Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(10)

She lifted her eyebrows, pitch-black and naturally dramatic, and gave me an admiring nod. “Oh, well played. Those are all the rage, right? What kind of goodies?”

“Well . . .” My cheeks heated a little, and I nibbled on the inside of my lower lip, wondering if I was just imagining the way her gaze briefly leapt down to my mouth. “It’s called, uh, Enchantify. ‘Magical treasures to indulge your inner witch.’ Incense, chakra-cleansing bath bombs, fancy pendulums, that kind of thing. My job is coming up with the concepts, then sourcing the contents each month from local vendors.”

“I . . . see.” A suspicious hint of a smile flickered over her full lips. “And, if I may, what was September’s theme?”

“It was Find Your Inner Goddess, actually,” I admitted, my cheeks now fully aflame. The irony of a former witch peddling pseudo-magical artifacts was far from lost on me. “It included a truffle box that came with a hand-painted tarot deck and meditation crystals. So you could discover your inner goddess while fondling a chunk of sustainably sourced selenite and enjoying an artisanal nougat. As, you know, witches are wont to do.”

“As I myself was planning on doing tonight, before I came here instead.” Now she was grinning fully, rolling the stem of her glass between her fingers. But there was no sharp edge to her teasing, no malice to it at all. “So, what you’re telling me is, you’re a wannabe-witch enabler, is that about right?”

“More or less,” I admitted. “It’s about as far from real magic as you can get, but, false modesty aside, I pretty much kill at it. And it’s a booming business. Can’t throw a rock without hitting an Instagram witch these days.”

Talia toyed with her straw, looking more pensive than mocking. “All jokes aside, that’s a really smart take. I keep pitching Elena on adding an online presence to the Emporium, but she’s such a pigheaded traditionalist. Claims it would ‘dilute’ the ‘authenticity.’?” She put both words in finger quotes, rolling her eyes. “As if you have to earn the right to shop there by physically showing up, like it’s some kind of pagan pilgrimage instead of an upmarket Witch Walmart.”

The Avramovs owned the Arcane Emporium on Hyssop Street, a sprawling megastore of all things occult, including magical tools and herbs, divination sessions, séances, and even an adjoining haunted house. I couldn’t really imagine Talia’s mother, Elena, the imposing Avramov matriarch, allowing the taint of anything so plebian as PayPal and Square and URLs to creep into her eldritch domain.

“Maybe she has a point,” I said with a shrug. “I can’t tell you how many ‘magical artifacts’ I’ve come across out there, but none of it’s the real deal. There must be witches beyond Thistle Grove, but if any of them happen to be in Chicago, they’re keeping well to themselves.”

What I didn’t tell her was just how oppressive living without magic could be, after having grown up with it running through you like a current, the absence of it a deep and relentless ache that sank its roots into the chambers of your heart like some encroaching weed. That part of the reason I wound up at Enchantify in the first place was that a (reasonably well-paid) excuse to seek out even instruments of fake magic satisfied some deep yearning inside me I couldn’t otherwise seem to quell.

But I wanted her to know I was happy and thriving out there, regardless. Because I was, in a way I never could have been had I stayed here.

Talia nodded thoughtfully, her eyes a little distant. “And you’ve been away, what, almost ten years now?”

“Closer to nine.”

“Must get pretty rough sometimes. I took a few years of finance classes at the university in Carbondale,” she added, naming the closest decently sized town near Thistle Grove. “So I could keep the Emporium’s books better—which is what I do these days, along with some of the fun touristy shit. I even thought about committing to a master’s program, but I just fucking hated the way the magic fades out there. Being weak like that . . . I couldn’t stand it, not for long.”

“Eh, you get used to it,” I said, which might have been one of the baldest lies I’d ever managed with a straight face. Though to be fair, compared to Talia, I’d been weak all my life. “And there are a lot of upsides, like actually good sushi and killer pierogies. And being valued for something besides your bloodline.”

Talia flicked me a doubtful look, but before she could say anything, Morty deposited three flamboyantly garnished mini cocktails in front of each of us with a flourish.

“May I present Demonic Decadence, Pumpkin Pandemonium, and the Flirty Mermaid, for miladies’ tasting pleasure.”

“Speaking my language, sweet pea,” Talia said, scooting her cocktails closer with both hands, like an animated dragon hoarding treasure. Morty flashed her a grin and a saucy wink, then ducked out back again.

“Where does one even begin, when all options inspire equal fear?” I pondered aloud, gaze shifting skeptically from the Flirty Mermaid’s glitter-speckled surface to the Pumpkin Pandemonium’s neon-orange froth.

“Don’t be precious about your cocktails, Harlow.”

“Not all of us were lucky enough to be born with a taste for liquefied gummy worms, Avramov.”

She held up a commanding finger. “Not born with—acquired, through hard work and sacrifice.”