The bakery was quiet as afternoon melted into evening, and though the sun still hung high in the sky, Gracey could feel quitting time in her bones. She glanced at the clock; six o’clock. She removed her apron, shook her hair free from its scarf, and flipped the ovens off. Stretching her arms over her head, she smiled to herself, ready to close up shop and spend the rest of the evening with a bottle of wine and good company. Tiny was taking herself to a movie in Placerita, so Gracey had invited Simon over for television watching and, with any luck, cuddling.

She blushed at the thought of it.

As she was wiping down the counter, the bell over the front door tinkled, and Gracey looked up to see a smiling Nora Goldman entering the shop, face creased with a thousand wrinkles, hair a fluffy white halo about her head. Mrs. Goldman had to be in her eighties, and she’d been a regular at the bakery since its inception. Gracey grinned at the sight of her.

“Howdy, stranger,” Gracey teased, arms akimbo as she gave the older woman a warm smile. “Haven’t seen you in a while. You been on a diet?”

Mrs. Goldman clucked her teeth, a rosy blush coloring her cheeks. “Nothing like that, sweetheart. At my age you have to appreciate all God has to offer and that includes pie! I was out of town for a while, staying with my sister in Austin. Her husband passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gracey said, but Mrs. Goldman waved the sentiment away. “Old people die, that’s just the way it is. Have to make room for the new generation.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Gracey admitted, “but when someone you love dies, that’s pretty cold comfort.”

Mrs. Goldman gave a brief nod, then her face brightened. “I need a pie for my granddaughter’s husband,” she said, changing the subject. “I know it’s short notice, but my memory isn’t what he used to be and the anniversary slipped my mind. It’s his birthday, and I happen to know that your chocolate pecan is his favorite. Do you happen to have any?”

Gracey dried her hands, pulled a collapsed rectangle of cardboard off the shelf. “I’ve got some,” she said, manipulating the cardboard into a pie-size box. “I have two; would you like them both?”

Mrs. Goldman shook her head. “One ought to be good enough; my granddaughter is always watching her weight,” she said, disdain flickering across her face. “Shira’s skinny as a willow as it is; what is it with young girls and their silly ideals of beauty these days?”

Gracey, who wore an extra fifteen pounds around her hips and suspected women had long held silly ideas of beauty, could only chuckle. “If she were happy with her weight, she’d find something else to be unhappy with,” Gracey said. “That’s just how we women are.”

Mrs. Goldman shared in the laughter. “That is the truth, though, isn’t it, sweetheart? I could do with a sight fewer wrinkles myself.”

Gracey grinned,  pulled the pie from the refrigerator and slid it carefully into the box. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

A small look of embarrassment passed over Mrs. Goldman’s face as she wrung her hands nervously. “Actually, I do have on other request, sweetheart, if it isn’t too much trouble. I normally wouldn’t ask it of you but I have a ladies’ auxiliary meeting today and I’m running late as it is. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind taking the pie over to Shira’s house tonight? If it isn’t too much trouble,” she repeated.

As far as Gracey knew, the Goldmans were the only Jewish family in Love & War, and Mrs. Goldman served on the auxiliary board of Temple Beth Shalom in Fort Stockton, the closest temple but still a good forty minute drive from their town. She glanced up at the clock; it was only a few minutes after six. Simon wasn’t coming over until seven, the house was already clean, and Shira and Aleister Fairgood’s house was only a few minutes from Gracey’s.

“I’ll take it over there right now,” Gracey said as she collected the cash for the pie.

Mrs. Goldman took Gracey’s hand in her own, squeezing softly. “Thank you, dear. Please tell my granddaughter that I expect a phone call this week; it’s been too long since she’s indulged an old woman’s ramblings.”

Like most of the other families in Love & War, the Fairgoods kept a modest property, a lawn more weed than grass, a front porch in a moderate state of disrepair. As Gracey pulled into the driveway, she noted two trucks parked outside the garage. Shira Fairgood worked on and off as a substitute elementary school teacher, and Aleister worked in Placertia as a cable repair man, but it appeared they were both home. Pie in tow, Gracey marched up the porch steps and rang the doorbell.

No one answered.

She knocked. When she got no response, she pressed her ear to the door, listening for movement. Nothing. She tried the doorknob and, finding the door unlocked, she pushed it open slowly. “Hello? Y’all home? It’s Gracey Daylittle from Want Some Pie? Bakery. Nora sent me.”

Silence.

Gracey considered her options. Both cars were in the driveway and the front door was unlocked, indicating that the Fairgoods were probably home. Still, if it was Aleister’s birthday, the couple could be engaged in private birthday shenanigans that Gracey sorely wouldn’t want to interrupt; the very thought made her blush.

Door open behind her, Gracey took a tentative step inside. “Shira? Aleister? Y’all here?” Gracey vaguely remembered a daughter, but couldn’t remember her name.

The house was still, and Gracey didn’t want to take the pie home with her. She figured she could leave it in the refrigerator with a note explaining where it had come from. Her mind made up, she pulled the front door closed, waited a heartbeat more for someone to make themselves known. She’d never been in the Fairgood house, and she was keenly aware of her status as an intruder as she tiptoed her way into what she thought must be the kitchen.

As she rounded the corner, she stepped into a brightly lit kitchenette, satisfied with her home navigation skills and almost tripped over Shira Fairgood.

Shira was huddled on the linoleum, knees pulled into her chest, arms wrapped about her legs. Her eyes were wide and unseeing as she rocked back and forth, her lips moving as if to whimper but no sound escaped. Her face was white as a ghost. Gracey set the pie on the floor placed both her hands on Shira’s shoulders, giving her a small shake. “Shira? Shira, honey, are you all right? Look at me.” Gracey placed her fingers under the woman’s chin, turned her head. But Shira’s eyes did not blink, did not move, did not register Gracey’s presence. She was utterly catatonic.

Heart beating wildly in her chest, Gracey jumped to her feet, knowing she had to search. “Aleister?” He or the daughter had to be here somewhere. Even as she pushed herself through the house, she didn’t want to know, oh God, she didn’t want to know whatever had forced Shira into that state of shock. “Aleister? You here?” She ran into the adjacent dining room, into the living room, down the hallway, into the guest bathroom, a child’s bedroom, and finally crossed the threshold into the master bedroom where she drew up short, covered her mouth with both hands and let loose a wild, ear-piercing scream.

Aleister Fairgood was propped up on the bed, head lolling to one side, the front of his clothes saturated with blood.

A black maw just underneath the ridge of his brow sent thin tendrils of white smoke up to the ceiling. His eyes had been burned out of his face.

Gracey turned and vomited on the carpet.

She’d managed to make the necessary phone call and it was only a matter of minutes before an ambulance and the sheriff’s department arrived, perimeters were taped off, and onlookers began amassing. Gracey was sitting on the front porch; someone had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She watched as a couple of paramedics loaded Shira into an ambulance, took her vitals, placed an oxygen mask over her face. She had recovered from her stupefied state and was crying now, nearly hyperventilating. The paramedics were trying to calm her. They were giving her water, drugs. People with notepads were asking questions. Everything was happening in slow motion, underwater.

“Gracey?”

The voice rippled through her, yanking her out of the nightmare. She looked up, saw Simon’s tired, worry-creased face looking down at her. In a moment he was crouching, at her side, and Gracey felt the internal dam break, tears rushing out of her as she pressed herself against Simon, sobbing.

He stroked her hair, her back, saying nothing, letting her cry until she was empty. He wiped her eyes, her nose, held her close to his body. When the sobs subsided, she said, “It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen, Simon. How could anyone do that? How could anyone hurt another human being like that?”

Simon said nothing. He held her for a long time.

A deputy approached, tipped his hat at Gracey. “I’m sorry to bother you after such a traumatic event, ma’am, but I’m gonna have to ask you some questions.”

She had known it was coming, of course. She’d been the one to find the body, the one to report the crime. Still, she didn’t want to relive it, didn’t want to remember any of it. She just wanted to go to sleep, to wake up and find none of this had ever really happened.

“Has anybody seen the daughter? The Fairgoods have a little girl, I think?” Gracey’s stomach rolled with the realization that the little girl would come home to find that her daddy had died. Thank God she hadn’t been the one to find him. Gracey thought she might be sick again.

The deputy nodded. “Somebody’s looking into it,” he said. He looked at Simon, cleared his throat. “Would you mind excusing us for a bit? I need to interview Miss Daylittle in private.”

Simon looked to Gracey. “Will you be all right?”

She gave a wordless nod, her eyes full of gratitude. He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be just over there if you need me.”

She watched him walk away, and when he was out of earshot, the deputy cleared his throat again, ready to get down to business. Gracey returned her attention to him reluctantly. “I need you to start at the beginning. Why were you over to the Fairgood place?”

With quivering voice and frequent pauses to steady her nerves, Gracey recounted the events leading up the discovery of the body: Mrs. Goldman buying the pie. Gracey making the delivery. Finding Shira in shock on the floor. Finding the body sitting up in the bed.

“Does Mrs. Goldman frequently ask you to do favors for her?”

The question caught Gracey off guard. “No,” she admitted. “This was the first time.”

“Did you think the request was odd?”

Gracey shook her head. “Mrs. Goldman is old,” she said, as though that itself were plenty explanation.

The deputy seemed to think a moment, scratching his head. Then, “You didn’t see nobody suspicious around here, did you? Anybody shouldn’t have had no business here?”

Gracey shrugged. “I didn’t notice anything out of place, but then I wasn’t looking.”

The deputy tried again. “You didn’t see a … strange lookin’ fella, about yea tall, dresses in a funny costume? Has some sort of a…skin problem?”

The image the deputy painted formed perfectly in Gracey’s mind’s eye. The Prime of Darkness. Gracey’s eyes flew open even as her heart sank. Why would the deputy ask about the demon? Had he been implicated in some way? Was it possible he’d been involved? She recalled her conversation with Lakmei in the graveyard, the angel’s assertion that the demon hadn’t been involved in the recent death of Buddy Heffman.

Had probably not been involved.

“No,” Gracey said, surprised at how level her voice came out. “Certainly not.”

The deputy snapped his notebook shut, pulled a card from his front shirt pocket. “If you think of anything else you let me know. Don’t matter if you think it’s important; you let me decide.” His smug grin made Gracey’s skin crawl. She closed her fingers around the card, certain she wouldn’t have need of it.

“One last thing, Miss Daylittle,” he said. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell nobody what you saw in there. After what happened with Rubio Bautista, we don’t need no serial killer hysteria going around. Got it?”

The words rang through her, stilled her to the core. Rubio Bautista. Serial killer. The deputy hadn’t mentioned Buddy Heffman, but after seeing with her own eyes a reality frighteningly similar to the rumors about Buddy’s demise, Gracey began to link these deaths in her mind. Rubio Bautista. Buddy Heffman. Aleister Fairgood. Three men murdered. Why? What was the common thread?

As the deputy walked away, Gracey’s mind filled with questions. Why had he asked about the Prime of Darkness? It wouldn’t be the first time the demon had been implicated in a crime; Gracey knew first-hand that Darkness was capable of murder. But she didn’t think he had anything to do with this. He couldn’t.

Could he?

Simon appeared by her side again, and Gracey pushed all the thoughts of Darkness out of her mind. The magician took Gracey’s hand, entwined his fingers with hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get you home,” he said. “You probably need the rest.”

Overwhelming gratitude flooded her, and once again Gracey felt on the verge of breakdown. She looked into Simon’s eyes and saw her own sadness reflected back at her, and her heart skipped a beat. Two. As Simon helped her to her feet, Gracey was amazed at the depth of the magician’s empathy, that he could feel such grief on her behalf. Her own mother hadn’t been able to do that, had pushed Gracey out when she’d needed her the most. Thinking of her mother, and how much more caring Simon was, Gracey’s heart swelled and she had to bite back her tears. She clung to the magician like a child as he led her down the road towards home.

Love & War hadn’t seen a violent crime in over a decade, so news of Rubio Bautista’s murder spread like wildfire. The news even caused a stir in the Badlands, where town news that didn’t involve free food or free showers and haircuts at the You Look Nice Salon was seldom worth discussing.

No one knew how to respond to the murder. Some families left the carefully hung Christmas lights that trimmed their homes dark out of respect for Rubio and his widow. Others put on brave faces and tried to carry on as normally they could, but parents were loathe to let their children too far out of sight, and lovers held each other closer and tighter than was usually their wont. The murder came as a hard blow to the town, striking at its very heart. The steel gray skies of winter did nothing to ease the deep sorrow.

Tiny watched her sister pull a pie out of the oven as she turned the event of Rubio’s murder over in her mind. Everyone else was talking about it, but Gracey had hardly mentioned it. Although Tiny hadn’t known Ines or Rubio Bautista well, Gracey knew everyone, and the tragedy must surely have affected her. That her sister had said little of Rubio’s death worried Tiny.

Climbing up on the sideboard, Tiny crossed her ankles and pushed a wild lock of red hair behind her ear. “Gracey,” she said, “Rubio’s funeral is tonight. You haven’t said anything about it, and I wondered if we were going.”

Gracey placed the pie on the cooling rack, shook her hair off her forehead. “The funeral’s at St. Benedict’s in Placerita,” she said.

Tiny waited. When Gracey said nothing else, she said, “Okay…?”

Gracey threw her sister a sideways glance as she pulled a bag of pie dough from the refrigerator. “You know I won’t go into a Catholic church.” She emptied the dough onto the counter.

Tiny rolled her eyes at Gracey’s back. “How long are you gonna carry that grudge?” She said the words with an inflection intended to raise Gracey’s ire. She braced herself for it.

But Gracey wouldn’t be roped into an argument. “Long as it takes,” she answered simply. She began beating the pie dough with a rolling pin. “No reason I can see you shouldn’t go, if that’s what you want.”

But Tiny only shrugged. “I’d feel weird going by myself. But even if we don’t go to the funeral, we’ll go the wake, right?”

“Planned on it,” Gracey replied. “Why, Tiny? You want something just say it.”

Tiny frowned at her sister. “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

Gracey turned, gave her sister a cold stare. “Somebody brought murder to my town,” she said. “And I’m a little bent outta shape about it.”

Tiny cut her eyes at her sister. “I’m not an idiot, Gracey.”

Gracey gave the dough an extra slap with the pin, and let out a long sigh, shaking her head. “I got a letter from Mama,” she said.

Tiny bit her lip, stopped kicking her feet. Gracey and Annette hadn’t spoken in over a year, ever since Tiny had left home to live with Gracey. There had been bad blood between them for longer than that, thought Tiny had never known why. It was something no one saw fit to speak to her about.

But that Annette had broken the silence with a letter could only mean something bad.

“What did she want?” Tiny asked.

Gracey rolled the dough out with more force than was needed. Her mouth was an angry slash across her face. “To let me know she wrote me out of her will.”

Tiny blinked in surprise. “She did what?”

Gracey laughed, mirthless, hard. “You heard me right,” she said. “She wrote me letter—couldn’t even face me over the phone, I guess—to tell me she no longer considers me family and that she sees no reason I should inherit any of the family’s wealth.” She threw the rolling pin, turned to face her sister. “It’s funny—Daddy was the Daylittle, not her. I’m an actual Daylittle by birth. What right does she even have to write me out of the family?”

Tiny didn’t know what to say. She could see the hurt in her sister’s face, hurt that was even greater than the anger at her mother’s self-centered audacity. “Are you going to be all right? Financially?”

Gracey nodded, waved away her sister’s concern. “It’s not the money,” she said. “Daddy left me plenty when he died. It’s just…it’s just so goddamned petty. And self-righteous. I don’t even know what else.”

“I’m sorry,” Tiny said, knowing it wasn’t enough. “But I have to mention…you probably shouldn’t be baking right now.”

Gracey turned to look down at the pie crust she’d been rolling out. She wondered how much anger and resentment she’d kneaded into the dough. Frantically, she began pulling the dough off the counter, throwing the pieces into the trash as they came up. “Jesus, you’re right,” she said. “The way I’m feeling I could poison the whole goddamned town.”

Tiny sighed. “Damn, this is really bad timing, too.”

Gracey looked over her shoulder, raised an eyebrow. “Why, were you going to ask for a loan?”

Tiny scoffed. “No. I…I was hoping we could bake a pie for Mrs. Bautista. An anti-grief pie.”

Gracey hrmmed, scraped the rest of the pie dough into the trash. She placed her palms against the edge of the counter, leaned her weight onto her arms. “Even if I were up for it, and I’m clearly not, people have to grieve, Tiny. It’s part of the healing process. Believe me, I know. I know a little something about loss.” She hesitated a moment, then continued. “When I lost Gabe in the accident, I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. Some days I didn’t even want to wake up or get out of bed. It just felt like the world wasn’t even worth being present for anymore. After he died, I just gave up.”

It was strange hearing Gracey talk about the accident. Tiny had been just a girl when Gracey and her fiance had been in the car accident that killed him and left Gracey in the hospital for weeks. She had never met Gabe, only heard his name mentioned in passing. The one thing she did know about him was that for whatever reason, for reasons Gracey had never spoken to Tiny about, their engagement had disintegrated what was left of Gracey’s relationship with their mother. Annette had never even visited Gracey in the hospital when she was hanging onto life by a thread.

She could see the grief in Gracey’s face. Tiny wondered which part of the ordeal she was remembering.

“When you lose someone you love, happiness seems impossible,” Gracey was saying. “There’s no magic in the world can take that pain away.”

Then, she smiled. “On the other hand, they’re showing The Sound of Music at the dollar theater.”

Tiny made a face. “That movie sucks.”

“It’s my favorite.”

Tiny sighed, hopped down off the counter. “If it’s for a good cause. I’ll go with you. Afterwards, maybe put on some Happy Gracey music and see about that pie?”

Gracey shrugged. “I’m not saying I can make her want to dance the Macarena, but maybe we can at least help her want to get out of bed. Help her find a reason to keep going. See that life isn’t…such a waste.”

They locked up early. For a good cause.

Five hours, a bottle of Layer Cake pinot grigio and a food fight later, Gracey, wrapped in the post-alpine glow that seemed to have pushed all angst about their mother aside, pulled from the oven a beautifully browned, bubbling cherry pie. Tiny had insisted on a playlist— “Just to be sure”—that would keep Gracey’s spirits high while they baked. Tiny put the playlist together while Gracey assmbled the ingredients, adding only songs that made Gracey feel glad to be alive. The playlist had included Walking On Sunshine, Favorite Things, Perfect Day, Life Is Wonderful, and Wonderful World. Though Tiny had found some of the songs a bit on the corny side, she could practically feel Gracey’s skin humming with a golden joie d’vivre, and she knew, as she watched her sister lay the latticework for the cherry pie, that the magic was flowing.

The townsfolk began pouring in to the Bautista home around 7pm that evening. Many of the old families who, like the Bautistas, had lived in Love & War since the town was founded, had come early to help Ines receive her guests. They brought her casseroles and cornbreads, soups and salsas. They offered condolences, many of them with faces nearly as full of sadness as her own. Amid the gathering of friends and family, Ines Bautista sat like a crying Madonna, still and alone amid dozens of warm, vibrating bodies.

As Gracey came through the door with her pie, she saw Inés, recognized the grief she wore like a mask. It stabbed at her heart, and for a moment Gracey wondered if she’d made a mistake in coming. But that was what funerals were for, she remembered. For sharing in grief, not running from it.

With Tiny close behind, Gracey carried the pie to the kitchen. She sat it on the counter and glanced around. She pointed toward a drawer and said, “Tiny, bring me a fork, please.”

As Tiny hunted for the silverware, Gracey opened the cupboard and retrieved a small sandwich plate. Using the pie knife she’d brought, Gracey cut a generous slice, slid it carefully onto the plate. Tiny presented the fork, and Gracey placed it on the plate alongside the pie. As she headed for the living room, Tiny asked, “Should I put the pie away? So no one else will eat it?”

Gracey smiled, shook her head. “One slice should do the trick.”

Avoiding the other guests was no small feat in a house this size, but Gracey managed to make her way to Inés without jostling her plate too much. She sat down next to the widow, who barely flicked her eyes to register Gracey’s presence. Gracey put a hand softly on her elbow. “Inés, I’ve brought you something. Something to…something to help.”

She didn’t wait for Inés’s permission. Gracey pierced the pie with the fork, breaking off a small bite. She lifted the fork to Inés’s lips. “I want you to taste this,” she said.

The widow caught Gracey’s gaze then and in a moment of understanding, opened her mouth. Gracey fed her the small bite, watched as the woman swallowed it. After a moment, Inés blinked, then nodded. Gracey fed her another bite, and then another. Before long, Gracey fed Inés the entire slice. When she was done, Inés took the plate from Gracey and pressed her thumb against the final crumbs and licked them off. She set the plate aside and, with a fresh wave of tearful emotion, gathered Gracey into her arms and hugged her tightly. “God bless you,” she whispered.

When they pulled apart, Gracey leaned in and kissed the widow on a wet cheek. “It gets better,” she promised. The widow gave a brief nod of thanks, and Gracey took her leave.

The cold air outside was a sharp contrast to the crowded warmth inside the house. As she stepped into the evening, away from the stifling emotion indoors, Gracey pulled her coat tight against her chest and looked up into the night sky. Even after a decade of living here, the desert sky still filled Gracey with a  deep sense of calm and wonder. She breathed the cold air in deep, let it burn all the way down her lungs, and when she exhaled, she watched her breath condense and dance in the cold air.

A shadow warned her of another presence, and Gracey turned to see Simon St. Laine approaching her from the house. He was dressed more casually than the last time she’d seen him; the top hat was missing, and he’d tied his long, black hair away from his face. The violet spectacles were gone. His skin was white against his mourning clothes—not just pale, but sickly, with purpling circles under his eyes. He offered Gracey a small, stiff smile by way of salutation. “It’s Gracey, if memory serves?”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

The magician’s smile settled in, became a little less awkward. “I hope you don’t mind my following you out here,” he said.

Gracey shook her head. “Escaping the grief, too?”

The corners of the magician’s mouth quirked. “Something like that. It might seem strange, my being a performer, but I don’t much like crowds.”

Gracey smiled, nodding. “I know what you mean. I’m a people person myself, but I can understand needing your space.” She nodded toward the sky. “Especially on a night like tonight. Seems a pity to be holed up indoors.”

Simon followed Gracey’s gaze upward. After a moment, he realized she was looking at him, expectant. She knew he hadn’t come out for idle chatter. He held out a hand, made a small, sweeping gesture, palm up. An invitation. “Would you mind walking with me a moment?”

Gracey shrugged and followed the magician’s lead as they walked slowly down Yucatan Road. He seemed, if not more comfortable, at least less uncomfortable than the first time she’d met him; some of his formal strangeness had been replaced with an air of weariness. The night was quiet; Gracey could hear coyotes howling in the distance. She was loathe to be the one to break the silence, but stealing a glance at the magician she could tell something was on his mind. “Are you doing all right, Simon? You look…unwell. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

Hands clasped behind his back, the magician walked with his head down, but Gracey could see the small downward turn of his mouth. “I don’t mind. I’m getting on,” he said. “As well as can be expected anyway. The past several days have been…very hard on me.”

Gracey raised an eyebrow. “You knew Rubio well?”

The magician shook his head. His hair gleamed black in the moonlight. “Not well, no. But death…it’s a funny thing. When it touches one of us, it touches all of us, don’t you agree?”

Gracey breathed in deep thorugh her mouth, stifled an urge to sneer. She couldn’t agree, not after having seen first hand how some people could utterly disregard another’s grief. In her mind she was ten years younger in her hospital bed, having heard for the first time that Gabe hadn’t survived the crash. She remembered asking for her mother, and being told Annette refused to see her. She’d begged, pleaded, cried, “I just lost my fiance!” but her mother still refused not only to visit but to speak with Gracey at all.

Her mother’s refusing her had cut her to the quick. They’d barely spoken in the intervening years; in fact, had Tiny not been living at home at the time, Gracey would have cut off all familial ties completely. But for better or for worse, Tiny had kept her tethered.

Still, the magician didn’t need to hear any of this. She shook off the reverie, breathed the night in deep. “I do, yes,” she said. “It’s a somber time for everyone.”

They said nothing else for a while, letting the silence fill the space between them. They listened to crunch of the dirt under their feet, the occasional screech of a bat, the sound of wind whistling through bare tree limbs. Finally, Simon broached the real reason he’d asked Gracey for a walk. “I saw you with Inés,” he said. “She’d been nearly catatonic all evening. Even at the funeral she hardly moved. Several people tried to get her to eat; it was like she didn’t even see them. Then you came in, fed her a piece of pie, and she…hugged you.” He looked at Gracey, a puzzled expression on his face. “How did you get her to do that? To…” He cast about for the right expression. “To…wake up like that.”

They’d stopped walking without realizing it. Simon was looking down into Gracey’s eyes. His were narrow and piercing, questioning. That stare filled her up with a thousand responses, answers to questions he hadn’t even asked, but she was unsure where to begin. Or if she wanted to begin. Something about that look, those eyes, made her want to talk for hours, and if she started she didn’t know if she could stop. Looking up into those eyes, she felt she could pour herself into him, could tell him the story of her life, and he’d listen to all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

But the words caught in her throat, and her desire to tell him everything—about her magic, her mother, how she ended up in Love & War—turned sour in her stomach. She didn’t know this man at all. And the fact alone that she wanted to tell him everything made her uneasy.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she said after a long pause. She was biting her lower lip, arms wrapped around her torso to ward off the cold. “You’re new around these parts—new by small town standards, anyway—so I guess you haven’t heard tell about me.” She smiled then, awkward, but honest. “I just…I have a way with pie,” she said. The words sounded ridiculous as she said them, and as soon as she spoke them she wanted to take them back and find a more elegant way of putting it, a way that wouldn’t make her sound like some no-account backwoods diner operator.

But that was just the problem. There wasn’t a more elegant a way to put it, because what she did wasn’t elegant. She wasn’t elegant. She was the square peg in the round Daylittle family hole, a milkweed of a woman who wore her hair wild all over her head and baked pies in the desert for a living. And now, standing with a strange magician under a star studded sky on a cold winter night, she was faced with the reality of what she’d been running from for quite a long time.

She wasn’t sure she knew where she belonged.

All of this ran through her head in a fraction of the second, and if the magician thought her words strange, he didn’t show it. He was still listening, his expression thoughtful.  “I wonder, Gracey, if I could call on you some time,” he said after a moment.

It took her a second to realize what he was asking. “Oh! I…are you…are you asking me on a date?”

The magician stepped back, lowered his eyes. “My apologies. If that was presumptuous of me, I—”

“No, it’s not that,” Gracey interrupted. “It’s just that…I haven’t…dated…anyone in a long time.” She offered a weak smile. “I don’t even think I remember how it’s done anymore,” she admitted.

The magician nodded. “I understand. It was a silly thing; I’m sorry.”

But Gracey shook her head, biting her lip. “Ask me again.”

“I’m sorry?”

Gracey felt her face blush deep red, her cheeks hot against the cool night air. “Please, just start over. Ask me again.”

A small look of understanding crept over the magician’s face, and a shy smile took bloom on his lips. “Gracey,” he began, his smile widening, “I was wondering if I could have the honor of calling on you some time.”

Gracey nodded, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “I’d be happy to have dinner with you,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

They stood in silence, looking up at the sky. A wind blew and Gracey shivered. “We probably ought to get back,” Simon said.

Wordless, Gracey nodded, followed the magician back the way they’d come. It might have been the cold, it might have been her imagination, or it might have been a thousand other things, but Gracey thought she saw the smallest bit of color return to the magician’s face as they stepped back across the Bautista threshold. It was improper, and Gracey felt ashamed for it, but she couldn’t help, as the house’s warmth thawed her from her bones outward, smiling.

Mornings begin early at most bakeries, and Want Some Pie? was no different. At a quarter past four, Gracey found herself up to her elbows in flour as she guided a tray of single-serving Chocolate For Breakfast pies into the oven.

Mitsuo sauntered through the back door, disheveled as usual, but with confidence in his step and his chin lifted so that you could actually see his eyes. Gracey tried not to smile as he pulled his apron on over his black hoodie. He was practically a different kid from when she’d found him camped out in her barn.

“What’s the special today, Gracey?” The teenager tossed a stray lock of hair from eyes that just missed making contact with Gracey’s.

Hooking her thumbs into the belt loops of her jeans, the pie baker leaned back slightly, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. A litany of ingredients ran through her mind as though to an internal beat, a private form of meditation she’d practiced as long as he could remember. Rocking back on the heels of her boots, Gracey opened herself to the energy of the morning, let the subtle vibrations and gentle workings of the town fill her from her toes to the crown of her head. Breathing in, she could almost smell the sleeping residents of Love & War, could almost infiltrate their dreams, see what they were seeing, feel what they were feeling. They smelled of spice, of flours, of myriad different ingredients that shifted subtly each morning. Her meditation was an essential part of her magic, though she would never have described it that way. To her, it was simply part of her process, part of how she decided what pies to make that day. It was as much a routine as brushing her hair and teeth.

“Something unusual today, I think,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Apple, cranberry, rosemary. We’ll call it Fourth Thursday Pie. We’ll add a bit of cornmeal to crust.” Opening her eyes, she smiled at her assistant. “You okay to go down to the market? I’ll make you a list.”

“Sure,” Mitsuo said, pulling off the apron he’d just tied on. “And, Miss Gracey, if I haven’t said anything, I really appreciate you giving me this job.”

Gracey waved away the gratitude, ignoring the “Miss” she’d asked him a million times to drop. “I gave you chance; you earned being allowed to stay. It’s not like I could have you squatting in my barn forever,” she said, throwing him a teasing look. “How close are you two to being able to move out of the Badlands?”

Mitsuo shrugged, withdrawing into himself just a little. “I’m sorry you found us out there,” he said. “We weren’t trying to take advantage.” When Gracey didn’t say anything, he continued. “We don’t have enough for rent just yet; you need money for deposits and stuff. The Badlands is fine for now. I was raised in a trailer,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted. “But thanks,” he said.

Gracey was about to interject that there was a difference between living in a trailer and squatting in an abandoned one when the bell over the entrance jingled. Gracey always came in through the front door in the mornings and rarely locked it behind her even though the bakery didn’t open until six. She knew the townsfolk and they knew her; locking the door just seemed an unnecessary bother. So she was surprised to see the Prime of Darkness striding into the bakery, his pink salon smock tied awkwardly around his pauldrons. Gracey had to stifle a smile.

“Darkness! What on earth are you doing up so early?”

The Prime of Darkness sank into a seat near the door, his expression troubled. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, popping a handful of Smarties into his mouth.“You got any day old pie? Blackberry, maybe?”

“‘Course I do,” she said, “but that’s not what you want today.” Reaching into the refrigerated case, Gracey pulled out two plates of caramel pecan pie and set them before him with a napkin and a fork. She watched him take a healthy bite before asking, “Was I right?”

The Prime of Darkness set his fork on the edge of his plate and looked up from his plate in wonder, eyes wide with disbelief. He couldn’t hide his smile as he nodded slowly, still chewing. “It’s brilliant,” he breathed. “It makes me feel …” He cast about for a moment, making groping motions with his hands before settling on, “Happy.”

Gracey nodded.  “I thought it might,” she said, without even a hint of self-doubt. “Anything on your mind you wanna talk about? I got some coffee brewing in the back; Mitsuo ain’t gonna drink any.”

The demon gave her a hard, evaluating look before shaking his head, heavy locks of black hair falling into his face. “No. Just couldn’t sleep.” He cast a sidelong glance at Mitsuo, who watched them discreetly from behind the counter. When he noticed the Prime of Darkness noticing him, he quickly looked away.

The Prime of Darkness motioned for Gracey to come closer, which she did without hesitation. He lowered his voice, looked her in the eye. “You knew about the pie, didn’t you? That it would make me feel good? How did you know that?”

Gracey shrugged. “I always know,” she said simply.

Moving away, she pulled a rag out of her hip pocket and began wiping down tables. “If you don’t have anything to do for the next few hours, you could go down to the turtle pond and look for Old Leviathan.”

The demon looked up from the pie, confused. “Old Leviathan?”

“Bigass turtle,” she said, without looking up. She was scrubbing furiously at a smudge only she could see. “Old Leviathan is the gigantic turtle that lives in the old pond at Bigsbee Park. Way I hear it,  he only comes out at night. And though it’s technically morning, it’s still dark. He’s probably still out.”

The Prime of Darkness took another bite of pie, his expression dreamy as he finished off the first slice. “How big is it?”

Gracey shrugged. “Real big. I haven’t seen him in years. But if I remember correctly, he’s got to be, what, twenty, thirty pounds? We’re talking huge.” She held her hands far apart to demonstrate size, and gave Darkness a bright smile, her dark eyes alive with laughter.

The Prime of Darkness polished off his second slice and pushed himself away from the table. “Okay. I got nothing better to do.” Remembering his manners, the Prime of Darkness nodded in Mitsuo’s direction. “How’s it going?”

Mitsuo lifted his chin in return. “What’s up.”

“Do you need a flashlight?” Gracey asked, her voice respectably level.

The Prime of Darkness gave Gracey a quizzical look. “You know I can see perfectly well in the dark. Thank you for the pie, Gracey. It was really great. Are you cooking dinner tonight?”

Gracey shook her head. “Sorry, cowboy. It’s Tiny’s night.”

The Prime of Darkness made a face. “Tiny can’t cook,” he said. It was almost a whine.

“Well, I’m sure you can still take Irma Flores up on her offer to have you over for dinner,” she said. “Irma cooks the best Mexican food this side of Juárez.”

The demon seemed to think a moment, then nodded his head. “Maybe. See you,” he said. He gave Mitsuo a lame wave, which the teenager ignored, and ducked out the front door. Gracey waited until she heard the rumble of his motorcycle starting before breaking into laughter.

Mitsuo nodded towards the doorway. “That guy really likes to eat, huh?”

Gracey shook her head, her hand to her temple. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“That was cold,” Mitsuo said, not disapprovingly. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone to pull the Old Leviathan on anyone,” he said.

“Even I like a good joke,” Gracey said.

Mitsuo grinned. “You pull it on your sister?”

Gracey shook her head. “Naw, Tiny’s heard my snipe hunting story too many times to fall for that.”

Mitsuo raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You went snipe hunting?”

Laughing again, Gracey gave Mitsuo a kiss on the forehead, much to his mild horror, and slapped him on the back. “Go get my ingredients,” she said. “Sun’ll be up before we know it.”