Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(14)

I examined her more closely as she busied herself with her water glass, drawing little doodles in the condensation. There was a new cloudiness to her, a watercolor wash of sadness I couldn’t quite reconcile with the relentlessly upbeat sunrise of a person with whom I’d shared a childhood and young adulthood. It was true that our correspondence had felt a little flat over the past few months, but I’d ascribed it to an organic growing apart. The settling in of a natural and healthy distance, as our friendship evolved by necessity into something less intimate than one based on shared experiences.

But now that she sat across from me looking so unwontedly sad, the thought of willingly drifting away from her gave me a painful pang of loss. How many shimmering nights had I spent in the orchards with Lin, drunk on hard cider and heckling the tourists on the haunted hayride, picnicking in secluded nooks of the hedge maze that thorned up for anyone but us, feasting on her aunt Wisteria’s orchard pie on hungover mornings after?

I had good friends in Chicago, of course, the kind who’d stay overnight at the hospital with you when your appendix nearly burst—and better yet, who didn’t blink at sharing their Netflix and Hulu passwords. But none who had grown up with me, or done magic with me in the hushed heart of a town so enchanted it felt alive around you.

Then our food arrived, jostling aside all other concerns as my immediate priority. I cut into the fried cake with the side of my fork, my eyes sliding closed at the first perfect mouthful. Just as I reached for Lin’s milkshake to steal a sip, a lanky, raven-haired form slid into the booth next to her.

“Morning, Harlow,” Talia said, nudging a reluctant Linden until she scooted over to make room, and flicking me a smile that immediately drew heat to my cheeks. “Glad to see we can still count you among the living. I confess I had my doubts.”

With her glossy black waves and radiant skin, a burgundy top baring her porcelain shoulders, she looked like she’d emerged from our night of drunken debauchery not only unscathed but somehow refreshed, as if she’d washed her face with morning dew like some kind of Slavic nymph. It made me wonder whether the rumor was true and Avramovs really had a crossroads deal with the devil going, to keep them good-looking at all costs.

“What the hell, Tal?” Linden groaned before I could respond, burying her face in her hands. “What are you doing here already? You were supposed to give me more time!”

“?‘Tal’?” I echoed slowly, shifting my gaze between them in growing confusion. In all the years our families had known one another, I couldn’t remember these two exchanging more than perfunctory greetings. “You two are on a nickname-and-brunch-crashing basis now? That’s . . . curious.”

“The thing is, Harlow, we have a proposition for you,” Talia replied, draping her arms over the tabletop with her wrists crossed, like a lazing cat. “And pardon my early appearance, Lin, but I didn’t fully trust you not to chicken out on telling her. So hex me.”

Courtesy of my gutter-minded disposition, I found myself stuck on ‘proposition.’ Courtesy of years of friendship, Linden read my mind with a single look, rolling her eyes.

“Not that kind of proposition, Em, damn. Keep it in your pants.”

“Wait, so this is some kind of collusion?” I narrowed my eyes at them, increasingly baffled. “You two not only use nicknames, but collude? What else have I missed? Has a new age dawned or something?”

The Avramovs and the Thorns did not, historically, get along. The Avramovs were a little too Sturm und Drang, practitioners of a darker shade of magic than the nature-and light-working Thorns were comfortable contemplating, though even the Avramov clan kept well away from the truly dangerous shit like hexes.

At least, as far as I was aware—though with Avramovs, who ever knew for sure.

“Not a new age, exactly,” Talia said thoughtfully, cocking her head. “Although that would be cool. But the circle of witches scorned by Gareth Blackmoore is hereby complete.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Talia?” I demanded. “I mean, yeah, you and I have both had unfortunate relations with Gareth, but Lin doesn’t even . . .”

My voice trailed off as I considered the chill in Linden’s recent communication, her withdrawn demeanor in person, the faint pall of sadness hanging over her.

“Linden Sharee Thorn,” I said, a surge of raw pain welling up my throat. “Have you, likewise, had unfortunate relations with Gareth Blackmoore?”

Linden hid her face behind her hands, sighing so gustily I could actually hear it through her fingers. When she finally lowered them, she looked so sad and plaintively guilty that I almost felt bad for her.

Key word, almost.

“I’m sorry, Em, I really am,” she mumbled, chewing on the inside of her cheek and avoiding my eyes. “It’s not like I planned it! We’d been spending a lot of time together, trying to hammer out a deal for the Blackmoores to carry Honeycake cherry wine and brandy at Camelot. And it just kind of . . . happened, I guess?”

Camelot was the Blackmoore family’s most lucrative holding, a massive indoor-outdoor Renn Faire housed in a full-blown castle on their property, where tourists could enjoy immersive theater, medieval jousting, a Cirque du Soleil–esque show that stealthily incorporated the Blackmoores’ flashy magic, and several themed restaurants and bars.

It was also, in my opinion, the very soul of tackiness.