Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(10)

But what kind of spell could that possibly have been?

And who could have cast it, when there was only me up here?





4





You’re That Nina



I was still running through possible explanations for what I’d seen at the lake when I walked into the Moon and Scythe, scrubbing snow off my boots on the dingy welcome mat. Could it have had something to do with the winter solstice, a little less than a month from now? Or, maybe, some kind of natural magical shift, a new ley line convergence? No one really understood ley lines besides some of the more metaphysically inclined magical historians of the Harlow clan—and those arcane conduits had never seemed to account for Thistle Grove’s overflow of magic, anyway. Certainly I wasn’t likely to get to the bottom of it, when none of us even knew what it was that made the lake tick in the first place.

Even with only half my mind attending to the crowded, noisy tavern, my gaze immediately snagged on Morty.

He sat at one of the tables closer to the bar, grinning as he chatted with the (extremely attractive) pierced and tattooed bartender, peppering their conversation with loose gestures like flourishes with one hand. Not so much “sitting” as “lazing,” actually. That was a better word for the easy, almost careless way he’d sprawled in the chair, legs canted to the side, one arm draped over the chair’s back as he swiveled around to talk to the bartender.

In person, the “chilled-out trickster god” vibe was even more pronounced. He was clean-shaven—which did things to the fine line of his jaw and cheekbone that made my stomach flip a little—but his longish dark brown hair was mussed, flopping into eyeliner-shaded eyes. His outfit landed somewhere between “1920s British gangster” and “Byronic poet,” with brogue boots, gray tweed trousers and waistcoat, and a penny-collared white dress shirt with billowing sleeves, unbuttoned to the hollow of his throat.

A highly questionable sartorial situation that on anyone else would’ve looked like a costume, like someone doing way too much—especially considering where we were. On him, the whole thing managed to seem bespoke, like an offbeat Esquire spread.

I felt that little frisson of excitement you get when someone turns out to be even hotter in real life than they were on the internet. In general, I wasn’t the biggest fan of surprises, but this was the kind even a rigid Virgo like me could get behind.

It made me feel marginally better about the shoe-sucking floor and cloying old-beer smell, the TV droning sportsball above the weathered bar. Not that I had a problem with divey bars, per se; I just didn’t see any compelling reason to ever set foot in one. To be fair, I hadn’t previously been meeting punked-out Shelby brothers in them, either. And now that I was here, it seemed the Moon and Scythe did have some character to it; the walls were lined with battered but still handsome wooden panels, along with an outsize vintage map of Thistle Grove with elaborate depictions of the four family demesnes, the cemetery and the Witch Woods, and other town points of interest.

Maybe a drink or two here would be . . . tolerable.

Morty had noticed me, too, as I wove my way through the tables toward him, shucking my parka and slinging it over an arm. He cut off his conversation and turned slowly in the chair, fixing his entire focus on me. Eyes drifting from my face down to my body, a corner of that pretty mouth lifting a little as he took me in.

I’d gone for my version of casual, which was still way overdressed for this place. A lacy black Zara bodysuit under a navy blue blazer, high-waisted jeans tucked into knee-high Hermès riding boots (that were much warmer than they looked, thankfully), three slim, connected chains layered around my throat like golden cobwebs.

I’d have felt cringingly out of my element, with my tiny diamond earrings and meticulous balayage and nylon laque parka—like I was being the worst kind of entitled asshole just by barging in here—had it not been for the warm, appreciative way Morty was looking at me. Not to mention his own bold outfit choice.

“Nina,” he said, rising to meet me, eyes glittering even in the muted light. They were even bluer in real life, that electric azure that looks photoshopped. “Hey.”

So, no “heya” in person. Promising.

Both of us leaned in for an introductory hug, something I rarely did on a first date. But the chemistry was instant, an unmistakable jolt, tingles teeming in my belly as his cheek brushed mine. He was the barest span taller than me, one of his hands landing lightly on my lower back to draw me in. We lingered for just long enough to let me draw in a deep breath of his scent. I don’t know what I’d been expecting: Axe body spray, damp wool, patchouli? But it certainly wasn’t this expensive-smelling unisex perfume, both crisp and sultry, heavy on the ambergris. Distinctive but balanced, in the way I liked best for my own fragrances.

He didn’t seem like the type of person to drop serious money on cologne, but hell, who was I to make elitist assumptions about someone I didn’t even know? Don’t be such a snotty jackass, Blackmoore, I chided myself. For all you know, trickster gods have champagne tastes in perfume, too.

When he drew back, I could see the way his pupils had dilated, the black flaring into the bright blue.

“Wow,” he said, gaze still locked on mine, “you smell fucking phenomenal.”

I did, in fact. I’d spritzed myself with Tom Ford Santal Blush—the one Jessa referred to as Taylor Swift’s Blessing after she read somewhere that it was T. Swift’s favorite perfume—for a little confidence boost in the car. The opening notes of sandalwood and jasmine lingered, heady and creamy and generally showstopping.