“Well, not us. Felix left his old conservative coven after he transitioned. I don’t think Posey ever had a coven, and Kashvi doesn’t talk much about hers. We all kind of ended up here after—” She stopped and shrugged. “After things didn’t work out the way we planned.”
“You’re kind of a coven of misfits.”
“We’re just roommates who happen to share a kitchen and occasionally help each other with spellwork.” Ramona stirred the pasta more aggressively than necessary. “And Cammie.”
“Hmm, and Cammie. Of course,” Zara said. “Sounds suspiciously like a coven.”
“Had no idea demons had such romantic notions of roommate dynamics,” Ramona joked.
“What do your roommates do for work?” Zara asked.
“Kashvi is a librarian, Posey works at a plant nursery, Cammie works at a café, and Felix works at some tech company but I’m not exactly sure what he does. Some kind of coding?” Ramona said.
“You’ve lived with these people for years and you don’t know what they do all day at work?” Zara asked. She muttered something about unfeeling mortals under her breath.
Ramona raised an eyebrow. “Okay, first of all, not everyone lives to work like the demonic realm. Second, we are roommates out of desperation, not best friendship. In case you didn’t realize, this group is surviving, not thriving.”
Zara’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but she didn’t press further.
The pasta cooked. Ramona heated up the sauce in the microwave, found two clean bowls in the cabinet, served them both portions that were definitely too large. She set the bowls on the small kitchen table and grabbed forks from the drawer.
Zara sat, summoning a spoon out of thin air, and proceeded to eat spaghetti with the most formal, precise table manners Ramona had ever witnessed.
She twirled exactly three strands of pasta at a time around her fork. Cut nothing. Made no sound while chewing. Dabbed at her mouth with a napkin after every third bite, even though there was nothing to dab. Kept her left hand in her lap when not in use. Sat with perfect posture.
It was deeply unsettling.
“You eat like you’re at a state dinner,” Ramona said.
“I’ve been to several state dinners.” Zara took another perfect bite. “This is how one eats pasta.”
“This is how the Queen eats pasta.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never dined with royalty.” Zara paused. “Politicians, yes. Plenty of them. But royalty is far above my pay grade.”
Ramona snorted in amusement, then watched as Zara’s mouth quirked in a small smile, too.
They ate in silence for a moment. Ramona watched Zara navigate the spaghetti with the kind of precision usually reserved for surgical procedures. Three strands. Twist. Lift. Chew. Dab.
“Does Hell have etiquette classes?” Ramona asked.
“Mandatory. First decade of service.” Zara twirled another perfect forkful. “Dining, dancing, diplomatic protocol. You never know when you’ll be required to attend a formal function in your role as a representative of the Infernal Bureaucracy.”
“Representative of the Infernal Bureaucracy.” Ramona shook her head.
“It’s a very important position.”
Ramona tried to emulate the way Zara spun her fork, her own pasta flopping in general disagreement. She slurped her spaghetti, wiping at her mouth with her fingers. “And you’re in Temptation and Minor Inconveniences.”
“Which occasionally requires formal representation.” Zara took a sip of water with the same deliberate precision. “Last year I attended a conference on ethical soul-collection practices that had a black-tie gala to close. Very tedious.”
“What do demons wear to black-tie galas? Ball gowns?” Ramona asked.
Zara looked at her flatly, blinking twice. “Tuxedos, Mortal.”
Ramona tried to picture it — Zara in a neatly pressed tux, networking with other demons over canapés and existential dread. The image was both absurd and somehow entirely believable.
“Was there at least an open bar?” Ramona asked.
