Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(33)

The kinds of things that had no intention of hanging in any congenial way.

“You’re not wrong,” I told Rowan, wedging my flashlight under my arm so I could unscrew the bottle of Tanqueray I was bringing as my contribution—Talia surely wouldn’t mind if it was already open, right?—and take a swig. The herbal taste twanged in my mouth and burned comfortingly down my throat. Instant ghost repellant, or at least the mental equivalent. “I’m also not loving it here.”

“The good news is, we’re almost there,” Linden said, fishing her phone out of her pocket and squinting at the bluish glare. “Tal said to hang a left at the, quote, ‘sycamore that looks like a hellmouth.’?”

“Amazing,” I said under my breath, half tripping as my toe caught a hidden root. “What could be better.”

“Horrible, yet helpful!” Lin replied sunnily. Gareth’s downfall, and my cutting Igraine down to size, had done wonders in boosting her spirits. “There it is right there, I think.”

I took another bracing swig as we rounded the corner, averting my eyes from the twisted burls of the sycamore’s trunk as we passed by. Talia had nailed it with that description; the thing was supremely Guillermo del Toro–looking, even by Witch Woods standards.

The glade that lay just beyond it came from a very different cinematic genre.

Without the obscuring loom of trees, the clearing ahead seemed to almost glow beneath the pour of moonlight and sugary spill of stars. At the center, a flame roared in a copper brazier on an elevated stand, spitting a shower of hissing sparks. It was less your average low-key bonfire, and more a standard-bearing flame of Olympic proportions; the Avramovs clearly had no qualms about leaning hard into Talia’s triumph.

The air smelled of both magic and real incense, musky, amber-scented gusts of it wafting from the central flame. Wooden furniture lay strewn around; a bunch of claw-foot tables, loveseats with scrolled wood backs, and velvet-upholstered chaises. There were even several four-poster beds for lounging, piled high with pillows and draped with brocaded canopies that fluttered in the cold breeze. Weirdly, the baroque furnishings didn’t look at all out of place. If anything, the effect was of a dark fae bacchanal, like we’d stepped through a ring of stones and into the beginnings of some chill yet luxurious fairy hang.

“Haunted. Ass. Shit,” Rowan muttered under his breath.

“Maybe pull back on the curmudgeonry a skooch, Row,” Linden said, thumping him on the shoulder. “We’re their guests, remember? And I think it’s kind of charming.”

As we approached the ceremonial brazier, moving through clusters of Avramov revelers, Talia unfolded from one of the loveseats and came bounding toward us, goblet in hand.

Despite the night chill, bare feet peeped from beneath the lacy hem of her black maxi dress. Her eye makeup was a little smeared, lips dark with wine, strands tumbling loose from the slapdash knot on top of her head. She looked half-unraveled and still triumphant, like she’d maybe taken a victory nap right before rolling out of bed to come celebrate.

Her mussed perfection bypassed all my defense mechanisms and went straight to my head, like a shot of mainlined adrenaline.

“Privyet, friends!” she called out—so apparently they did sometimes speak Russian—performing a sort of curtsey-in-motion as she swept toward us. It was graceful despite the deliberate silliness, even as she grimaced at the bit of wine that sloshed over the goblet’s rim. “Welcome to the Wood!”

She kissed Linden on the cheek in mock European greeting, then Rowan, and then me. I could feel the heated imprint of her lips as they brushed over my skin, and she lingered over the kiss for a moment, long enough for me to notice. My stomach swooped, then engulfed itself in sparks as she drew back, giving me a tiny, private smile that didn’t include Rowan or Lin.

Whatever was happening here, I was definitely, entirely screwed.

“Privyet, for real?” Rowan was saying with a grin. “Wow, y’all really stay milking that Slavic heritage shit. Your family’s been here for, what, a solid three hundred years just like the rest of us? I think hello or possibly even what’s good would suffice.”

“The language of the motherland dwells in our blood, Rowan Thorn, my coconspirator,” Talia proclaimed, lifting her chin. “And who am I to deny its call?”

“Yeah, you just think it sounds hardcore,” Linden teased. “Tell me you know more than like three words.”

Talia flicked one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m practically fluent for all the tourists can tell. It’s all a matter of perspective. I also prefer to approach my vodka as an homage to the ancestors.”

“Well, that’s a handy take,” I said, hefting my bottle of Tanqueray in salute. “Congratulations, by the way! I haven’t even had a real chance to say that yet.”

The families had dispersed soon after my confrontation with Igraine, scattering swiftly to the winds. I’d gone straight home from Hallows Hill, wrung out by the mantle magic, and collapsed into what was intended to be a power nap—waking up a disoriented six hours later to a group text with Talia and Linden about coming here tonight.

“Thank you, Arbiter Harlow,” she said, adding a playful little twist to my title. “You were pretty legendary yourself.”

“Seconded,” Rowan said. “I mean, I’m the one who lost. But it was still worth it to see you acquaint that corny jackass and his gram with some grade A humiliation.”