Kindling the Moon by Jenn Bennett Page B

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.
    â€œHave 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.
    â€œNice 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 brushthrough 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.
    â€œMr. Piggy, get down,” I scolded, reaching to pull him away.
    â€œWhat
is
that?”
    â€œIt’s a hedgehog.”
    â€œIs 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 fucking 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.
    â€œI didn’t know they were so small,” he admitted as I scooped up Mr. Piggy by his belly.
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œAre 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.”
    He chuckled once and leaned back into the sofa. “Straight to the point, I like that.”
    â€œYou didn’t answer my question.”
    â€œI’ll take coffee,” he said.
    Was that a yes? I wrinkled up my nose. “I’m out.”
    â€œWhat do you have, then?”
    â€œWater or Coke.”
    â€œNo liquor? And you’re a bartender?”
    â€œI don’t drink liquor. I might have a beer, but—”
    â€œI’ll take it.”
    I stared him down for a few seconds, then retreated to the kitchen. I returned with two cans of PBR that were abandoned in my fridge by one of my hipster friends; the look of disdain