Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(62)

“Because that’s what it means to be a Harlow, my Emmy. Thistle Grove is where we become who we are. Which means that no matter where you turn, where you visit or escape to, this will always be the place that calls you back.”





22





You Beastly Child


Talia’s bedroom was not what I expected.

I’d arrived at The Bitters at half past eleven for the séance Talia and I had planned. Over the past few days, we’d all come up empty on practicable suggestions from our respective elders. The Thorns had chosen to stay out of our scheming altogether, and once I’d calmed down enough to give Nana Caro the scoop about the pact, she hadn’t had any secret battle magics up her sleeve, besides the sheer ferocity with which she approved of our intentions; as far as she was concerned, the Blackmoores had had it coming for a long, long time.

So unless you wanted to count Elena Avramov’s philosophical musings about what really constituted a curse—which Linden and I were not willing to do—we were back to square one.

Then inspiration struck, and Talia had the notion to summon Margarita Avramov’s spirit for help.

“And the best part is, it won’t be cheating,” Talia had said when we met to talk it over at Angelina’s Diner the day before, her eyes shining with that brash eagerness I was coming to recognize as her default state. “I won’t ask her anything about what’s going to happen, which is the biggest faux pas, right? I’ll just politely request any . . . thoughts and comments she might have on the Gauntlet. Leave it nice and open-ended, let the Dread Lady take it from there. I mean, she cowrote the rules, she’ll know what’s out of bounds.”

“Welp, that’s a no from me, buds!” Lin said, slapping her palms onto the table. “Count me right out. Any ancestor that goes by “Dread Lady” is one ancestor I do not need to meet.”

I considered the idea, arms crossed over my chest.

“I don’t think it violates any of the Gauntlet rules,” I said, with cautious interest. I was still so rattled by the revelations that had come to light at Nana Caro’s that even planning a risky-ish endeavor felt like a nice change of mental scenery. “I mean, we’ll be playing in the gray, like you said, but it’s not like soliciting advice is prohibited. If we’re careful about our wording, I think we should be in the clear.”

And though I wasn’t about to say so, I couldn’t deny a certain level of personal fascination. I’d never witnessed a true Avramov séance, which they kept locked down to members of their close-knit clan, and those who were willing to pay steeply for the privilege. And the thought of seeing Talia in her element, like she’d been that night in the Witch Woods, held its own glimmering appeal.

“Fuck yes!” Talia had hissed, pounding a fist onto the table. “You and me, then, Harlow. It’s gonna be bomb.”

Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what I’d even thought her bedroom would be like. A macabre chic aesthetic, maybe, heavy on skulls, melted candles, and flocked wallpaper in the obligatory shades of black and red. Possibly a snake or two. Instead, Talia’s suite was elegant and pretty, not a reptile in sight, and smelled distractingly like a distillation of her perfume. The bed was huge—which did actually track with my expectations—with a spindrift mass of pillows and comforters, and a button-tufted velvet headboard in a lovely shade of teal. A stunning chandelier hung above it from the coffered ceiling, like a more bafflingly intricate version of those birdcage lighting fixtures you saw at Restoration Hardware and knew you could never afford.

Talia smiled when she saw me craning my neck to admire it. “Micah made that for me,” she said, naming her little brother, the second-to-youngest Avramov. “Without magic, imagine that. Kid is surprisingly good with his hands.”

I wandered over to admire one of the haunting watercolors that hung on the gray walls. They were all of nightscapes, a fine balance between dark and bright; deep dusk edged with the ruffles of aurora borealis, or shimmering spills of galaxies like cosmic treasure chests. Each was lightly infused with magic, just enough to stir the stars into a slow, hypnotic sea of motion. Leaning in for a closer look, I could just make out Talia’s name in the corner in a jagged scrawl.

“You painted these?” I asked, glancing at her over my shoulder with eyebrows raised. “How many secret talents do you even have?”

“I’m trying to parcel them out slow, for maximum effect,” she said, leaning against the wall with one foot up, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “But now does feel like the time to tell you I can also whistle like a fucking nightingale.”

“See, that’s just not fair,” I complained. “No one person needs baking and painting and whistling, not to mention necromancy. Really gilding the lily over there.”

“What can I say?” She gestured showily at herself. “I’m extraordinarily well rounded.”

We lapsed into a silence that quickly grew velvety and dense, both of us intensely aware of the proximity of Talia’s foamy bed. Or at least one of us was intensely aware of it; images from our interrupted night seared through my brain like a meteor shower.

Talia cleared her throat and looked away, a smile twitching at her lips. “Speaking of necromancy, it’s almost time. We need to pull the trigger at seven minutes past midnight.”