Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(29)

Then a curtain of water and flopping airborne fish came cascading over his head.

“What the fuck,” I heard him splutter, dashing water from his eyes. “What—”

Another deluge broke over him before he could finish, plastering his hair right back over his eyes. A fish, iridescent and tropical-looking, wriggled under his flared collar and disappeared into the folds beneath, squirming around under his robe while Gareth flailed and shrieked, batting at his front.

Even from within the mantle’s magic, I couldn’t suppress a delighted chortle—which emerged as such a loud and malevolent BAHAHAAA that I clapped my hand over my mouth, gritting my teeth.

Must remember to never do that again.

But the next time Rowan showered him, Gareth was prepared.

Flinging one hand up, he froze the water before it could crash over his head, hardening it into an icicle-dripping arch. It was all good fun, he must be figuring, a trace of smugness seeping back into his face as he skidded under the arch and dredged up yet more bridge for himself up ahead. After all, combatants were traditionally allowed to mess with one another during the challenges—if they could afford to lose the time while battling their own way toward victory.

Except, as Rowan sent another tidal wave cresting over Gareth’s icy bridge—a towering wall of water full of thrashing purple squid, along with an actual fucking stingray most definitely not native to Illinois—it was clear he wasn’t even pretending to make for the middle anymore. Instead, he bobbed in place, wet brow furrowed with concentration, funneling all his energy into thwarting Gareth by battering him with wave upon relentless wave. It was all Gareth could do to keep freezing them, one after the next, before one inevitably swept him right off his feet.

So that was what they had planned for today, I realized with mounting delight. Rowan was taking this one for the team, throwing all his strength into helping his alliance partner secure her win.

I witnessed the precise moment the same understanding darkened Gareth’s face. This was not a contingency for which he was prepared. He turned to fling me a wild look, throwing up his arms like a soccer player at a lagging referee, as if to say, Were you planning on doing your fucking job today?!

When I spread my hands placidly—no foul play here—he actually snarled, punching at the air in sheer frustration before wheeling back around to his task.

Then he rushed headlong with all his might, darting under arch after arch of ice, skidding to a stop every few feet to fling a freezing spell at each fresh wave. But even with renewed commitment, I could see him starting to flag; the next wave that Rowan hurled at him just didn’t quite take, drooling over Gareth’s head and shoulders in a sort of swampy slush. It infuriated him so much that he overdid his next try—expending so much energy on the water that it set too hard, bursting into an explosive shrapnel of icy shards.

One of them grazed Gareth’s cheek, drawing a bright, beaded line of blood—just as Talia drifted to a stop in front of the gilded rose, her features aglow with its soft light. Her hair swirling like black seaweed around her face, she reached for the flower with cupped hands.

As soon as she touched it, it dissolved into a blinding flash that flared once, twice, three times before dying away. The Grimoire gave an answering pulse beneath my palm. I looked down to read its proclamation, my booming Arbiter’s voice thundering with an elation that was very much my own.

“By west and east and south and north, a scion has brought the flower forth! First victory goes to House Avramov!”

Then chaos broke loose across the mountaintop.





11





On Rolling Like a Demigoddess


To my Arbiter-augmented hearing, the sudden ruckus hit a lot like noise torture.

Even with my hands clapped over my ears, I could hear every cacophonous nuance as the three scions returned to their respective camps. Milling Thorn confusion, Avramov revelry (were they really cheering in some other, rough-and-tumble language while dark swirls broke above them like macabre fireworks, or did Avramov joy just naturally sound that sharp?), and sheer Blackmoore outrage.

And then Igraine Blackmoore portaled furiously across the lake.

I’d never seen anyone use a portal spell before, so maybe it always looked a little aggro, but there was an element of extravagant rage to her display that couldn’t really be mistaken for anything else. It took her all of three steps to reach me. With my enhanced Arbiter’s vision, I saw her disappear into a prismatic cocoon like a pearly rainbow spun around her—appear at the apex above the lake, where Talia had hovered moments ago—disappear into another whirl of fractured light—and then reappear right in front of me, glaring bloody murder up into my face.

“What is the meaning of this, Arbiter Harlow?” the Blackmoore matriarch demanded, each word vibrating with outrage. “You say nothing, as the Thorns and Avramovs behave in lawless collusion? You make no pronouncement, even as my grandson has been bled?”

There was something off-putting about such antiquated syntax coming from that youthful face, though at least some of it was probably just affectation. Her features looked as though they’d been carved from ice, but her eyes were nearly incandescent, glowing cobalt blue with wrath. Though the family resemblance was there, I’d never seen an expression remotely as intimidating on Gareth’s face. Gareth might’ve been convinced of his own importance, but his grandmother took it to such a different level she made him seem like some paragon of humility and restraint.