Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(34)

“This all calls for a proper toast,” Talia announced. “Shall we?”

With the three of us in tow, she swept off toward a table stacked with bottles of liquor and decanters of red wine, deepened to almost black by moonlight. There were delectable-looking snacks too: silver dishes of chocolate truffles sprinkled with salt, trays of sliced cheese and grapes, whole rounds of fancily braided bread. It all had a decadent Persephone aesthetic that I personally felt inclined to steer clear of, just in case.

Haunted-ass shit aside, Rowan clearly had no such reservations, already making himself a plate while Talia poured wine for all of us.

“What, sis?” he mumbled in response to Linden’s pointed side-eye; apparently she’d caught the same vibe as I had from the food. “I practically conjured a tsunami earlier, I’m freaking starving. I’ll take my damn chances.”

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Talia assured him, pressing goblets into our hands. I set my gin down on the table, feeling slightly self-conscious about double-fisting this early on. “We didn’t invite any enemies tonight. And we made sure not to let Adriana near it, just in case. My baby sister’s sense of humor is still a little . . . unreliable.”

Rowan stopped midchew. “Define unreliable.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I promise,” Talia said, waving her free hand breezily. “That whole shapeshifting hex thing Addie had going for a while was mostly just a phase. These days she’s a way less terrifying child, overall.”

Rowan swallowed hard and shook his head, eyes closed. “Damn. Even your babies are messed up.”

“We like to inhabit a space of . . . creative anarchy, that’s all,” Talia said, unoffended. “It works for us. Now, since I’m hosting, anyone else care to propose the toast?”

“To not letting Blackmoore bastards keep us down!” Linden cheered, pumping a fist.

“Or, how about . . . ‘to double double, toil and trouble, when plotters scheme and cauldrons bubble’?” I suggested. “A little spicy, a little derivative, what do we think?”

Talia let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Okay, yeah, that’s the energy we want.”

Linden looped her arm through mine as we all lifted our glasses and clinked them together, catching one another’s eyes as we repeated my silly yet somehow perfect toast. Under the sluice of moonlight and the stars’ keen twinkle, in this clearing that smelled of dying leaves, magic, and burning firewood, I felt such a warm rush of belonging that my eyes prickled with sudden tears. Something like homesickness struck next, a premonitory sense of the yearning I’d feel when I was ensconced back in my little one-bedroom in Bucktown, so very far away from home.

Cut this shit out, I chided myself, struggling to get a grip. You love your life, and this is not your home—not anymore. This is just reunion nostalgia set on high, that’s all. You’ll get over it.

Blinking the tears back, I took a deeper swallow of the wine to chase away the doldrums. It tasted as dark and rich as it looked, like some exotic vintage harvested under a full moon, imported from some otherworldly realm.

“This is delicious,” I told Talia. “What is it? It tastes really special.”

“Oh, this?” She peered at her goblet, shrugging. “It’s just Seven Deadly Zins, I think? You’d have to ask Issa. She’s the one who hit up the liquor store and Whole Foods for the spread.”

I burst out laughing, feeling fully ridiculous. “Seriously? And here I was, like an entire fool, thinking it tasted like it hailed from some fairy terroir.”

“That’s because you have the secret soul of a poet, Harlow,” she said, with a curling half smile, her pale eyes glittering against the dark. “Even if you try to hide it.”

What was it about looking at her, I wondered as I held her gaze, that felt so enticing, so halfway to forbidden? Was it the extraordinary wolf gray of her irises, the intensity with which she looked at me, or maybe the thing her eyebrows did to the shape of her eyes?

Whatever it was, once we locked gazes, I could never seem to pry myself away.

Just then, one of the younger Avramov siblings came loping up to Talia, slung both arms around her neck, and smacked a kiss on her cheek.

“Hey, sestra,” she said, tipping her temple against Talia’s. “I thought I smelled fresh blood.”

From what I remembered, Isidora Avramov was a few years younger than me, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, and looked much more like their mother than Talia did. The same pale green eyes and a darker shade of Elena’s auburn hair, her fair skin spangled with overlapping freckles like a robin’s egg. Along with the Avramov garnet, a cluster of bone pendants carved with runes hung above the leather and brocade of her jacketed steampunk corset, which she wore over a pair of chicly shabby velvet pants. In contrast, her nearly-makeup-free face was startlingly fresh and peachy. It made the entire look feel like a street style that deserved its own name. Strawberries-and-cream punk? Cinnamon witch burlesque?

Whatever she called it, it really worked for her.

“Try not to eat my guests, Issa,” Talia said, with a fond eye roll. “They’re friends, not food.”

“I’m not able to make any such promises at this time.” She smiled at me, a sweet and open grin, very endearing and not particularly indicative of cannibalistic bloodthirst. “Emmy, right? Hey, awesome to finally meet you. You know, outside of your chthonic-goddess form—which, by the way, is totally slamming. Super smitey.”