Raised by her witch Grandmother deep in the forest, Skyler has lived a friendless life of isolation and magic. Her fortunes change when she accidentally binds herself to the powerful demon known as Rayne.
This former Prince of Hell is inexplicably...
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Skyler
Marge's small store was tucked away in a quiet side alley, a hidden corner of the town where the air smelled faintly of dried herbs and candle wax. It was a strange little place, cluttered and mysterious, its shelves lined with jars of powders, bundles of dried plants, and crystals of every imaginable colour. Marge mostly dealt with online orders, but occasionally, local witches—hedge witches like us—would stop by for supplies or drop off the odd poultice order.
I pushed the door open, a small bell announcing my arrival, and stepped inside. The warmth of the store wrapped around me like a blanket, a sharp contrast to the brisk air outside. Marge sat behind the counter, her wiry grey hair barely visible over the top of her book, which was tilted up to her face.
"Hello, dear," she croaked without looking up.
I dropped the tray of herbs and tinctures onto the counter. "Here's your order."
Marge lowered her book just enough for me to see the cover: Horns of Desire. A minotaur, shirtless and flexing, loomed large in the embrace of a swooning woman. My lips twitched in disbelief.
"Your Grandma recommended this to me," Marge said, catching my look. "Apparently, the Internet's gone crazy for minotaur smut."
Oh. Grandma.
"Right," I muttered, shifting awkwardly as Marge opened the till and handed me a wad of notes.
"Here you go, dear."
"Thanks," I said, turning toward the door, but I hesitated before leaving. Something about Marge's easy demeanor made me feel like I could ask her questions I couldn't ask Grandma—not without receiving another dose of eccentric wisdom about trolls or Mardi Gras.
I turned back to her, fidgeting with the strap of my bag. "Marge, can I ask you something?"
Marge raised an eyebrow over her book. "Go on, then."
"What do you know about demons?"
Her book lowered an inch further, and her sharp eyes fixed on me. "Demons, eh? Well, they're a tricky lot. Dangerous. Powerful. They tend to take more than they give. Why do you ask?"
"No reason," I said quickly, too quickly, but Marge didn't press.
She set the book down entirely now, her expression thoughtful. "If you're dealing with one, Skyler, you'd best be careful. Demons are all smoke and mirrors, and they're good at convincing you they're something they're not. They'll twist your feelings if it suits them."
Twist my feelings. The words rattled in my head as I left the shop, clutching the notes in my hand.
The street was eerily empty, the air unnaturally still. My boots echoed faintly against the cobblestones as I walked down the alley, lost in thought.
