Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(55)
“You liked them,” Morty said as he walked me out hours later, my arms heavy with the bags of leftovers Fiona had pressed on me—not that I’d protested overmuch. Behind us, the Gutierrez windows glowed like cutout squares of light suspended against the wintry afternoon darkness of the sky. I could feel Morty’s pleasure radiating through the bond, luminous in itself, the gratification of having had everything play out exactly as he’d hoped. “And they liked you, too, I could tell.”
“Despite themselves,” I pointed out. “But they did seem to, yes. I do think the caramel apple cake helped the cause.”
“That cake could facilitate world peace, given the chance. Excellent call.” He held up his fist for a bump, and I laughingly met it with my shoulder, my arms too laden with bags. “And for real, you didn’t even need the boost. Ma told me to tell you she’d love to have you back, and she’s not one to extend invitations for courtesy’s sake. She and Meg, they’re cut from the same cloth when it comes to stuff like that. Neither of them waste much time on anything just to be polite.”
“In that case, please thank both your parents for me, and tell them that I’d be more than happy to come by again. Obviously, I’ll send them a thank-you note, too.” I tipped my head to the side, gave him a little closed-lip smile. “And thank you, for inviting me—I really loved being with them. They’re exactly as wonderful as you said. More so, even, which is kind of wild.”
“Maybe next time, you’ll even stay for movie night.”
“Let’s not rush it. In the meantime, how’s Wednesday for your next session, Padawan? I can take a half day, if that’s good for you. Things should be a little calmer by then at work.”
“That’s perfect for me,” he murmured, leaning forward to close the distance between us in a lingering kiss that made me wish I hadn’t set the date for three days from now. “Can’t wait, Obi-Wan.”
18
The One Who’s in Charge
What would you say is the most badass thing?” Morty asked. We’d been in the graveyard for three hours, practicing his magic under a cloudless cobalt sky so pure and brilliant with cold it looked somehow transparent. Morty had refused all breaks, afire with enthusiasm, drunk on his own new abilities—and infinitely adorable in his infatuation. “The spell you like the most, the one that feels both the hardest and coolest to pull off?”
“Portal magic,” I replied, barely even having to consider it. “Folding space and time to create a gateway for yourself, transport from one place to another almost instantly.”
His jaw hinged open. “Are you . . . you can do that? Like, teleportation? You can go anywhere with it?”
“Exactly like that, yes. That’s why I never lost my magic, even when I went to school in New York. I just portaled back here whenever I needed a refresh, to keep my connection with Lady’s Lake open.”
He cocked his head, curious, in a way that made loose dark strands fall into those bright eyes most enticingly. “So why don’t all of you do that, when you’re away from here? Seems like an obvious workaround to magic waning with distance.”
“Because it’s both very difficult and very dangerous,” I said, feeling a not-inconsiderable burst of pride at my own abilities, even pre–magical surplus. “To my knowledge, only Blackmoores are strong enough to cast a portal at all—and just a handful of us, at that. My grandmother and mother can both portal. So can Gareth, but he’s garbage at it, so he barely ever tries. And like with any other skill, you only get better with practice.”
“But you can do it, right?” he said, and the sheer confidence in his voice—the absolute lack of doubt in me—warmed me all the way through.
“I can,” I agreed, ducking my head to hide my spreading blush. “I’m, uh, actually fairly proficient at it.”
“Will you show me?” he said, awash in eagerness, his eyes so keen on mine when I looked back up that I felt myself go a little breathless. “Because, damn, I would give almost anything to see that. A kidney? A firstborn? Name your price.”
“We don’t have to go full Rumpelstiltskin over it,” I said, laughing. “It’s more safety that’s my concern.”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m willing to take whatever risk to experience something like that,” he said, with a devil-may-care shrug.
“Sounds like something lowkeyloki would say,” I teased.
He scrunched up his pert nose, tossing me a rakish smirk. “Chose that handle for a reason, right? I’m dead serious, though. As long as you’re not the one who might get hurt, I’m absolutely game.”
I nibbled at my lip, mulling it over. On the one hand, casting anything at all seemed like an untenably huge risk right now, when I was so volatile; that was why I’d been holding back, not trying to teach Morty anything by example. On the other, unlike the havoc I’d wreaked on Gawain’s and Gareth’s spells with my flares of temper, my own castings had only ever been much stronger in my current state—unpredictably stronger, yes, but stable in their tremendously enhanced power. Portaling was demanding enough at the best of times, and if I was going to try taking Morty with me . . . maybe this was close to the perfect time to attempt it. When I was so overstuffed with magic that I felt confident I could portal myself with barely any effort, and transport the both of us with only slightly more exertion.