Kindling the Moon (Arcadia Bell #1)(15)

My hair stunk of smoky pig’s blood, but I didn’t have the strength to care. At that moment I just needed rest; I figured I’d wash off the funk when I woke up.

I drowsily made plans for the next day. First I’d contact Father Carrow and ask him to put some pressure on Lon for me. Then maybe I’d call Kar Yee to arrange for a part-time bartender to take a couple of my shifts. My thoughts roamed and faded. Just when I was at the cusp of succumbing to the heavy pull of sleep, a loud knock sounded from downstairs.

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” No way on God’s green earth was I getting out of bed to run after another damned imp for that woman. All my charity and goodwill were gone. If I didn’t answer the door, maybe she’d go away. I waited and heard nothing, then settled back into my pillow while Mr. Piggy grumbled his own protests.

Not for long.

Another knock came, this one louder and more insistent. Furious, I threw back the covers and stomped downstairs. I really didn’t think I could be nice this time. I made my way down the side hall, turned the lock, and flung the door open with nothing short of malice.

“Mrs. Marsh—” I hissed.

It was not Mrs. Marsh standing in my doorway. It was Lon Butler.

“Expecting someone else?” he asked with an amused look on his face.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you—”

“I’ve just been over at Father Carrow’s house down the block and …” He hesitated as his eyes skimmed over me. I followed his gaze and peered down at myself. Nothing but my T-shirt and panties. A blowtorch warmth spread up my neck, over my cheeks. “Father Carrow,” he repeated, still not looking at my face, “pointed out which house was yours, so I drove over.”

I stealthily attempted to tug down the hem of my T-shirt, but it barely covered my waist.

“Looks like you’ve stuck your finger in a light socket,” he observed, tearing his eyes away from my hips to stare at my hair. Damn Mrs. Marsh and that imp. And damn myself for kindling raw electricity without a caduceus.

“Well?” I prompted.

“You gonna invite me in, or you wanna talk out here?”

I moved from the doorway and gestured for him to come inside. Ten o’clock on a Friday night, and I was letting strange men into my house while I was half dressed. I reminded myself that he had, at one time, been studying to become a priest. That meant he took a vow of chastity, didn’t it? I idly wondered if he stuck to it after he got kicked out, then decided that he didn’t look all that chaste to me.

“Have a seat,” I said, pointing toward the sofa in front of the television. At least the downstairs wasn’t too messy. My bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off in it, and the master bath was disgusting. “I’ll be right back. I need to … put something on,” I murmured as he sat down.

The trek up the stairs was excruciating. Why a thong— why today? I guess it could have been worse. I mean, yes, the lower half of my rear was hanging out, but at least I wasn’t wearing cheap multipack cotton panties, full of holes with the elastic worn out, like half of my others. When I got the nagging feeling that his eyes were on my backside, I wondered if it would look cowardly if I took two stairs at a time.

“Nice ass.”

My bent leg hesitated on the step. I turned my head to glare, but found him staring intently at the screen of his cell phone—as if he’d never said a word. For a second, I wondered if I’d imagined it, but I hadn’t. Thoroughly uncomfortable now, I continued my climb in silence without responding.

After I’d finished dressing, I started running a brush through my frazzled hair, then stopped myself. What the hell are you doing, primping?

Mildly irritated at myself, I walked back downstairs and found Lon right where I’d left him. He was leaning down, face-to-face with Mr. Piggy. My curious hedgehog was standing on his hind legs and sniffing the air, trying to flirt his way into the man’s lap.

“Mr. Piggy, get down,” I scolded, reaching to pull him away.

“What is that?”

“It’s a hedgehog.”

“Is he your familiar?” he asked with a lopsided smile.

Funny. My “other car” was not a “broomstick,” and if I saw that sticker on one more bumper in my neighborhood, I was going to ram somebody. I had nothing against Witches, Wiccans, Pagans, or anyone else on their own spiritual path, but my mother always taught me that “witch” was a slur; serious magicians were not witches. I didn’t spend Beltane dancing around in the woods naked or calling up friends to hold a f*cking drum circle: I do real magick with real results.

I glowered at Lon without answering the taunt. His eyes narrowed to slits in what I suspected was silent humor. Was he laughing at me? It was hard to tell. After a moment, he cleared his throat and glanced at the hedgehog.

“I didn’t know they were so small,” he admitted as I scooped up Mr. Piggy by his belly.

“He’s a pygmy.”

I shuffled over to a small gated pen set up in the corner of the adjoining dining room and placed him inside. He had a small bed, a couple of toys, a miniature litter box, and a water dish there. If I let him roam free all the time, he’d tear the place apart.

“Are you going to help me find my demon?” I asked. “Because if you are, I’ll offer you something to drink. If you aren’t, I’m not gonna bother.”