Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(73)

“It was,” I whispered, my voice tear-blurred again. “That’s—that was the problem. I loved it. It felt beyond wonderful, better than anything ever has. But Delilah was going to go to Emmy with it, report me. Which I understand, of course. She’s a Harlow, and the next master recordkeeper to boot. It’s her duty, her responsibility. But I . . . I couldn’t. I couldn’t just let her take it away from me like that, without even giving me time to think.”

I could feel a slight stiffening in Morty’s body where I pressed against it, followed by a slow nod. “Okay. So what did you do, Nina? How did you talk her out of it?”

“I didn’t. I made her forget,” I forced out, through numb lips. Little bits of me had been going numb and then tingly since I’d gotten home; I was starting to wonder if I was in shock. “I used an oblivion glamour, like the one cast over the town. But I needed her to forget everything that had happened—having seen me and Gareth, having found out about me and Belisama. Having given me the stone to touch.”

“Oh, Nina.” This time there was something like dread in his voice, a terrible resignation. “You didn’t.”

“I did. And the glamour . . . it was much stronger than it should have been, because of what I am now.” I licked my lips, swallowed through a throat that felt like corn husks. “I don’t know how much she’s forgotten, what else she might have lost. And it didn’t stop with her, either; it affected the entire store. All the wards the Harlows had cast over it for centuries are gone now. Like they forgot themselves. I didn’t even know spells could do that.”

We lapsed into silence for a moment, breathing together in that uncanny witchbound tandem. With the bond open between us, I could feel his reaction as it developed, track it in real time. Fear for me, profound sadness for the Harlows, followed by judgment, censure, even a touch of revulsion. Though the bond wasn’t telepathic, I could piece his thoughts together. He understood how and why it had happened, because he felt it, could trace the contours of my own motivations—and he didn’t hate me, like he’d promised me.

But he was also furious with me for what I’d done, and he believed with unshakable certainty that I should turn myself in. Take responsibility.

All the things I’d been afraid I’d sense from him, knowing how revolted he was by even the basic version of the oblivion glamour, and the notion that normies should be constantly plied with it.

“You know what you have to do, right?” he said. “There’s only one way out here.”

“Morty—” I began, seeing where this was going.

“No.” He cut me off, every muscle in his lean torso going rigid against me. “No, Nina. You need to go to Emmy, immediately. Right now. Return the stone, tell her what happened, do what you can to help her fix Delilah and the wards. And figure out a way to reverse this blessing, give back what isn’t yours.”

“But the Lady gave me her favor,” I argued, drawing away from him. “And the lake is hers, isn’t it, along with its magic? And the town, too, by extension. Maybe she wants me to have this. To . . . to be this.”

“At the expense of every other witch in Thistle Grove?” he challenged, fixing me with such a severe, unflinching stare that I wanted to disappear, melt into the couch. “Is that who you want to be, Nina? A demigoddess, powerful beyond reckoning, while everyone else—people you know, people in your own community—lose what they had? How would you feel if someone else did that to you?”

I sagged back against the couch, crossing my arms tightly around myself.

“No,” I said finally. “I don’t want to cause that kind of loss. But . . . there’s my family to consider, too. What this would mean for them. We were Victors for hundreds of years, like Emmy is now. Whatever everyone else might think about us, we shaped this town, made it what it is—and we could have it back. I could be something different, something new. Something like the Victor and the Voice of Thistle Grove rolled into one, but even greater.”

“Yeah, you could be a fucking righteous megalomaniac,” Morty snapped, his tone so harsh I flinched at it, even as he pushed up from the couch in one lithe, furious motion. “Thistle Grove’s very own supervillain in residence. Because that’s what you’re really saying here, when you get down to brass tacks. Isn’t something like that your family motto, anyway? ‘As long as we prosper, everyone else can go merrily fuck themselves’?”

“That’s reductive and unfair, and you know it,” I argued. “I know my family’s faults more, better, than anyone. But I . . . I’m still one of them, Morty. I might hate them sometimes—more often than not, even—but they’re still mine. My blood. This isn’t just about me. I have to factor their best interests in, too.”

“Like hell you do,” he shot back, rounding on me. “The very last thing you have to do in this life is pander to toxic people. Keep catering to them even as they do their very best to damage you, keep you small and controlled. Caged in the box they built for you. You can certainly choose to do that, but, Nina, listen—this is not you. It’s not who you are, what you stand for. From everything I’ve seen of you, I know you’re better than this. Stronger, wiser. So much kinder and more compassionate.”

“I’m just saying I need time to think,” I mumbled, dropping my chin. Hating myself for how weak I sounded, how obviously ambivalent. “I’m not—I’m not saying I won’t do it. Come clean with Emmy. But not right now. Not tonight. It’s too soon.”