Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(50)
“Morty!” I gasped, sputtering laughter as the ice swan continued to sway its neck from side to side, pressing more kisses onto my face with its sharp little bill like some overfamiliar European relative. It even reached its glittering wings out toward me, as if for a hug. “Are you serious right now?”
“Whaaaaaat?” he drawled, widening his eyes at me. “I nailed the charm, did I not? And please, you like it, you know you do. I know you do.”
“Maybe just a little,” I admitted, through helpless giggles. The swan would not quit getting in my face no matter how I dodged its parries, and there was something both completely darling and desperately comical about its efforts to plant another smooch on me. “Now let’s see if I can teach you the Disanimating Charm, before you make this bird try to elope with me.”
* * *
Once Morty had both the Animating Charm and its opposite down pat, I walked him through the rank and file of sculptures, having him animate and then release larger, more difficult shapes, ones that took even more focus and imagination. I also ran him through our complement of basic elemental conjuring and transmutation spells as well: heating and cooling, summoning up gusts of wind, turning one substance into another.
For whatever reason, transmutation delighted him the most, and he took to it the most readily. We spent over an hour with a mulberry bush, turning its branches to silver and back again, until beads of sweat stood out on Morty’s brow despite the cold.
“You need a break, Padawan,” I said, gently guiding him away from the shrub. “It’s not safe to push yourself this hard when you’ve just started learning.”
“Are you kidding?” he demanded, sheer joy blazing on his face; he really was a natural at it, stronger than many of the Blackmoore witches I knew who’d been born to the blood. “I could do this all day. Shit, I could do this forever, fuck everything else. This is goddamn amazing, Nina! I just . . . I had no idea it would feel this way, to have that kind of power. To feel the magic rushing inside you like that.”
“Believe me, I know,” I said quietly, feeling a little twist of chill that had nothing to do with the weather. “There’s nothing more intoxicating. Why do you think my family are the way they are, at least in part? Because we’ve been like this, this kind of strong, for centuries. It’s hard not to let it get to you, to keep things in perspective, when you feel a little like you could rule the world. Like the world should submit and let you rule it.”
“I could see that,” he said, face going solemn. “I really could. And to know I’m nowhere even close to the things you can do . . .”
“You could be, though,” I said. “I was just thinking about that. Your latent ability is impressive. You’re stronger than a lot of natural-born Blackmoore witches I know, the ones I grew up learning with. I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t learn to do everything I can.”
“So let’s keep going!” he demanded, bouncing from foot to foot again. “I’m not that tired, for real.”
I skimmed an appraising eye over him, noting the slight pallor against the flush of his cheeks, the overbright glaze in his eyes, then shook my head.
“Enough for today. I mean it, Morty. You can really hurt yourself like that, overexerting your talent. I’m not completely sure about this, but I think that especially holds true for someone who’s only just stepped into their magic.”
Morty blew an exaggerated sigh through his lips, mock sulking. “Fair enough, I suppose. Wouldn’t want to get hurt on your watch, Obi-Wan. So what else do you have on today? Wanna come hang with me at the Shamrock for a while? It’ll be pretty packed in there, but I can offer gin martinis on the house, along with whatever assorted bar snacks might tempt milady.”
“I can’t,” I said, with real regret. Another few hours in Morty’s company sounded delightfully enticing, and I couldn’t lie—the sorts of bar snacks he was likely to whip up for me were of almost equal appeal, as was the fact that his apartment was right upstairs, should we be inclined to visit it. “I’d love to, but I’m drowning in work. I’ll be playing catch-up for the rest of this afternoon, at least. Likely well into the evening, if I’m being realistic.”
“What about tomorrow? It’s Sunday lunch over at Casa Gutierrez. A potluck, basically; my sister and I come hang with our parents every week, and my sister—Meg—brings my niece, Marisol, too, when she’s not with her dad.” He glanced up at me through his lashes, almost bashful. “Maybe you’d want to come? Delicious food, excellent sangria, generally civil and typically uproarious conversation. It’s a good time, promise.”
“I’m sure it would be, but a family lunch?” I asked, balking. “With your family? I realize you probably don’t need reminders on this front, but you do recall I’m still a Blackmoore, right? Do you really think they’d want me there, under their roof, given . . . well, everything?”
Morty cupped my face with gloved hands, leaning in just enough to brush his nose lightly over mine. “You’re not some rando Blackmoore. You’re Nina.”
“But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” I insisted, though even as I argued against it, I realized how much I did want this, to steal a glimpse into this piece of his life that sounded nothing like mine. “You won’t be able to tell them about you and me. What I really am. Won’t that bother you? Won’t you hate it, keeping them in the dark like that?”