They walked back through the empty store together. Zara snapped her fingers, and every candle in the shop extinguished at once.
Ramona turned off the lights and set the alarm, her hands moving through the familiar routine while her brain tried to catch up. “You know, I’ve been manually blowing out those candles for two years. Marcus insists on ‘ambiance.’ There are thirty-seven of them.”
“That’s inefficient.”
“That’s… all I can do,” Ramona said quietly.
They stepped outside. The afternoon sun was already sinking low, winter days too short for comfort. Ramona locked the door and tried not to think about how she’d just watched actual magic happen in Mystic Moon Books. The irony was almost funny. Almost.
“At least Marcus won’t be in until Thursday,” Ramona said as they headed back toward her car. The cold bit at her face, making her eyes water. Or maybe that was just exhaustion. “I have Thursday and Friday off, so the next two days should be fairly easy and Marcus-free, and then we have a bit of time to figure out how we’re going to get through the weekend shifts.”
“I’ll stay undercover,” Zara said. “Continue organizing.”
Ramona should have been annoyed. Should have told Zara to stop, that it wasn’t her problem, that Ramona could handle her own mess. That’s what Simone would have said —Stop trying to fix everything, Ramona. Some things are meant to be messy.
But the books really did look better organized. And Ramona was so tired of messy.
“Fine,” Ramona said. “Organize away.”
They walked in silence for a block. Then Zara said, quietly: “You would be good at it, you know.”
“At what?”
“Running a magical supply business.” Zara didn’t look at her. “You have a way with customers.”
“It’d be a waste of my education,” Ramona said, sniffling in the cold.
“And this isn’t?”
“This isn’t a career like opening my own shop would be. This is temporary,” Ramona insisted. She said it with conviction, even though she’d been sayingtemporaryfor two years now.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to talk about that with your therapist,” Zara said, wrenching open the stuck passenger door of Ramona’s car.
“How do you know about therapists?” Ramona asked, grateful for the subject change. “Does Hell have therapists?”
“Of course Hell has therapists.” Zara folded herself into the passenger seat with more grace than the car deserved — which wasn’t hard, since the car was held together mostly by audacity. “Mandatory after your first century. The emotional burnout rate among temptation specialists is alarming.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Zara pulled the seat belt across her chest, examining the frayed edge with the expression of someone reconsidering their life choices. “Hell’s HR department implemented a comprehensive mental health program in 1997. Weekly sessions, quarterly wellness checks, annual retreats.”
Ramona braced herself, hoping the car would start on the first try. The engine coughed, protested, then grudgingly turned over. “Demons do therapy retreats?”
“Everyonein hell does therapy retreats, Mortal. Even the damned.” Zara tried to adjust the seat, which didn’t adjust, and gave up. “Though I’ll admit the trust falls are deeply awkward.”
“I cannot picture demons doing trust falls.”
“No one can. That’s why they’re mandatory.” Zara looked out the window as Ramona pulled into traffic. “Character building, apparently.”
Ramona glanced at her, trying to read her expression. But Zara’s face had gone neutral again — that carefully blank look that gave nothing away. The same look Ramona had perfectedduring the last year of her marriage. TheI’m fine, everything’s fineface.
“Do you actually go?” Ramona asked. “To therapy?”
“That’s a personal question.”
“You’re literally tethered to me. I think we’re past personal boundaries.”
Zara was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that Ramona thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then: “Sometimes.”
