“They don’t because the magic she uses is tailored for demons.” Crimson took the plate from Destiny’s hand. “She spent years perfecting the spell to subdue their urges without turning them into zombified hellions. It was never meant for a fae or a shifter or anyone else to consume.”
He straightened, a shadow of unease falling across his features. “Since when do angels cast spells?”
“We don’t.” Destiny clasped her hands. “We don’t call it spells.”
“Sorry. Witch talk.” Crimson added more plates to the dishwasher. “She perfected her angel magic recipe specifically to subdue demons. Now we know it gives faeries amnesia.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t prove I’m the Easter Bunny.” Pete shrugged. “Has a shifter ever eaten one? Maybe it gives anyone who isn’t a demon amnesia.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Crimson said. “Hey Soph, do you want to try one and see what happens? For posterity’s sake?”
“Hell, no.” Sophie dropped her napkin onto her plate and carried it into the kitchen. “I love my life. Satan’s balls will rot and fall off before I’ll chance forgetting everything that’s made me who I am.”
“No, no.” Destiny shook her head, her posture sinking. “No one else needs to get involved. I already can’t fix what I’ve broken.”
“Hey.” Pete stepped toward her and lightly gripped her shoulders, ducking his head to catch her gaze. “I might not remember my past, but I’m not broken.”
“I am.” She lifted her head. Even her closest friends wouldn’t take a chance on her magic. Maybe now he’d rethink that meant-to-be feeling he had about her.
“Your powers are bound,” Sophie said. “There’s a difference.”
“We need to focus.” Destiny shook out her hands before pressing her palms together. “Demons have to eat the cakes every week because the magic wears off. Pete, do you feel it wearing off? Are any memories returning? Anything at all?”
He lifted his gaze upward and to the right, tilting his head as he thought. “Nothing before I left the bakery last night.”
“You don’t remember asking Gaston for help with the hens?” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “You came to New Orleans to see Gaston because a vampire drained half a dozen Easter hens. Because you’re the Easter Bunny, and you need to save your holiday.”
He dropped his arms and returned to his chair. “There’s just no way.”
“Hold on.” Sophie drummed her fingers on the table. “What about the coven door? You used magic to unlock it. Regular shifters can’t do that.”
Destiny gasped. “And your clothes. If you were just a shifter, your clothes would have fallen off when your rabbit came through. But they didn’t, did they?”
He opened his mouth as if to deny it, but he closed it again, looking thoughtful for a moment. “I was thinking I could be part witch. I suppose fae is a possibility too, but I just feel like that’s something I would know. The fae are from an entirely different realm, and I feel grounded here.”
“I’ve got a spell that might help you.” Crimson set a copper bowl on the counter and took three herb jars from the cabinet. “Lie on the couch, and I’ll fix you right up.”
* * *
Pete eyed the sofa and debated the situation in his mind. Destiny’s magic was the cause of his amnesia. That much he believed. And they were right about the extra powers he could tap into, however unwittingly he did it. Being part fae was the only thing that truly made sense.
The women stood in the kitchen as Crimson worked on the spell. He caught a glimpse of Destiny’s copper hair as she walked past the counter, and his stomach tightened. His rabbit insisted he allow the witch to perform her ritual on him for the sole fact that it would please his mate.
His mate. Heat spread through his chest at the thought, but he forced his emotions down. Now was not the time for mate talk. He turned a circle in the living room, admiring the paintings adorning the walls. Detailed still-life and swamp scenes occupied the far wall, while colorful cityscapes decorated the adjacent one. He stepped toward a portrait of a man sitting on a red throne hanging above the television.
“Is that Mike?” he asked.
“It sure is,” Crimson said from behind him.
“Is he a prince?”
“Nope.” She laughed. “I channel the goddess Morrigan when I paint, and that one is… Well, it’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime.”
“She’s talented, isn’t she?” Destiny asked. “Does the art jog any memories? You’re an artist yourself.”
He liked the paintings and could tell they were done well. They stirred a feeling inside him he couldn’t identify, but as for recalling memories… “No, nothing.”
“Come lie down and let Crimson do her thing.” Destiny sank onto the arm of the sofa. “She won’t hurt you like I did.”
