The Devil's in the Details by Kimberly Raye Page B

folk tunes or indie rock or any other spiritualist-type music—eighties hit “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” vibratedfrom the speakers. Instead of sage and herbs, the sweet, sugary smell of pink cupcakes drifted from a candle in the corner (shaped, of course, like a pink frosted cupcake).
    The entire place looked like the hot spot where zebras went to die. Girly zebras, that is. There was black-and-white
everything
—from lampshades edged with pink crystals to the love seat sitting against the far wall to the swag curtains outlining a door that led to an adjoining room to the welcome mat under my feet.
    There wasn’t a yak’s tongue or a voodoo doll in sight. Rather, dozens of rhinestone flip-flops lined the opposite wall. Sequined handbags in every color hung from hooks overhead. What looked like faux Pandora jewelry filled the cases at the counter. Behind it stood a fortysomething woman with lots of curves, a zebra-tipped manicure (no, really), and a distressed pink rhinestone T-shirt that read
Sassy
.
    I was so filing a complaint with Google.
    “All of our Fandora is ten percent off today,” Sassy—complete with eighties hair to match the song pounding in the air—informed me in a rich Texas twang, motioning to the display in front of her. Her pale-gray eyes twinkled, and I glimpsed Sassy’s dream man—Toby Keith in a black cowboy hat. “I’ve got toe rings two for one. And we’ve also got this divine bracelet.” She motioned to a silver-looking charm-type bracelet hugging her thick wrist. “It’s not the real thing, but it’s half the price.”
    “I’m afraid I might be in the wrong place.”
Ya think?
    “Well, what is it you’re looking for, sugar?”
    “Not really flip-flops or costume jewelry.” I glanced around before giving her an apologetic smile.
    “I’ve got T-shirts too,” she added, pointing a zebra-tipped finger at the doorway leading to the next room, which was filled with clothing racks and jeweled cowboy boots.
    “Sorry.” I backtracked toward the door.
    “There are a few pair of faux designer jeans,” she added. “And belts. And against the back wall there’s an entire display of amulets to ward off all those evil buggers.”
    I put on the brakes and turned so fast I gave myself whiplash. “What did you just say?”
    “They’re on sale. Our potions too. A bottle of our Lover’s Delight is half off. So is our top seller—the Ballbuster. It’s for SOBs who don’t pay their child support. A few drops on a pair of his old boxers and Mr. Happy will shrivel up quicker than a banana in a dehydrator.” She grinned. “It works on cheating boyfriends too.”
    “Do you have anything to help with unwanted demons?”
    “Right this way.” She rounded the counter, her flip-flops smacking the floor. She led me into the adjoining room, past the clothing racks to a bookshelf set up against the far wall. The top row had—surprise, surprise—horseshoes. There were also amulets and jars filled with all sorts of creepy-looking contents (bingo on the yak’s tongue). Below that were several rows of books that included everything from
How to Embrace Your Inner Demon
to
Ghouls Are from Mars and Zombies Are from Venus
.
    Sassy might be a human, but she knew her supes, too. Then again, most witches did.
    I noted the silver moon-shaped ring—a symbol of one of Houston’s largest covens—on Sassy’s hand as she pulled out a particular book with a bright-yellow cover.
    She flipped through a few pages of
The Idiot’s Guide to Demons
until she seemed to find what she was looking for. “Here we go. There are several possibilities. You can burn sage throughout the house and recite a cleansing ritual.”
    “I think that might violate my building’s fire code.” And screw me royally on account of I’m a demon and I live in the duplex. I wasn’t about to find myself supernaturally evicted because of a little herbal bonfire.
    “You can protect the place with holy water.”
    “I don’t