Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(48)
“Why?” I said, shifting closer to him on the bench until we sat thigh pressed against thigh, sensing that he wanted me even nearer. “What’s changed?”
“My dad has MS,” he said, a muscle flickering in his fine jaw. “We found out definitively about six months ago, though he’d been sick for a good while before; we just didn’t know what it was. That was why he retired early in the first place, passed on the Shamrock to me for the day-to-day. He got the formal diagnosis right around the same time your family started gunning for the bar. And it just felt like, damn, being at war all the time. A different battle to fight every day.”
“Oh, no,” I breathed, guilt lashing painfully at my insides, even as I felt the electric twinging of Morty’s own fresh pain. “I’m . . . Morty, I am so, so sorry!”
“You couldn’t have known.” He flicked up a shoulder, glanced up at the sky. “And like you said, you were just doing your job.”
“Well, yes, and High Queen Lyonesse’s cruel bidding,” I said with a sour twist, though I knew full well that was only part of the truth. Damaged as we all were, the entire family took pride in our holdings and the idea of expanding them; they were the one thing binding us together. It was very possible I’d been more forceful and dogged than another attorney might have been, because I’d bought so heavily into the idea, too. “And to be honest, it’s never just business with Blackmoores. You’re right about us; everyone is. My family does feel a certain entitlement toward this town, after so many centuries of all but running it.”
“I have met your brother,” Morty reminded me, but gently. “Though now that I know what’s up behind the scenes, I may have to permanently retire ‘fuckweasel.’?”
“Many thanks,” I said dryly. “But I really am sorry, for bringing even more of a burden to your family.”
“On the upside, my pops is doing much better these days,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders and tugging me closer. “The meds have helped in slowing the progression, and he’s in physical therapy, too. I always go with him, for moral support. That’s where I was supposed to be, actually, when my hands turned radioactive the morning after our date.”
“Also courtesy of me,” I muttered. “Along with immaculate timing, I really do give the best gifts.”
“You do, though. I’m really not that averse to developing sudden superpowers,” he said with a wink, clearly unwilling to dwell on heavier subjects. “Didn’t even have to get bit by a mutagenic spider or anything! Nor am I against very memorable non-cemetery-appropriate activities. So maybe we can call it even for the moment.”
“Speaking of the superpowers,” I said, getting up and extending a hand to him. “Want to go break yours in a little?”
16
Ice Swans and Silver Mulberry Bushes
I’d brought Morty to the cemetery because, in typically (and macabrely) charming Thistle Grove fashion, this was where the town held its annual ice sculpture contest.
Over by the frozen pond that glittered beneath the circle of weeping willows near the center of the graveyard, Morty and I wandered through open space filled with row upon row of sparkling creations. Swans and peacocks, horse-drawn carriages and rings of fairies, lounging mermaids and whales spouting water, frozen archways so elaborate and fantastical they looked like they might lead to realms unknown. There was even an old-timey locomotive exhaling icy smoke, big enough for little kids to sit in. And subzero as it was, there was no one around admiring the sculptures today; perfect for my purposes.
Why the town chose to hold the contest here rather than in the Thistle Grove square, on the common, or even up by Lady’s Lake was unclear—but there was no question the sculptures looked particularly stunning here, set against the ice-crackled pond and the bare black flourishes of the overhanging trees, the snow-shimmered crypts rising in the distance.
“We’re going to start with animation,” I said, leading Morty over to the swan sculpture. I’d chosen to kick things off with one of the first spells Blackmoores learned; visually impressive, but deceptively simple to execute compared to some of our other elemental castings. “Turning inanimate matter into something that mimics life, without actually being sentient.”
“Holy shit, no way!” Morty said, breaking into a boyishly delighted grin, practically bouncing from boot to boot with excitement. “We talking, like, Fantasia? Dancing brooms and all that jazz?”
“Actually, yes,” I said, grinning back, feeling the pure rush of his delight surge through the bond as if it were my own. “But honestly, even better. I’m not going to demonstrate for you, because goddess only knows what would happen if I tried. Probably I’d raise an army of ice statues to march on Thistle Grove, or something even worse. And I’m trying my best to keep today’s forecast clear of any cataclysmic occurrences.”
His brow wrinkled. “Then how will I learn it?”
“Start by thinking about how you summoned witchlight the other day,” I directed. “Both in the morning on your own, and later at the Avalon. You began with a wish, right? A clear desire, a willful thought. It was probably a very strong one, too; any witch can manifest a witchlight even without using the most common spell for it, but it’s generally much harder to do without the incantation. So, gold star to you, you’re already ahead of the class.”