Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(72)

“Oh, no,” I moaned, reaching out frantically to call it back, unable to so much as budge it now that it had set its course. “No.”

“Shit,” Gareth muttered tightly beside me, jaw clenched so hard the muscles strained under his tanned skin, though he could see only Delilah’s distress and confusion, not what was happening to the bookstore. “Oh, this is very fucking bad.”

But the casting was beyond my control, a column of force all its own. A chain reaction that couldn’t be contained once it had been catalyzed by so much magic. I could only stand back helplessly and watch as it blew the centuries of careful wards into literal oblivion, leaving the books naked and defenseless while Delilah still sat sluggish behind the counter, blinking owlishly as she struggled to regain her bearings. Barely aware of our presence, much less of what was happening around her.

I ached at the thought of how she’d feel once she realized what was wrong with Tomes & Omens—and that she, its sacred guardian, couldn’t even remember how it had happened.

“We have to go,” Gareth was saying as he snatched up the stone and dragged me back toward the doors. “Now, Nina. Before she gets it together. Before anybody comes.”

And like the most abysmal of cowards, I went with him.





22





The Right Thing



When Morty found me that night, I was curled up on my sofa with my knees pressed to my chest, trembling so hard my teeth chattered.

Gareth had left me with strict instructions to do nothing, say nothing, until I heard from him. His assumption was that Emmy would have sensed the massive collapse of the wards at Tomes & Omens, recognized it as another magical fluctuation. But with Delilah’s memory erased, there was nothing to connect us—or any Blackmoore—to the incident. So we’d lie low, at least until the inevitable storm rolled in.

That was how my mind was insisting on referring to what had happened. The incident, in a stunted attempt to distance me from it as much as possible, diminish my responsibility. But it hadn’t been an incident, something that implied accident, a lack of fault. It had been a catastrophe, a tragedy of my own making.

The worst thing I’d ever done.

Worse yet, I missed Belisama’s stone with an ache that bordered on craving. I’d urged Gareth to take it with him, afraid I wouldn’t be able to resist the impulse to pick it up again, feel that gorgeous inferno crackle through me. Heedless, just like Delilah had said, of whatever might happen to the rest of Thistle Grove’s magic as a consequence of my own selfishness.

“Nina, what happened to you?” Morty said as he sat beside me, his face drawn with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“H-how did you g-get in here?” I managed through the clatter of my teeth, tugging my quilt closer to my chin, though even just his nearness comforted me a little, lent me a sliver of relief.

“Your door was unlocked. That would’ve tipped me off that something had gone very badly fucked, even if I hadn’t already known as much from afar.” He stared down at me, those brilliant eyes clouded with fear. “Nina, I felt it, through the bond—this . . . blaze. This wild euphoria from you. And then, just, terror. Remorse. Guilt.”

“It was me,” I whispered, biting down on the inside of my cheek until the pain became too sharp to withstand. I could feel tears leaking down my face, but I couldn’t even summon up the will to wipe them. My cheeks were already salty anyway, crusted from hours of silent crying. “I did . . . Morty, I did something awful. Something so, so bad.”

Moving slowly, with utmost gentleness, he reached down and pulled me upright, slipping an arm around my shoulders and letting me rest against him. I burrowed my cheek into his collar, inhaling the cologne-and-almond smell of him, the floral scent of his hair.

It beggared belief, the way he already smelled like home to me, when we’d barely even had a month of knowing each other.

“Will you tell me about it?” he asked, resting his cheek on the top of my head.

“Yes,” I said, shutting my eyes hard. “But I think . . . I’m pretty sure it’s going to make you hate me.”

“Impossible.” I could feel him shake his head against me, his arm tightening. “I could never. I know you, remember? I can feel you. Whatever you did, whatever mistake you made, you couldn’t regret it more. And that’s what counts, right, when it comes to fixing things.”

I took a shuddering breath, gathered myself a little. Then I told him, in dribbling bits and pieces, exactly what had happened at Tomes. What we’d learned from Delilah about me, what it had been like touching Belisama’s stone. What Delilah had concluded about my newfound power sucking magic away from the rest of the witches of Thistle Grove.

“But I could still cast,” Morty broke in. “You even said I was strong, for a beginner.”

“Because you’re a Blackmoore by affiliation,” I explained. “Thanks to your witch bond with me. Blackmoores seem to be exempt from the drainage, probably because they’re of my blood—things like that matter when it comes to magic. And to the lake, apparently. I’d assume being witchbound to a newly minted demigoddess might have something to do with it, too.”

“I wish I could’ve seen it,” he said, voice hushed with wonder. “You like a star, under all that water. That must have been epic. Colossal.”