Payback's a Witch (The Witches of Thistle Grove #1)

by Lana Harper

That was the thing about growing up with magic. Until you left it behind for good, you had no idea how incredible it felt just to be around it.

My mother, Cecily Fletcher Harlow, hadn’t been born a Harlow, of course; but marrying into a founding family was kind of like marrying into royalty. Only instead of a lifetime of fascinators, anemic finger sandwiches, and wearing nude pantyhose in public, you got to become a witch yourself.

Caelia Blackmoore conjured a spectacular lightning storm, Margarita Avramov summoned spirits from beyond the veil to serve as witnesses, Alastair Thorn called down the birds from the sky as his congregation, and Elias Harlow drew forth his mighty quill and . . . Took a bunch of notes.

As a slow grin began spreading over his face, I found myself struck with one of the most tragic revelations of my life. Gareth Blackmoore—my first love, my most humiliating and heart-crushing breakup, and the reason I abandoned an entire life—genuinely did not remember me.

The irony of a former witch peddling pseudo-magical artifacts was far from lost on me.

What I didn’t tell her was just how oppressive living without magic could be, after having grown up with it running through you like a current, the absence of it a deep and relentless ache that sank its roots into the chambers of your heart like some encroaching weed.

“Four families founded this town, not one. But they’ve been making Thistle Grove all about them, edging the rest of us out since they built that trashy monstrosity and called it a ‘historical’ attraction. And put yourself in a tourist’s shoes—if you come here to get your Halloween fix, what do you spend your money on? A séance at the Emporium, or a whole fucking medieval castle with all the bells and whistles?”

“You know what, fuck it.” I slammed my hands flat on the table, my fingers flexing. “I’m in, witches. Let’s run amok.”

Her skin smelled like confectioner’s sugar but tasted just a little salty, and I couldn’t help myself. I bit her exactly like I’d wanted to, deeper than a nibble but not hard enough to hurt.

I did it again, an open-mouthed kiss that ended with teeth, and this time her exhale crept a little closer to a moan.

I really, really wanted to make her moan in full.

“Because that’s what it means to be a Harlow, my Emmy. Thistle Grove is where we become who we are. Which means that no matter where you turn, where you visit or escape to, this will always be the place that calls you back.”

“You, Emmeline Harlow,” she said, eyes locked on mine, “are so extremely fucking beautiful it hurts my soul.”

A tangled locus of lips and hands, driving each other wild over and over again. A fire that felt like madness, like it might never be put out.

“Because you were right,” I added. “I have been hiding. I thought I could build myself into someone different, someone new . . . but it turns out maybe that’s not what I want. Maybe I want to be exactly who I was supposed to be. The Harlow scion, a Thistle Grove witch. And Thistle Grove witches always come back, anytime they leave.”

“And you’re right, it’s the very pinnacle of bullshit that no one even knows the Harlows are our power plant. If it were me, I would want everyone to know. Shit, I’d want some kind of tithe imposed on the rest of us.”

“It’s that I do love it here,” I finished. “For its own sake. That it’s everything I remember, but better, even more. Even if it weren’t for being its voice . . . I want this to be my place again. I want this to be my town.”

Everything I couldn’t have, all the things being a Harlow had denied me, the scars that I still bore . . . none of it mattered anymore. Because I was about to be the greatest possible Someone I could imagine. The magical Victor of this town, and the voice of Thistle Grove. A new kind of history in the making, and the chance to make it my own.