Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(26)
I gave a grudging nod, hating absolutely everything about this. But Gareth had a point; we couldn’t afford this kind of negative attention, not right now. Especially not as we were considering expanding Camelot again, trying to restore some of the lost dignity to our family name.
“So, what do you suggest? I keep quiet on this for a minute, but how long? And in the meantime, what, do I even tell Lyonesse?”
Gareth physically balked at the mention of our mother, taking a swig of scotch to fortify himself.
“Uh, no, have you met our esteemed lady mother?” he demanded. “I can’t even predict which way she’d flip her shit over this, so let’s not inflict that grief on ourselves just yet. I say we just sit on it for a while. That’s what the quorum agreed on, anyway—watchful waiting, no further action for the moment. Emmy doesn’t love it; she’d rather lock in precautionary measures right now. But everyone else wasn’t having it.”
I nodded, unsurprised. Thistle Grove witches thrived on our magic, our connection with the lake and the town. I couldn’t see anyone, not even the seasoned elders, leaping on the idea of restricting our spellwork when things had gone awry only once. We all loved it too much for that.
“And in the meantime,” I said slowly, “I could try to get to the bottom of this on my own. See if I can figure out what even happened, somehow reverse it.”
“We,” Gareth corrected. “I’m in this with you now, sis. A Blackmoore team effort. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said, a smile reluctantly tugging at my mouth. I’d never thrown my lot in with my brother’s before, at least not willingly—but this time, he wasn’t just stepping up in some symbolic way. He was making actual, logical sense. I could see how this might be the correct path to take, at least for now. The one least likely to harm our family, among other significant considerations.
“Sick,” he said, reaching out to grab my fork and spear a remaining clump of poutine fries. “So now that we’re decided, back to that guy. The bartender.”
“Play nice, brother,” I warned. “You know his name.”
“Right, right.” He shoved the pilfered fries in his mouth and chewed contemplatively, brow creasing. “Why was Morty, Bartender-by-Profession-but-So-Much-More-than-That-in-Spirit, here with you? What’d he want, anyway?”
“Well,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “I think whatever happened at the lake had another unintended effect. I think he and I . . . I’m fairly sure we’re witchbound, now.”
10
Definitely Not Just a Lawyer
The Shamrock Cauldron looked like it had been designed to serve as a preview of my own personal hell.
For one thing, I hadn’t been prepared to be the only person there, besides Morty himself; I’d figured there’d be at least a few customers around, enough to disperse the tension between us, bleed off some of the nervous energy I was bringing to the table. But I’d arrived to find the shamrock-shaped neon Closed sign glaring at me in the window in what felt like a personal affront, the door locked until Morty appeared to unbolt it at my tentative knock.
“Aren’t you usually open on Sunday nights?” I’d asked, as if this banality really mattered—though I did dimly remember my brother heading here to top off one of his rager weekends a time or two, with his usual obnoxious retinue of cousins and various hangers-on.
“My bar, my rules,” he replied with a shrug, standing aside stiffly to let me brush past him before shouldering the door closed against a wrenching blast of freezing wind. “So, this Sunday, we’re closed.”
Now I perched awkwardly on one of the stools at the bar, while Morty wiped down tumblers with an aggressive zeal that had probably never been inflicted upon that poor innocent glassware before. He was wearing a simple, well-worn black tee over very tight ripped jeans and work boots, and even this pared-down look was distressingly attractive on his lean frame. No eyeliner tonight, either, just that brilliant blue glare. I was trying my level best to keep my gaze locked on my own reflection in the mirror behind the staggered shelves, to avoid the twin downfalls of staring at him and becoming shell-shocked by the psychedelic decor. The walls were an unruly carnival of clashing color and glitter, plastered with sparkling shamrocks and neon signs, while Halloween bat-and-pumpkin string lights looped above the bar in chaotic whirls, flashing in patterns seemingly designed to incite seizures. There was even some unholy Travesty of Tackiness sprawling in one corner: what looked like a plastic science skeleton sporting a jauntily tipped leprechaun’s top hat, purple Mardi Gras beads, and a ukulele on its lap.
I couldn’t bring myself to believe people came here on purpose, and yet. On the upside, at least it didn’t smell like stale beer. More like cinnamon and orange peel, surprisingly festive and appetizing.
“I take it milady doesn’t wholly approve of my establishment,” Morty said, flicking a challenging glance in my direction, accompanied by a sarcastic little head wag. “Shocker.”
“No, it’s—no,” I said hastily, trying to rearrange my face out of whatever expression I’d been unwittingly making. “It’s just extremely . . . colorful? Quite a lot happening, everywhere?”
“Oh, feel free to hate it, milady,” he said with another shrug. “No skin off this humble servant’s nose, believe me.”