Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(45)

As if maybe I hadn’t considered how much room being a Thistle Grove Harlow left for individuality.

“I guess she figured, who was ever going to read these anyway, particularly while she was still alive?” I continued.

“Or she was such a cast-iron badass she just didn’t give a fuck,” Talia offered from the couch.

“Also possible. Besides the comedic gold, did you find anything else?”

Talia swung her legs to the floor, sitting up to dangle her forearms between her thighs.

“Nope. Except that the combatants had to wrestle a whole-ass hydra for the strength challenge the time Savannah arbitrated, and then pry the token out of its mouth.”

She said the last a little wistfully, as if racing Rowan and Gareth across the lake severely paled in coolness compared to squaring up against a sea monster conjuration.

That she hadn’t stumbled across anything more useful wasn’t all that surprising; the upshot of our research was that the governing spell that manifested the Gauntlet challenges was wildly inventive and unpredictable. And speed seemed to be of the essence in any challenge, not just the eponymous one, with the combatants always racing against one another to complete their given task.

But that was where the similarities ended. Sometimes the scions competed to reach the same challenge token first, like Talia, Rowan, and Gareth had done at the lake with the gilded rose. Other times, the spell devised completely different, parallel courses with no overlap. The combatants might need to be underwater, underground, or airborne; facing down toothy creatures or cataclysmic weather or mind-bogglingly bizarre terrain. There’d even been a strength challenge in which the ground turned into a quicksand of salted caramel, forcing the combatants to dive deep into the gooey mass to retrieve the token and then somehow extricate themselves. The Arbiter that time, Nathaniel Harlow, had waxed poetic over how mouthwatering that challenge had smelled.

(At that point, seduced by the idea of diveable dessert, I’d gone on a snack run to the Wicked Sweet Dessert Shoppe across the street and bought us all way too much fudge.)

“I guess there wouldn’t be much point if any of this were predictable,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Still, annoying.”

“So, do I tell Rowan to stick to the original plan?” Linden asked. “You’ll waylay Gareth this time, Tal, and let Rowan shoot his shot?”

“He’ll be expecting it this time, but yeah. Even without the element of surprise I still think it’s our best bet—as long as we don’t wind up with parallel tracks, in which case we’re likely to be screwed,” Talia added, lacing her hands behind her head and blowing through her lips. “That is, unless you two sweet summer children change your minds about the scrying mirror.”

Talia had already floated the idea of peeking into the future for a glimpse of the next challenge, so she and Rowan could prep more specifically for it, to Linden’s and my vehement double veto.

“It’s way too close to cheating,” I said again, with a brisk shake of the head. “Like, indistinguishably close. Even if I were willing to go along with it, which I’m not, the mantle would almost certainly object. Rule Twelve specifically forbids the use of any magical prescience to a combatant’s advantage.”

“But what if I accidentally had a prophetic dream—” Talia argued, widening her eyes and spreading her hands in a show of hilariously unconvincing innocence.

“Talia, no,” Lin and I said in unison, cutting her off.

“No prophetic dreams, accidental or otherwise,” I warned Talia, holding up a finger. “Swear on your witch’s soul.”

“Fine, fine,” Talia groused as she stood from the couch and wandered toward the window, its pour of sepia light gilding her face. “I swear upon my stupid soul, my word is my bond, et cetera, ugh. Goddess forbid I be allowed to do anything actually helpful.”

“So if we’re all agreed, I guess I’ll head out,” Linden said, ignoring Talia’s grousing as she gathered up her vegan leather purse and looped her teal infinity scarf around her neck. “I promised my mom I’d double-check the orchard invoices this afternoon, if I had time. See you two this weekend? And give me a shout if any emergency scheming needs to go down in the meantime.”

With a quick smile and wave over her shoulder, she disappeared through the door, footsteps clattering down the spiral staircase. Without Linden in the room, the air between us seemed to grow both heavier and lighter all at once, like some kind of quantum paradox, as the molecules between us jostled to accommodate the sudden spike in tension.

“You doing anything right now, Harlow?” Talia asked, turning from the window to look at me.

“Nope,” I said, striving for a casual tone, even though my heart had seemingly switched places with a rabid hummingbird. “What did you have in mind?”

“Grab a quick coffee with me? I have some Emporium financials to run through when I get home, and . . .” She melted into a yawn, tipping back her head to expose the long line of her throat and stretching her arms high, with the languor of a rousing cat. How did she even yawn hotly—that shit wasn’t right. “This attic is like Rip Van Winkle land. I need some caffeine mainlined stat, and I’d rather not drink alone.”

Spending too much time in the Tomes attic did exert a dreamy effect, all that dense, bookish magic swirling in the air like some soporific mist. I’d taken more naps on the worn couch than I could count, back when I spent my summers working in the shop below, whatever book I’d been absorbed in splayed out on my chest, bleeding its magic right into my heart. The old cushions probably still held the contours of my body, a lingering imprint of the hours I’d spent here.