Mariel gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth. “Ben, are you serious? You found a January Sunrise?”
The January Sunrise orchid was rare, found only near the top of a magic-laced mountain in France where the ley lines allowed flowers to bloom through the snow. Its petals were snowy white blending into soft pink, the edges lined with orange, and the golden stamen glittered with magic.
“A rare flower for a rare friend,” Ben said. He’d had to trade away a substantial selection of aphrodisiac plants from his shop’s inventory to get it, but he didn’t regret the transaction.
“It’s perfect,” Mariel said, beaming at him. The orchid leaned forward in its pot, brushing its petals against her cheek. Mariel wrinkled her freckled nose. “Hi, baby,” she whispered to the flower. “You’re going to love my greenhouse.”
Plants always behaved that way around Mariel. She was brimming with so much nature magic the world came alive around her and plants acted downright besotted. Ben was a bit jealous, since werewolves didn’t have any magic other than the truly unfortunate monthly transformation into a feral creature, but he couldn’t deny it made her a heck of an employee at the garden shop.
Oz looked at Ben with obvious gratitude. “Thank you,” the demon mouthed.
Ben nodded in acknowledgment. Then, glad to have the speech over with, he plopped back into his seat.
His sister, Gigi, nudged him with her fork. A fork that unfortunately had residual sauce on it, leaving a greasy smudge on his navy coat sleeve. “Good speech, bro.”
He blew out a heavy breath. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
“You’re a great public speaker. I don’t know why you hate it so much.” Gigi shrugged and tucked back into her pasta.
At thirty-three, his sister was five years younger than Ben, though he claimed she acted ten years younger and she claimed he acted eighty years older. They were both taller and more broad-shouldered than average and had the same thick brown hair and brown eyes, but personality wise, they couldn’t have been more different. Gigi was an extrovert who loved parties and public speaking, while Ben preferred time alone with his plants, books, and knitting.
Tonight Gigi was wearing a gold dress with her favorite pink Converse, and glittering piercings marched up her ears. “Thank Lycaon you’re not wearing a sweater vest,” she’d said when she’d spotted him wearing the navy suit earlier that day. “Someday you’ll let me take you shopping.”
That was an “absolutely not,” and what was so wrong with sweater vests, Ben would never understand. They were sophisticated yet cozy, wrapping around his torso like a hug.
Or maybe like one of those ThunderShirts worn by quivering dogs, his judgmental inner voice said.
Ben drained his champagne and signaled the circulating waiter for another.
Thankfully, the speeches wrapped up soon after. They’d gone well, all things considered—especially surprising since Mariel had allowed her mother, Diantha Spark, to speak. The dynamics in that family were fraught, since Diantha had put intense pressure on Mariel to perform magic to her impossible expectations, but apparently Diantha had been on a “narcissist improvement plan” over the past two years that involved therapy and some hard boundaries. She wasn’t perfect, but she was vastly improved, since otherwise Mariel had vowed to cut her off. Her speech had been pre-vetted, Oz had watched her like a hawk throughout, and Diantha had managed not to veer too far off the deep end in any direction.
With speeches and eating done, it was time for dancing—and an open bar, thank the neurosis gods. The event space had a ceremony room decorated with stained glass, a large dining room, and an open-air courtyard where the rest of the festivities would take place. Magical light orbs drifted over the stone courtyard, and the trees enclosing the yard had been draped with rainbow fairy lights and gauzy swaths of fabric in bright colors. The night sky was thankfully clear—never a guarantee in the small town of Glimmer Falls or Western Washington in general—and the mid-August temperature was ideal. If the temperature or weather had been bad though, one of the attending witches or warlocks would have taken care of it with a microclimate spell.
Ben smiled as Oz tromped his way through the choreographed steps of the couple’s first dance with the grim concentration of a general approaching battle. Mariel didn’t seem to mind the demon’s straightforward but less-than-graceful ballroom style—she laughed and spun in his arms, dress flaring like a blooming lily. After Oz dipped her low and delivered a decidedly PG-13 kiss—veering toward R-rated—the assembled guests cheered.