Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(48)

“My dance card’s wiiiide open,” I said, heart leaping into a shameless frenzy at the notion of an entire undisturbed night with her. “Were you thinking Carbondale, or is decent sushi within town lines another development I’ve missed?”

“As it happens, there’s a new place right here in town, opened last year. Very decent, bordering on cool.” A taunting flash of a smile, followed by a quirked eyebrow. “Not quite Michelin starred, but I think you might be surprised by how much you won’t hate it.”

“Hey, after how wrong I was about the coffee, I have zero legs to stand on,” I said, holding up my hands. “Happy to go anywhere you want to take me.”

“Careful how you phrase things, Harlow,” she said as she pushed back from the table with a scrape of her chair, the flicker of a smile widening into something simmering and slow. “I’m a wicked Avramov, remember? And that sounds suspiciously like a dare.”





17





Petals Caught in Amber


I couldn’t decide what to wear.

It was ridiculous, especially given that I’d been mentally rehearsing for this date for the last two days. And in typical Emmy fashion, I’d overpacked so extensively for my Thistle Grove stay that I might as well have shipped my entire wardrobe here; I was swimming in options. Yet given the level of overthinking involved, you’d have thought I was solving a logarithm for the meaning of life, instead of picking an outfit for a date with someone I’d already made out with in a haunted forest. Dressing for a more conventional night out should have been a breeze.

But my clothes weren’t the problem, I finally realized. That I was nervous—high-school-crush, first-date, clammy-hands nervous—was the problem. I didn’t normally get pre-date jitters at all, but with Talia, there was always that sense of tempting danger that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, the potential for some hazardous derailing of my path. A loss of the painstaking control I’d cultivated for so many years.

And while the night at the woods and our coffee date had just kind of happened on their own, this was different; this was premeditated. This was me and Talia, drinks and dinner, the entire night unwinding before us like a dark, enticing trail.

Leading into some unknown forest maybe even deeper than the Witch Woods.

“Oh, do get a fucking grip, Harlow,” I muttered to myself, as I wriggled into yet another pair of pants. “You’re getting sushi, not eloping with her into the underworld.”

By the time I made it to Arami, I’d managed to more or less contain my nerves. I had to admit, the space was stylish—fitted with concrete blocks, gleaming chrome, and stark industrial finishes, a graffiti-inspired mural of a female samurai painted behind the pipes that snaked across the ceiling. Not a hint of Halloween to be seen anywhere in the edgily upscale decor.

I found Talia waiting for me at the bar, votives floating in lotus-shaped glass bowls all along its length.

“There you are,” she said, smiling as I slid in next to her, her eyes feathering admiringly over me. After all my excessive agonizing, the faux snakeskin booties, metallic-finish moto leggings, and midnight blue blouse patterned with moody, abstract dahlias had clearly been the right choice—along with a sassy pop of hot-pink gloss to seal the deal. “And in such fine fettle. You clean up nice, Harlow.”

“Likewise, Avramov.” Her heavy waves were pinned up again, and the silky halter top she wore, looped around her neck by a dainty black chain rather than fabric, was the color of pomegranates. For all that I’d been convincing myself that she wasn’t about to seduce me into the nether realms, in the flickering spill of candlelight she was porcelain pale and raven haired as any of the underworld’s sultrier denizens.

“Our table’s not ready yet.” She ran a black-tipped finger up the stem of her martini glass before nudging it toward me. “Sake and prickly pear martini, if you want to try. Not Morty caliber, but still pretty good. And not even a hint of liquefied gummy worm, so no worries there.”

“Wow, solid callback,” I said, sputtering with laughter over my sip. “I’m duly impressed.”

“I do always try my very best,” she deadpanned. I could feel her eyes tracing my profile as I ordered the same cocktail, the heat of her gaze almost tangible. “So, don’t keep me hanging. Does this place pass muster, or shall we drink and ditch?”

“Obviously I can’t be definitive before the food. But I’ll concede that so far, it beats most of my Chicago haunts—you know, the places I can actually afford to go,” I admitted. “My real favorites are in the fifteen-dollar-cocktail range. Not the path toward quashing student debt.”

“Fifteen, for a cocktail?” Talia shook her head in disbelief, reminding me that she’d never ventured far enough from Thistle Grove to encounter shockingly overpriced beverages. “Could that possibly be worth it?”

“Unfortunately, sometimes, yes.”

I told her about some of my favorites: Violet Hour in Wicker Park, with its gauzily curtained rooms and cocktails bordering on alchemy; the historic Pub at the U of Chicago, with its impossibly ornate wooden paneling, which you could enter only with a card-carrying member and which looked like somewhere elitist wizards went to fetch themselves hot toddies; the narrow Parisian-themed bar on Division, with the velvet wallpaper, where they sometimes did magic burlesque shows.