going to figure out how to get out of this.”

He watched as she turned the pages, muttering to herself. It was a futile exercise, but he had to appreciate her determination. He’d had people try to get out of bargains before—after they’d received whatever boon he’d granted in exchange, of course—but not like this. She hadn’t even asked him for anything. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can give you?” he asked. “Money, love, revenge against your enemies?”

She rolled her eyes. “You are such a cliché.”

His jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

She ignored him, continuing to skim through the book. She paused on a page with an illustration of a being with horns. Ozroth stepped closer to read over her shoulder. The image had clearly been drawn by someone who had never met a demon. The legs were backward-jointed, and the horns stuck straight up, rather than following the curve of the head and pointing back. The fangs were heavily exaggerated, too. His canines were long, but not that long, and he’d never slobbered like that in his life. Was this really how mortals saw his species?

He skimmed the entry. Demon: A humanoid species that resides in a separate physical plane. They can offer a witch or warlock any boon, but at a high price. In exchange for giving a witch their heart’s desire, the demon eats their soul.

He snorted. “We don’t eat souls. Who wrote this garbage?”

She looked up at him with wide hazel eyes. “What do you do with the souls you take, then?” Her brow furrowed. “I’m not even sure what a soul is, to be honest.”

“It’s the spark inside. The place where magic comes from.” The pulsing, beating, feeling part that made humans powerful yet fragile . . . and impossible to predict. All humans possessed that chaotic, passionate core, but only witches and warlocks produced magic from it . . . or had the ability to trade it away.

“You take away people’s magic?” She looked horrified.

Magic came tangled with emotion, too—after completing a deal, humans became cold and entirely cerebral—but she didn’t need to know that. “It’s their choice,” Ozroth said. “In return, they get everything they’ve ever wanted”—assuming he couldn’t find a way to twist the words of the deal to his advantage. Humans had a tendency to wish for batshit, logistically intensive things, and it was a mark of pride in the demon community whenever anyone circumvented a particularly wild deal.

Others might find it odd for a species so fixated on honor to praise cunning and deceit, but when deceit kept a community alive, what shame was there in it?

“You still haven’t told me what you do with the souls,” she said.

To be honest, no one had ever asked him that. Historically, people had been too caught up in the “trading my soul” angst to worry about what happened to said soul. “The souls provide our realm with energy and light.”

She blinked. “That was not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” he asked, thinking about the drawing with the fangs and weird legs and copious saliva droplets.

She waved a small hand. “Dark rituals, eternal torture, blood orgies . . . the usual.”

It was his turn to be taken aback. “That’s your usual?”

“Not me.” She grimaced. “The blood orgies are more my mother’s thing.”

Ozroth was too distracted by the energy pouring off her to care about her mother. To his demon senses, her magic glowed like a small sun in her chest. The witch burned with possibility.

Realizing he was staring at her—at her soul, really—he shook himself. “The eternal torture thing is mythological nonsense,” he said. “Some witch with half a foot in the human world bollocked it up, and now everyone thinks demons steal souls, drink blood, and tear into people’s delicate bits in the afterlife.”

“So there’s no punishment in the afterlife?”

He scoffed. “I’m still alive, last time I checked.”

“Good point. So, what, do human souls power your electrical grid?”

“It’s hard to explain.” The demon plane had no visible sun, just a thick layer of clouds that limited the sky to shades of gray, purple, and black. The floating golden orbs of mortal souls provided illumination, but it was more than that. Demons couldn’t produce their own magical energy—other than the soul bargaining or other types of magic a rare few inherited—so they had to take it from others. Without that magic, the demonic realm would slowly darken, its inhabitants losing life and energy with it. Eventually, everything would crumble into dust.

She shook her head, leaf-strewn curls bouncing. “This whole thing is stupid.”

“Excuse me,” he snapped, temper flaring. “Do you know who I am?” He was the architect of countless important bargains, including the assassination of no less than twelve world leaders. Sure, his reputation was currently in tatters on the demon plane, but there were entire chapters of necronomica dedicated to him.

“An inconvenience,” she shot back. “I’m already the most incompetent witch ever to exist. I don’t need to accidentally summon a demon on top of that.”

“Incompetent?” He shook his head. “I can feel your magic, witch.”

“Yeah, so did the stars and the wind and the earth, and look at us now.” She sighed and thunked her forehead against the table. “So what happens now? You hang around until I give you my soul?”

This was a unique experience. Normally witches were gagging to give him their souls, desperate for whatever prizes he could offer in return. “Well . . . yes.”

She picked up her head and glared at him. “Never going to happen.”

He shrugged. “I’m immortal. I have time.”

She parted her lips—probably to say some other rude thing—but the moment was interrupted by a doorbell ringing. “Mariel, dear!” a female voice called, the sound muffled. “Come give your mother a kiss!”

The witch’s name was Mariel. Pretty.

Ozroth watched with interest as the color drained from Mariel’s cheeks, making her freckles stand out. “She can’t know I summoned you,” she whispered, panic written across her face.

Ozroth sensed an opening. “If you give me your soul, I won’t tell her.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Mariel stood and darted to the hallway closet, returning with a pink knitted cap, which she tugged over his head before he could stop her. He shivered as the fabric stretched over his sensitive horns. “Wear this, and don’t you dare move. I’ll be back in a few.”

She hurried down the hallway as the doorbell rang again. Ozroth ran a hand over the hat, which was no doubt intended to hide his horns. What was wrong with this witch? His horns were considered very handsome on the demon plane, and no one dared come near them without his approval. This witch had just trampled over one of the most sacred boundaries of demonkind, much like she trampled over basic politeness.

But Ozroth needed Mariel to warm up to the idea of a soul pact, so he kept the cap on, despite the way it made his horns itch.

He followed Mariel, watching as she finger-combed her messy hair and scrubbed at the dirt on her cheek. She took a deep breath, then opened the door. “Hi, Mom! It’s really not a good time—”

The words were cut off when a middle-aged woman in a white pantsuit forced her way in. She was thin and wiry, with Mariel’s curly brown hair and the sharp-featured face of a predator. Her lips were painted blood red, and a pair of designer sunglasses rested on top of her head. “Darling,” she cooed, kissing the air on either side of Mariel’s face with loud smacking sounds. “I know we just talked, but I was in the area, and I couldn’t wait to see how your summoning went.”

Mariel edged in front of her mother, standing between her and the kitchen, where Ozroth watched from the doorway. “I can’t chat right now.”

“Oh, hush,” the woman said. “Where’s your spell? Has your handwriting gotten any better? I cannot tell you how much I regret sending you to public school for second grade.”

“Mom, no—”

It was no use though. The small woman slid around Mariel like oil. She took two steps towards the kitchen, then stopped at the sight of Ozroth. Her eyes widened. “Who is that?” she demanded, pointing a long, manicured nail at him.

He grinned, exposing his sharp canines. “As a matter of fact, I’m—”

“My boyfriend!” Mariel shouted before Ozroth could finish the sentence.

Silence fell in the wake of that announcement.

Ozroth gaped at Mariel. He was what?

And then Mariel’s mother burst into tears.

"Finally,” Diantha Spark wailed. “I’d nearly given up on grandbabies.”

Mariel shared an alarmed look with the demon, though she suspected they were alarmed about different things. Ozroth the Ruthless, otherwise known as Ozroth the Massive Inconvenience. His gold eyes—a color she’d never seen on a human—were wide, and for once in their short acquaintance, he seemed speechless. The pink beanie stretched awkwardly over his horns, but she was counting on Diantha being too distracted to notice.

“Yes, we’re very happy,” Mariel said, hurrying towards the demon. She wrapped her hand around his arm, though her skin crawled at the contact with his too-warm skin. She lifted up on her toes as if she was going to kiss his cheek. “If you don’t play along,” she whispered, “I will explode you.”

Mariel didn’t think she was capable of blowing up anyone—animal, demon, or otherwise—on purpose, but he didn’t know that. She glared at him as ferociously as she could, and the demon swallowed, then nodded.

Mariel switched her attention back to her mother. “So as I said, I’m busy right now and can’t—”

“Tell me everything,” Diantha said, rushing forward. She grabbed Ozroth’s free hand, and Mariel winced. “How did you meet my baby girl? Do you have a stable job? What’s your magical ability level? I know she’s incompetent, but she’s trying, bless her.”

“Mom!”

“We met recently,” Ozroth said, voice smooth as silk. He had the most interesting accent—like British mixed with Australian and spiced with something archaic. Though he couldn’t have enjoyed being grabbed, his smile was warm and wide as he focused his attention on Diantha. “Mariel is a lovely woman, and that’s all to your credit, Mrs. . . .”

He trailed off, but luckily, Diantha was too excited to question it. “Oh, please call me Diantha! She’s never dated before, you know. Such an odd duck! But the prophecy—” She shivered, and a blissful smile broke out over her red lips. “Well, once it comes to pass, you’re going to be a very lucky man, indeed.” She patted his hand. “Just try to endure until then, all right?”

Mariel’s cheeks burned. It was embarrassing enough to have accidentally summoned a demon. Her mother meeting said demon and then shaming Mariel in front of him was an extra level of humiliation. The exploded chicken was shaping up to be the high point of the day.

“I’m already lucky,” the demon said, extricating his hand from Diantha’s. He grabbed Mariel’s fingers, then brought her hand to his lips. His mouth, like his fingers, was hot, and his eyes burned with mischief as he kissed the back of her hand.

Mariel scoffed. Of course he was capable of being charming. How else was he supposed to seduce souls out of the unwary? But Mariel was no naïf to be tricked by soft lips and sweet compliments—her mother’s knowledge of Mariel’s dating history was thankfully limited through a mixture of elaborate subterfuge and blind luck—and she knew what festered behind those pretty gold eyes. Demons were deceptive monsters, which meant she couldn’t trust a word that came out of his mouth.

“Now tell me about you,” Ozroth said, switching his attention to Diantha. “I can already tell you’re a fascinating woman.”

      *

An hour later, Mariel was on her second mug of chamomile tea, wondering how long a man—or demon, rather—could manage to look interested in a conversation. They’d migrated to the living room, where Ozroth sat on a couch with her mother while Mariel perched in a floral-patterned armchair. Diantha had regaled Ozroth the Ruthless with her entire life story and then some, yet he still leaned forward and smiled, even though she hadn’t even asked him his name.

“And you won the trophy for the tenth time,” Ozroth said in a low, purr-like voice. “What an amazing accomplishment.”

Diantha preened, fluffing her hair. “Not that amazing, considering my skill.”

Ozroth nodded. “You’re powerful. I can feel it.”

That drew the attention of both witches. “You can feel magical power?” Diantha asked, sitting up straight.

He was still grinning like a fricking toothpaste ad. His canines were sharp and slightly overlong, and Mariel wondered if he ever bit his prey. “My own talents as a warlock are minimal,” he said, “but my one skill is sensing magic. Mariel is exceptionally powerful.” He nodded at Diantha. “Good genes.”

Mariel bit her tongue. He should add lying and blowing smoke up people’s asses to his list of skills.

Diantha shot a damning look at Mariel. “Unfortunately, she hasn’t learned to harness that power.”

Mariel flinched. “Yes, thank you. You’ve only told him a million times how terrible I am.”

Diantha pouted. “I’m only trying to help. A bit of pressure can be useful.”

A “bit of pressure” had made a wreck of Mariel’s life. She wasn’t in therapy for nothing.

“Your daughter,” Ozroth said, “has the brightest magical aura I’ve ever encountered. She’s destined for great things.” His gaze slid to Mariel, and a smirk tilted his detestable lips. The “great things” he was envisioning probably involved her sacrificing her immortal soul to power his Wi-Fi.

“Speaking of destiny,” Mariel said, seizing the moment and standing up, “I need to do some research. I’m so sorry to leave, but I really think this will help me improve my spellcraft.”

Diantha nodded. “Go study, dear. Your boyfriend can entertain me.”

Was Mariel imagining things, or had Ozroth winced? “Actually,” he said, rising from the couch, “I need to go . . . feed my cat.” He nodded. “Yes, my cat is very hungry.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Mariel said in a saccharine tone. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

“Yes, do stay,” Diantha said, pouting her bloodred lips.

“I do have a cat,” Ozroth confirmed. “And no, I have to go.” He looped an arm around Mariel’s waist, and Mariel nearly choked on her own spit. “I’m sure you have very important places to be, too.”

“Oh, yes!” Diantha stood, fanning herself with one manicured hand. “There’s never enough time in the day, is there?”

It took twenty more minutes to get her mom out of the house. When she was gone, Mariel sagged against the closed front door. Ozroth ripped the pink beanie off and threw it on the floor, then ran a hand through his dark hair, fluffing it back to its earlier perfection. It was long enough to conceal parts of the onyx horns that curved along his head.

“That was . . . a lot,” he said.

Mariel groaned. “Welcome to my life.”

“Is she always like that?”

Mariel grimaced. “She’s gotten more intense over the years. Back when I was a kid and she thought I would be the best witch in a thousand years, she was all compliments. It was only when I started to fail that she got so . . .” She paused, trying to think of an appropriate descriptor for her mother. Obsessive? Rude? Terrifying? “Overbearing.”

He cocked his head again, eyes tracing over her. His gaze was eerily intense, like he was looking under her skin. Maybe he was—Mariel knew jack shit about demons. “You are powerful,” he said. “It’s plain to see.”

Mariel was tired of hearing about her supposed power. Plants loved her, but all she’d managed to do otherwise was blow things up and summon inappropriate objects, and she didn’t want to think about the accidental enchantments. Love spells weren’t so fun when Mariel had accidentally gotten distracted by the state of her cucumbers while trying to help a friend with her crush.

“Try telling my magic that,” she said bitterly, pushing past the demon to return to her kitchen. The book sat open on the table, taunting her with knowledge out of her reach. They can offer a witch or warlock any boon, but at a high price. Yeah, but how did she get rid of a demon?

She stepped on a shard of teapot and winced as it dug into her heel. Yet another casualty of Mariel’s lack of talent.

The brush of leaves against her cheek made her sigh. She turned her head towards her spider plant, which stroked her with its long fronds. “Can you get rid of a demon?” she asked it softly. “Maybe the apple tree can help.” The image of Ozroth trapped in a tangle of roots before being sucked underground was an appealing one, but unfortunately, Mariel didn’t think she could be that cruel. Even to a demon.

“So you have trouble with your magic.” Ozroth leaned against the refrigerator, and Mariel was distracted by how large he was. He was tall and broad, and when he crossed his arms, his biceps strained against his black T-shirt. Apparently working out was a thing in Hell.

The demon plane, she corrected herself. Although that made her think of an airplane full of brooding demons all bitching about the lack of legroom.

He snapped his fingers, and Mariel jerked back to awareness. “What?” she asked, cheeks heating as she realized she’d zoned out while staring at his chest.

“You’re having trouble with your magic,” Ozroth said. “I can help with that.”

She scoffed. “Let me guess, for the price of my soul? I’d get control of my magic, and then you’d immediately take it away.”

He scowled. “I shouldn’t have told you it worked like that.”

“Yeah, well, you did.” She grabbed a broom from the closet, then started sweeping up the remains of her teapot. What a mess she’d gotten herself into.

A large hand closed around the broom handle, and Mariel flinched. “Allow me,” the demon said.

She relinquished the broom, backing away. She didn’t like how hot the air was around him or the way her skin prickled at his nearness. “I am not buying your housekeeping services,” she said as she bumped into the table. “Just to be clear.”

He made a huffing sound as he started sweeping. Was he laughing at her? “You know,” he said conversationally as he gathered the teapot shards into a pile, “I can help you with your magic anyway. Without the soul.”

“Why would you do that?”

He shrugged. “It’ll entertain me while you figure out what favor you want.”

He was really convinced she was going to make a deal with him. Mariel might not have inherited anything else from Diantha Spark, but she only bent so far when challenged. When Mariel dug her heels in, she dug in hard. “Never going to happen. There’s nothing I want enough to give my soul to you.” Legacy aside, keeping her soul—and thus her magic—meant keeping her garden alive. It meant the warm, cozy thrum of power in her chest. It meant the chance to someday make her family proud.

Ozroth smirked. “We’ll see.”