Life's a Witch Read online

  Everyone in the coven agreed Rosemary was a ruthless bitch, and Crimson suspected that, secretly, they’d all love to see her removed from power. There had been peace among the supes of New Orleans for decades, yet she ruled like they were always on the verge of war. And the way she treated Crimson, singling her out the way she did, didn’t make any sense at all.

  A low-level witch whose spells went haywire more often than they worked wasn’t a threat, yet the high priestess acted like she was. There had to be more to this vendetta than mean girl behavior.

  Crimson rose to her feet and strutted toward the table. “Why do you hate me? Aside from my magic not working correctly, I’ve never done a damn thing to warrant this treatment from you.”

  Defensiveness flickered in Rosemary’s eyes before she straightened her spine. “I don’t want incompetence in my ranks. Nothing more. I only wanted to turn you human. Now that you’ve challenged me, I’m going to squash you like the dung beetle you are.”

  If I’m a dung beetle, then you’re a piece of dung. Turning on her heel, Crimson strode out the door. She could smell bullshit a mile away, and the high priestess reeked of manure. There was a reason Rosemary wanted her without magical powers, and she planned to find out why.

  But first, she had to devise a way to out-magic the most powerful witch in New Orleans.

  Chapter Two

  Mike Cortez bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to enter the meeting room at the Priscilla St. James Community Center. A registration table sat to the left, and he stopped to sign in, scribbling his name on a paper nametag and sticking it to his shirt—a ridiculous requirement, seeing as how he’d known everyone in the room for at least fifty years.

  He passed the beverage station, inhaling the rich, earthy aroma of the world’s worst coffee—seriously, it smelled divine, but that shit tasted like it came straight from the tarpits of hell—and dropped his food contribution, a box of mini angel food cakes from Sweet Destiny’s Bakery, onto the snack table.

  As soon as the package hit the surface, the other demons in the room swarmed it, shoving the pastries into their mouths and moaning as if they were better than sex with Aphrodite. For a full-blooded recovering demon, he supposed they were.

  Sweet Destiny, the bakery next door to Mike’s restaurant, was owned by an angel named Destiny Monroe. She baked a little extra magic into his weekly order for the Hellions Anonymous meetings, as it helped to curb his friends’ demonic nature, at least for a little while.

  “Thanks, Mike,” Richard said, his mouth full of angelic cake. “If you weren’t still Satan’s bitch, I’d kiss you.”

  A famine demon back in the day, Richard used to appear as nothing more than skin stretched over a skeleton as he poisoned crops and spread drought throughout the lands. His work on the Irish potato famine had secured his release from the Devil’s clutches, and he’d been a glutton ever since. Now, his potbelly hung over his belt so far Mike doubted the man had seen his own dick in decades.

  “No worries,” Mike grumbled. One perk of having a handshake from hell—no other recovering demon would touch him for fear of being sucked back into the underworld. Of course, they all knew his power didn’t work that way, but no one wanted to take any chances.

  Mike sank into a chair in the “Circle of Hope” and crossed his arms, tucking his fisted right hand beneath his pit. His palm itched, the first signal he was late on his payment to Satan. If he didn’t make a deal on the Devil’s behalf soon, his ass would be grass, and not the fun kind you could smoke.

  “Good evening, everyone.” Katrina crossed one long, slender leg over the other, lacing her fingers and resting them on her bare knee. That was all it took for the former succubus to command the room’s attention. Her long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in thick waves, and dark lashes fringed her striking lavender eyes.

  A bit of drool rolled from the corner of Richard’s mouth, and Sarah bit her bottom lip as she twirled a lock of blonde hair around her finger. Blood began to pool in Mike’s groin, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. If the Hellions Anonymous leader didn’t get her magic in check, this meeting would turn into an orgy faster than roux could scorch on an unattended stove.

  He cleared his throat. “Katrina, your demon is showing.”

  Her eyes flashed red as she raked her gaze up and down his body. “You’re not showing nearly enough.”

  Sarah rubbed a hand along her thigh, gripping her jeans as if to stop herself from rubbing another area. “Someone get this woman a piece of cake before we all end up naked.”

  Mike strode to the snack table but found the box empty. “Richard…” For fuck’s sake, did the man have no control?

  “Sorry,” Richard said around a mouthful of cake. His plate held four more pieces, so he tossed one to Katrina.

  She bit into the pastry, and an erotic moan emanated from her throat, electrifying the energy in the room. Mike held his breath as she finished the angelic cake, willing his dick to retreat. Succubi could get an entire crowd hot and horny with a snap of their fingers, and no one—not even Satan himself—was immune to their powers. It had been years since he’d seen Katrina without her glamour on, and the fact she’d dropped it tonight could only mean one thing: she’d gotten laid.

  “My apologies.” With a deep inhale, she activated her concealing magic, transforming her appearance from hottest stripper in New Orleans to Karen the soccer mom. “After seventeen years of celibacy, I had a moment of weakness last night. It seems I’m still not free from Satan’s clutches.”

  “It’s okay,” Sarah said. “Your time will come.”

  Katrina grinned devilishly. “My date sure came. Again and again. I’m afraid I’ve ruined him for other women.” She straightened her spine. “But I’m back on the wagon. No more sex until Satan releases me. I will abstain until he gives up on me.”

  “You know that’s not how the Devil works.” Mike rubbed his palm on his jeans, the mere thought of striking a deal making it burn. “No one is free from the bowels of hell unless they pay a price or win a bet.”

  She made a noncommittal sound and smirked at him before addressing the group. “Hi, my name is Katrina, and I’m a succubus.”

  “Hi, Katrina,” the demons said in unison.

  “I was banned from hell when Satan’s flavor of the month found us in a compromising position in his chambers. After living topside for one hundred fifty years, I’ve grown fond of humans and refuse to use my sexuality as a tool to send their souls to the underworld. The devil will forget about me eventually, and my demonic desires will cease, at which time I’ll be free to find love and live a normal life.”

  It’ll never happen, Mike wanted to say, but he held his tongue. The Devil never forgot, but if she believed she had the stamina to give Satan a run for his money, more power to her.

  They went around the circle, introducing themselves, telling their stories of how they won their freedom and mentioning any slip-ups they may have had between meetings. It was the same damn routine every week, but HA meetings were required—as part of the truce with the humans—of every recovering demon who called New Orleans home.

  Most of the demons there had struck a deal with the Devil to earn their release. Sarah, a pestilence demon, bargained for her freedom and won release when she initiated the bubonic plague by sneezing on a bartender in London. Mark planted the seed that started World War II, and Denise was especially proud of herself for instigating the #metoo phenomenon that rocked Hollywood, knocking a slew of famous actors and directors off their pedestals. She outsmarted Satan on that one. Sure, it caused all the turmoil he was hoping for, but it also brought to light a persistent problem as women all over the country found solidarity in the movement.

  The Devil wasn’t happy about the good that came from Denise’s “evil” deed, but the bargain had already been struck, and Satan never reneged on a deal.

  Mike tapped his foot, fisting his hand until his nails dug into his palm. He should have bee
n out there looking for a morally inept idiot to bargain with, not sitting in this boring room with its off-white walls and matching tile floor, the smell of coffee barely masking the stench of mildew growing on the window panes. He had a restaurant to run, a life to live, and he’d never been this late giving the Devil his due.

  “Mike?” Sarah waved a hand in front of his face, pulling him out of his thoughts and into the meeting. “It’s your turn.”

  “Right. I’m Mike, and I—”

  “Hi, Mike,” everyone said.

  He ground his teeth. “I’m a Devil’s advocate, and I won partial freedom in a poker game with Satan five years ago. As long as I make a deal for him once a month, I get to live topside, left to my own devices, but I’m two weeks late, so I’ve got to jet early.” The burning sensation in his palm engulfed his entire hand.

  “You should stay.” Katrina folded her hands in her lap. “Show Satan he can’t control you. Refuse to do his bidding.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.” He stood and stepped behind his chair. “A deal a month or I’m back in hell, never allowed to see the light of day again.”

  “You could hide,” Richard said.

  Mike shook his head. “Advocates can’t hide. We make deals on behalf of Satan, so we’re connected. I’ve explained all this before, and I don’t have time to do it again. I’ve signed in and introduced myself, so I met the requirement. I’ll see you next week.”

  He turned and strode out the door, stalking down the sidewalk toward Magazine Street. Though demons in hell were known for lying, cheating, stealing, and causing as much chaos as possible, those that lived topside strived to assimilate to the positive aspects of human nature. Mike wasn’t lying when he said he had a connection to Satan. All advocates did, but while the Devil refused to sever the connection when Mike won the poker game, he did promise not to use it unless there was an emergency.

  Now, as Mike passed the grand colonial homes of the Garden District, with their white columns and manicured lawns, a buzzing in his blood reminded him that connection was alive and well. Satan was calling, and Mike had no choice but to answer.

  He slowed his pace as he passed a group of men congregating outside a bar. A tall brunet leaned against the blue wooden exterior, clutching his phone, while a short, stocky guy sipped his beer and shook his head. Eavesdropping on their conversation, Mike learned the tall one had recently been dumped and wasn’t handling the breakup well.

  Scorned lovers were easy targets, and Mike could have joined the conversation, steering it toward what the man would be willing to give up in exchange for another chance with his girl. But as he focused his magic, peering into their auras and breathing in their scents, not a single one of them reeked of malice; no evil danced in the energy around them.

  He couldn’t bring himself to curse an innocent. In the five years since he’d won his right to live among mortals, he’d made certain to target only wicked people when he made his monthly payments. He continued on his way.

  “Voicemail again.” The guy shoved his phone into his pocket. “Fuck that bitch. She’ll be sorry she ever dumped me when I’m through.”

  Mike halted in his tracks, the malicious statement piquing his demonic interest. Perhaps he’d missed something in this guy’s aura. He strolled toward the spurned human and placed a hand on his shoulder, activating his magic and willing the man to reveal his innermost desire. “What do you really want?”

  The human’s eyes blanked for a moment before filling with tears. “To talk to her.”

  “What would you be willing to trade?”

  He tilted his head, giving Mike a curious look. “I’d give my left nut if she’d just pick up the phone.”

  Mike’s palm turned red with the need to seal that deal. A man could function with only one testicle. Sure, the removal process wouldn’t be pleasant, but that wasn’t Mike’s job. He just had to get a little bit of blood and a handshake, and he’d be good to go until the next payment was due.

  A low growl rumbled in his chest as he remembered Satan’s last email. No more testicles. His collection already filled two chambers in his halls, and his current girlfriend insisted he not add another nut unless he had the dick to match.

  “It’s time to move on.” He patted the guy’s back and continued down the sidewalk.

  The buzzing in his blood grew stronger as he stalked toward his restaurant. Situated in a nineteenth-century Victorian home with a blue and white façade and an expansive front porch, Honoré’s served the best fried oyster po-boy in town. Their red beans and rice were a favorite among the locals, and it put them on the map as a popular stop for foodie tours in the area.

  Wiping the scowl from his face, he nodded a hello to his manager before making his way through the dining area toward the kitchen. He caught bits and pieces of conversations as he passed the patrons, but no one sounded desperate enough to need the Devil’s help. Pausing at the kitchen entrance, he turned and scanned the auras of his customers, not finding a single wicked soul in the building, aside from his own.

  He shook his head and marched through the kitchen. Was it too much to ask to get a truly evil person to pass through his restaurant every now and then? Once a month would be nice, but he’d settle for a few times a year. It would make his life a helluva lot easier.

  Stepping into his office, he slammed the door and leaned against the wall, not bothering to turn on the lights because demons could see just fine in the dark. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose as the humming in his blood grew stronger. What the hell was he going to do? “Satan’s balls,” he grumbled.

  “They’re hanging a little to the left today. Thanks for asking.”

  Shit. Mike opened his eyes as the high-backed leather office chair spun around, with the Devil himself perched on the seat like a James Bond villain. He wore a pinstriped suit in a shade of red so dark it was almost black, with a blood-red tie and matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. He had enough gel in his jet-black hair to hold it still in a hurricane. Thick brows peaked above eyes the color of molten lava, the liquid shades of red undulating like a storm in his irises. The only thing missing from the movie-like scene was a cat for him to stroke in his lap. Then again, Satan was more of a hellhound man.

  Mike bit his tongue, holding in the urge to ask the Devil if he’d seen any good spy movies lately. Satan hated being compared to Hollywood stereotypes of wicked men. Pushing from the wall, Mike dipped his head in a bow. “To what do I owe the honor, oh Great Evil One?”

  Satan chuckled. “You don’t look the slightest bit surprised to see me, Michael.”

  Surprised? Not hardly. Disappointed, disgusted, and dismayed? All of the above. “I felt your impending approach.”

  The Devil propped an ankle on his knee and drummed his fingers together. “Ah, yes, that’s right. We’re still connected because I own you.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.” Cutting the pretense, he dropped into the vinyl chair across from the desk. “I know I’m late on my payment, but I’ll have a deal made by the end of the day tomorrow.” Even if it kills me.

  Satan cocked his head. “Are you late? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. Oh, shit. “If you aren’t here to collect…”

  “Do you think I’d bother coming all the way topside for the simple issue of a late payment? I’d send one of my guards to collect.” He leaned forward. “I have a job for you.”

  Mike lifted his hands, leaning back in the chair, away from Satan. “Oh, no. No more jobs. I won this sorry excuse for freedom fair and square. You can’t default on your contracts.”

  “You used to be my favorite advocate.” He swiveled the chair from side to side, examining his nails before rubbing them on his lapel. “Your half-human nature made you the perfect tool for securing souls and whatever else I’ve felt like collecting over the years.”

  He stopped swiveling and leaned his forearms on the desk. “I’ve moved on from testicles to dignity
now. Did I tell you that? Extreme, life-altering humiliation in exchange for whatever frivolous thing the human thinks he needs. It’s quite fun.”

  “Sounds like a blast.”

  “Anyway, I’ve run into a dilemma, and I need you to find a new witch to be my assistant. I’m afraid my girlfriend wasn’t fond of my old one. My little pookykins is the jealous type—most banshees are. She was sentenced to eternal damnation for grinding her cheating husband’s sausage to bits, and I just can’t get enough of her.”

  Mike fought his eye roll. “You know I can’t damn a witch, sir. There’s a truce among the supes here. We all play nice and keep the balance, and everyone gets to live in peace.”

  Satan sucked in a breath through his teeth, grimacing like it pained him to make the request. “You know I’ve never cared for playing nice. Keeping the balance is important, but that’s an angels and demons affair. Witches have nothing to do with it.” He shrugged. “I need a witch, and you’re going to get her for me. It’s the last job I’ll ask of you. I swear.”

  Mike held in a groan. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but my contract states that as long as I pay my monthly fee, I’m a free demon. I don’t have to take on additional jobs.” Why did he feel like he was negotiating with a mob boss rather than Satan?

  “You make a good point, and I appreciate a demon who has the balls to stand up to me. Yours would make a nice addition to my collection. I wonder…” He shook his head. “I digress. What was I saying? Oh, yes. I want to make you a deal.” Satan stood and paced around the desk.

  “Let me guess. It’ll be an offer I can’t refuse?”

  “I don’t think you’ll want to refuse this. You’re two weeks late on payment. Since we never discussed a grace period, I assert that there isn’t one. It’s my right to take you back to hell with me immediately.”

  His stomach sank, attempting to take his entire body with it, but he held his spine rigid, refusing to cower before the leader of the underworld.