Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)(76)

For Talia’s sake, I had to at least give it one good shot.

“I cede the mantle, and my authority as Arbiter of the seventh Gauntlet of the Grove, to my cousin, Delilah Harlow,” I pronounced, my voice a thunderclap. “And I step in as combatant for House Avramov.”





29





The Word and the Dream, the Heart and the Eye


An absolute silence descended across Castle Camelot.

Then the Blackmoore matriarch’s shrill voice pierced the quiet, Igraine being terminally incapable of calming her tits in any situation not proceeding according to her design.

“You can’t do this!” she hissed up at me, her aquiline features thinned with outrage, like some bird of prey with its feathers ruffled. “This, this isn’t just highly irregular—it’s unacceptable, not to mention unlawful! The Harlows cannot compete in the Gauntlet, in any form!”

“Untrue,” I said calmly, because by now I knew I had the right of it—the mantle magic wasn’t objecting at all to my chosen course of action. Instead it pulsed inside me, steady and warm, like an internal reassurance that it still had my back. “The Harlows have traditionally recused themselves by choice, and then historical precedent, in order to arbitrate. Now I’m ceding the mantle and choosing to compete in Talia’s stead. All very much according to the letter of Grimoire law.”

“But . . . but that’s not how it’s done!” Igraine squawked, having run out of any objections based in fact.

“Maybe under normal circumstances, no—but under normal circumstances, Scion Blackmoore would have been competing against Scion Avramov herself in this tiebreak challenge,” I pointed out. “Are you really so afraid to have him face down a Harlow instead?”

She subsided at that a little, brow furrowing; I had a point. From her perspective, it wasn’t like I was much of a threat, and certainly less of one than Talia would have been.

Shit, from my perspective I wasn’t a serious threat. A Harlow witch was pretty much the weakest possible champion Talia could have asked for as an alternate—but I was what she had, and for her sake, I was sure as hell going to give it my all.

“Fine,” Igraine acquiesced, her mouth drawing purse-string tight. “We accept the substitution. Against our better judgment, let the record show.”

Rolling my eyes, I glanced over to the Thorns, more out of respect than anything else; it wasn’t like I needed their permission, any more than I’d needed Igraine’s.

“Of course we do, as well,” Gabrielle said, and beside her, Aspen inclined his head, a sideways smile tugging at his mouth, as though he couldn’t quite conceal his happiness at this fresh subversion. And from behind them, out of Igraine’s line of vision, my father shot me two sly thumbs-up that cheered me like not even the mantle could have, assured me that I was doing the right thing.

Then I looked down to Elena Avramov, startled to find that she was outright smiling at me; a real smile, shockingly tender, its sweetness out of place on her gorgeous storybook villainess’s face. It made her look even more painfully like Talia.

“You really do care for Natalia, don’t you?” she said, as I came over to kneel by Talia one more time before I left. “How interesting.”

I reached out to stroke those black drifts of hair and her clammy forehead, so unlike her normal warmth. “I really do,” I said, my belly pulsing with ache. “I wish I didn’t have to leave her like this.”

Elena squeezed my upper arm, mouth setting firm. “My daughter’s strong, and you can trust that we’ve got her from here. We all know how to guard against inhabitations—it’s one of the very first things Avramov witches learn when they begin to wield their magic. She’ll know what to do to ride the banishment out, to keep herself safe inside her mind.”

“But you said there were . . . many,” I said, my breath snagging in my throat. “What if she, what if . . .”

“You let me worry about Natalia,” the elder said, squeezing me again; warm but brisk, like a fellow in arms, her shimmery jade eyes turning implacable. “While you go and sweep this whole damned thing in my daughter’s name.”



* * *





Ten minutes later, I was back outside the castle with Gareth and Rowan. I’d already handed the mantle over to Delilah, who, while struggling to contain her near rapture at this unexpected turn of events, had also been surprisingly gracious about the transfer of power.

“Thanks, Emmy,” she’d murmured as I slung it over her shoulders. “I know you’re not doing it for me, but . . . anyway. Still.”

“You’re welcome, Lilah,” I’d whispered back, giving her hair a little tug; remembering that once, when we were little and before we’d chosen such diverging paths, we’d actually been friends. “Like you said—you were the one who stayed. Maybe you should have had it all along. Either way, you’ve got it from here.”

Now she towered over us, her head blotting out the spangle of stars behind her; the ends of her long hair lifting with the wind, her warm brown eyes larger than life. The way she stood, the moon seemed to be sitting just above her brow, like an impromptu crown. A startling wash of pride engulfed me to see my exasperating cousin like this, just as beautiful and terrible as Tolkien’s elven queen during her brief tenure with the infamous ring.