Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(30)
“Went to The Bitters for a few of his parties, even,” he continued, shaking his head. “And yeah, it was goth as fuck in there, but I figured that was just their vibe. Didn’t look like the house had any chicken legs or anything. And wouldn’t you know it, he never thought to mention anything about ectoplasm!”
“That’s because we’re not allowed to tell normies about the magic,” I clarified. “It’s part of the rules the Grimoire sets out, for the witch community of Thistle Grove. Only long-term partners get to hear about it, and are able to retain the information. Know about it without forgetting.”
His face darkened as he considered this. “Yeah, what’s that about, anyway? Why couldn’t I remember Gareth slinging sparks around all those times?”
“It’s because of something called an oblivion glamour,” I explained, feeling a strange, creeping hint of embarrassment. “A large-scale forgetting spell cast over the town’s normie population, for our safety. So, you know, you don’t realize you’re living side by side with a host of tremendously powerful witches, whom you might then be moved to burn. Or send to fringe-science government facilities as specimens.”
He stared at me for a moment, silent, azure eyes shifting between mine.
“So, you keep us hypnotized, basically,” he finally said, delicate features stony. “Just living in the dark, like a bunch of thralls. No idea what this town really is. What all of you really are.”
“It’s for our safety,” I argued, though that flare of embarrassment sparked again, stronger this time. He had a point; I knew that much and always had. Otherwise I wouldn’t feel as guilt-sick as I often did, keeping so much of the truth of my life from Jessa.
I just didn’t want to know it.
“What about our safety?” he challenged. “Not to mention our agency or autonomy. You know, all those minor concerns that could ostensibly be considered human rights. How do we not get any say in this equation? What if some of us wouldn’t even want to live here, knowing what you are? What if we figured, hey, building our lives next to a whole mess of wildly powerful witches might possibly be dangerous?”
“I know it’s not a perfect solution,” I said, looking down at my hands. They seemed so innocent curled up on the bar top with their nude manicure, the one simple silver ring set with a tiny ruby on my right index finger. So deceptively harmless. And yet, those were the same hands that had called down Uriel’s Flame to counter a pack of ice wraiths that had probably manifested because of me in the first place.
None of the normies who’d visited Castle Camelot for some light Sunday entertainment had consented to any of that.
“And morally, yes, maybe a little gray,” I went on, trying not to sound as defensive as I felt. “But it was the best the founders could come up with, for protecting themselves and their descendants.”
“Then maybe it’s time for you all to put your arcane little heads together,” he said testily, taking another sharp swallow of his martini like a shot, “and come up with something better—not to mention more ethical. I assume you do have some kind of leader, right? Some manner of government. Not like any normie law could really touch you, not if you can whip out Jedi mind tricks without breaking a sweat.”
I winced at the vicious twist he gave the word, making it sound like the slur that, admittedly, it often was. “We do. There’s a quorum of us, charged with making decisions that affect the community as a whole. And we have a position called a Victor of the Wreath, too. Essentially the person who calls the shots.”
“And who might that be?” He huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Someone else I’ve dated?”
“Right now, it’s Emmeline Harlow. Not sure if you know her.”
“Emmy! Get out, she’s a witch, too?” His face brightened annoyingly at the mention of her name, as if we couldn’t all be bad, not if Emmy Harlow was one of us. “I do know her, yeah, we went to school together. She’s good people.”
Swallowing down my irritation, I gave him a brief rundown of Emmy’s family and the dual role she played for the town, followed by an introduction to the Thorns, our green magicians and healers. By this point, he’d transitioned to a kind of rapt, awed acceptance—a radiant wonder at the notion that magic was real, and here, right in front of him.
An unlikely myth he was now living in.
“So how do I play into all of this?” he asked, fixing me with a keen blue stare. “Why am I suddenly a Padawan witch? Isn’t that shit supposed to happen on your sixteenth birthday, or some other milestone moment? As opposed to out of the blue on a random morning, when you were just trying to shave?”
“Ah, no,” I said, feeling the heat pooling into my cheeks again—because this was where things were going to get tricky. “As far as we know, there are only two ways to become a Thistle Grove witch. One, you’re simply born into one of the four families, part of a magical bloodline.”
“That one’s definitely not me,” he said, with a decisive shake of the head. “My parents are for absolute sure my real parents, no shady dalliances there. All you have to do is look at them. What’s the other way?”
I cleared my throat, twisting my ring around my finger. “You fall in love with one of us, and become our long-term partner. It’s called being witchbound. Usually there’s, um, a formal ceremony. It’s actually quite ritualized.”