Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(28)
As a result, my body didn’t quite know how to process this rapid turnaround, nor the seemingly genuine offer of a cease-fire.
“Okay, sure,” I said slowly, trying to wrestle my fight-or-flight response down as I took his hand. His was warm against my own cool palm, his grip firm and reassuring, the tiniest bit electric when he squeezed mine back. “Yes, we are now operating strictly under truce terms. Do you think we could maybe . . . toast to that, or something? I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling like I could use a drink.”
He broke into a crooked smile at that, dazzling and completely unexpected, and I felt the high color in my cheeks transmute into another type of alchemical reaction entirely.
“Dang, I should’ve been the one to suggest that,” he said, shaking his head. “Where are my manners? Peace always deserves a toast, right? Will you have a malbec? Gin martini?”
“You remembered,” I said, absurdly pleased he’d been paying attention at the Moon and Scythe, before everything went haywire between us.
“Another occupational hazard. I never forget a drink order. Especially when—” He cut himself off, giving himself a little shake. If I looked closely, I thought I could detect the slightest rise of color in his own clean-shaven cheeks, which was . . . curious. “Never mind. Which will it be?”
“Gin martini, please,” I said, wondering what he’d been about to say.
“Solid. I believe I’ll join you.”
By the time he slid my martini in front of me, the chilled glass already sweating, I’d coaxed myself back into some modicum of calm using the mantra Sassy Sue had taught me many sessions ago. You’re in no danger from this person. He holds no power over you, nor any license to do you harm.
You are who you are, and his opinion of you is not dispositive of anything.
It didn’t always help, but tonight it had, especially when boosted by the fact that Morty had actually already apologized. When he lifted his own glass and said, “To peace,” I caught myself smiling back at him as I clinked my rim against his. The martini was flawless, icy and dry, and I felt myself relax incrementally more as soon as it hit my tongue.
Then I realized, as we both finished our sips, let out matching little sighs, and set our glasses back onto the bar, that Morty and I were unintentionally moving in perfect tandem.
“Oh, what now,” Morty said, noticing my expression. “Whatever it is, seems like it can’t be good.”
“It isn’t,” I said shortly, picking my glass right back up and taking another swig. “But we’ll get to that part. Let’s start with . . . hell, I don’t even know. The basics. The very beginning, maybe. You’re familiar with the tale of the founders, correct? The four people who established Thistle Grove?”
“Well, yeah, sure,” he said, in the tone of an adult indulging a child. “Caelia Blackmoore, Alastair Thorn, Elias Harlow, and Margarita Avramov. The ‘witches’ who founded the town because the lake was special somehow. Cute story for the tourists. Shades of Salem right here in Illinois, except without any of the burning at stake, or the grotesque misogyny.”
“So, for starters, you can ditch the finger quotes, because the founders were real witches. And Lady’s Lake is a magical font.” I twitched my chin at his hands. “That light you can summon out of nowhere? It’s called witchlight. It’s a beginner’s working, one of the easiest spells in the Grimoire—which is the book that holds all the spells the four families share between them.”
“The Grimoire,” he repeated, staring at me slack-jawed, disbelief stamped across his face. “Okay, setting aside the fact that we are apparently now living in Wicked: The Musical—”
“That book was called the Grimmerie, actually,” I corrected, wrinkling my nose. “Weird take on the spelling, wasn’t a fan. The soundtrack mostly slaps, though.”
Morty huffed an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Cool, let’s table the crucial discussion of the merits of ‘Defying Gravity’ versus ‘As Long As You’re Mine.’ But you’re—you’re seriously saying that the story is real? All of it?”
“All of it,” I said firmly, spreading my hands. “My own ancestress, Caelia Blackmoore, was descended from Morgan le Fay. You might’ve heard of her—legendary sorceress, twelfth-ish century, generally considered King Arthur’s half sister?”
“I know who she is,” he said, in the leaden, seminumb tones of someone whose reality was spiraling away from them with disturbing speed. “I’ve seen The Mists of Avalon. And Camelot. And Merlin. And the BBC Merlin reboot.”
I tipped my head, unable to resist a jab. “For someone who rags on Castle Camelot with such regularity, you certainly seem familiar with the underlying lore.”
He let out a strangled little laugh, dropping his head into his hands, elbows propped on the bar. “I truly cannot believe we’re having this tripped-out conversation. And that you just casually dropped the term ‘lore’ on me.”
“Like I said. Attorney by day, profound nerd by night,” I replied, with a shrug of my own. I was starting to perversely enjoy myself a little, seeing Morty thrown this way. It made me feel like maybe I could actually regain the upper hand. “Never seen an episode of any Housewives in my life, not that I judge anyone who has.”