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

by Lana Harper

I’d apparently won the sob lottery. Team #Leaky4Life over here.

Most of her conquests went by evocative nicknames the likes of “Lacrosse Jesus” or “Emo Clark Kent”

But look at him. He looks like someone who’d get cast to play a sexy chaos demon on Supernatural.”

Take that, you garbage ghost, I’m a grown woman and I drink what I want.

“Kindly cut the shit,

So can we tone down this whole ‘Blackmoores are the spawn of Palpatine, and/or the Borg’ energy?”

“Star Wars plus Star Trek references seen and raised, no shit. Wouldn’t have pegged Nineve Blackmoore, Esquire, for the type to hang with all that.” “Oh, I’m sorry, do only nerdboy edgelords get to enjoy such cool-kid stuff as sci-fi classics?” I snapped, losing the remainder of my patience.

“The fuck you say! Baba Yaga? Necromancers? You’re—you’re telling me Micah, Talia, and Issa, all of them . . . they raise the dead?”

“Why am I suddenly a Padawan witch?

“Yes. I deeply regret to inform you that we are, apparently, witch married to each other now.”

“And yet, here you are, winning on every front. The good dick and the pastries,

O WOULDST THOU CEASE SCREWING WITH ME, NINA, MY NINA,

The War Room always did give such casual, low-key vibes.

Oh, you absolute idiot child,

I assure you I’ve walked through the Valley of the Shadow of Steaming Piles of Shit this past year, too.

“A luxury seat-warmer bench experience. Like a spa for your ass.”

“So that’s the dilemma. It’s bend the knee, or lose pretty much everything.”

“Oh, sure, I’m plenty awesome,” I replied wryly, “if you love rules and structure and a quasi-pathological need for stability.

‘Set that down right this very instant or I’ll whack ye with a wooden spoon’?”

“I’m a walking nerd girl cliché, so sue me.

I’d learned that he was a strong swimmer but had a phobia of drowning, and a fear of geese from having nearly lost a finger to one when he was a kid.

“Your inexplicably witchbound bartender.”

The energy was strongly of the “Cersei comes to burn the Sept” persuasion, at any rate.

“A Blackmoore queen, to reign over Thistle Grove,” she bit off, her delicate jaw tight. “No matter the cost. How very Targaryen of them.”

“Oh, thank fucking baby Jesus you made the right call. You have no idea how scared I was that you’d go dark side, and I’d have to let you leave without ever kissing you again.”