The Devil Made Me Brew It (The Witches of Wayward Bay)

by Sarah Piper

Luck and good fortune, I call upon thee To bless me with wealth and prosperity My door is open, the hearth is aglow My wishes are granted, above and below

“Not in the mood. So if you can’t rein it in, then kindly fuck yourself right back out from whence you came.

“Well then.” I flash a no-hard-feelings grin. “As lovely as it was to meet you—against my will and all the laws of witchcraft and sorcery, ancient and new and yet to be invented—I think it’s time we say goodnight. Farewell, tiny drunk one, and best of luck with your future spell-casting.”

a pint-sized Medusa on a rampage.

His dark whisper is a danger, a drug, another weapon in the Devil’s bottomless arsenal that strips me bare as he drags his mouth to my ear.

But something about Devlin blurs everything in a way where it all just feels like… like ours. This vast, shared experience and wordless understanding you can spend your whole life searching for with another person and never, ever find it. And somehow, I’ve found it with the Devil.

My ability to speak in coherent sentences evaporates in the wake of her ethereal beauty.

I’m about ready to suggest we abandon this whole Halloween Ball idea and celebrate the holiday alone. In bed. Without costumes. Which is problematic on several levels, none of which I’m interested in looking at right now, so into the dungeon of denial they go, thank you very much, Dr. Freud!

For the span of several heartbeats, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. All I can feel is the warmth of her touch, the certainty of it. The familiarity—no pretense, no hesitation.

“I regret to inform you that despite our prior agreement, I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to kiss you.”

Don’t ever talk yourself out of being happy.

her mouth parted in a way that has me absolutely ready to confess all of my sins just for one more chance to taste that forbidden kiss.

“If I have to go one more second without kissing you again, I’m afraid my immortal life will come to a brutal end, and I’ll die at your feet wearing nothing but a woman’s negligee beneath a Kettle and Cauldron standard-issue black apron, and you’ll have only yourself to blame.”

It strips me to the core, the closeness of it all. Terrifies and enchants me both, like stepping into the flames to enjoy the view of the fire, oblivious to the danger until you’ve bloody well incinerated yourself.

I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in the lemon-coconut curls, grateful that death decided to give my immortal bones a pass after all.

“Miss Pepperdine,” Brandt says stiffly, as if he didn’t spend the better part of last year assaulting my left labia like a scratch-off lotto ticket while asking me repeatedly if I was, quote-unquote, almost there.

in his infinite wisdom—which wouldn’t even fill a fucking thimble if I tipped his head sideways and poured it out his ear—that

Poor, deluded Brandt Remington, third of his name, last in line the day they handed out the brains.

“Cast me away now, and know this: it was still worth the trip. Still worth the sacrifice.”