Chapter 5
5
ROMAN
“ H ave you seen the Davenport girl? She looks lovely tonight, don't you think?” My mother has me trapped in a corner of the front parlor while she points out every woman she considers of marriageable age.
Diana Blackthorn can trace her family’s magical line back to the original settlers of Mystic Hollows. My father’s family is the same way, which is likely the only reason they married. My mother is a beautiful woman. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is swept up in an elegant twist tonight. Her face is free from any wrinkles, which could be thanks to a magical potion or Botox. It’s hard to say. She’s wearing a glittering gold gown that’s tasteful but obviously expensive.
“She’s eighteen, mother.” I toss back the rest of the whiskey in my glass and search the room for an escape. I’ve been held hostage for the last twenty minutes, and I’m not drunk enough for this.
“She’s legal. And moldable.” My mother always sucks in her cheeks. It gives her a pout and makes her cheekbones more pronounced. Does she think it looks natural and no one notices what she’s doing?
I can’t contain the sound of disgust. I catch the eye of a waiter across the room and hold up my empty glass with a sigh. His nod has me hoping I’ll have another drink in hand before my mother can make any more repulsive comments.
The Blackthorn’s founders party is my third stop of the night. My friends and I flipped a coin to determine the party order. This is the last of the Tenebris coven parties before we cross the river and head toward the Lumen parties. I’ve obediently offered up a drop of blood at each location before escaping as quickly as possible.
On the other side of the room, I spot my brother Bram and my two best friends, Ambrose and Odie. They’re all laughing at me. Ambrose has an easy athleticism that doubles as a lazy grace. His golden hair and skin and boy-next-door charm are a deception that lulls people into thinking he’s not dangerous. Odie is as much a tomboy as she is an elegant woman. Her platinum blonde hair and lack of voice lead some people to think she’s a brainless doll. It’s always amusing to watch her destroy them with a single look.
Angling my body so my mother doesn’t see, I sign, “Help me” at the group of assholes. A smile lifts the corner of Odie’s mouth, and one evil eyebrow cocks up as she shakes her head.
“Are you using those silly hand signals? Stop being impolite,” my mother snaps. I guess I didn’t hide that very well.
“They aren’t silly hand signals. It’s sign language. Which is an actual language.” The waiter drifts by with my drink and I snatch it off his tray and down half of it in one gulp.
Odie’s family curse hit her young. Typically, our curses don’t kick in until we’re sixteen, but she hasn’t spoken since she was six years old. When Bram, Ambrose, and I first met her, we communicated like a lot of kids. We ran around and played; we asked a lot of questions that she could answer with a nod or a shake of her head. As we got older, we learned sign language. My horrible mother called it a waste of time. The miserable cow wonders why she’s so unhappy.
“Well, I’m sure one of these young girls will be more impressed that you speak Italian and Spanish.”
“I took two years of Spanish in high school, and the only Italian words I know are food related.” God, this is exhausting. The entire scene. Everyone here is wearing their most expensive gowns and suits. My mother hired stilt walkers dressed in carnival theme costumes to walk around the exterior of the house. Which is a complete waste because it’s fucking cold out and no one but the poor performers are outside.
The sound of fake laughter permeates the air. I can physically feel the ass-kissing happening around me. The atmosphere is reminiscent of a corporate holiday party that employees are forced to attend.
Just like all Blackthorn parties, this one is being held at my parents’ home, or rather the Blackthorn Manor, as it’s called. The estate is on the edge of town where the houses get larger the farther away from downtown you get. My mother claims that she loves to entertain, but Giana, their housekeeper, does all the planning, cooking, and cleaning. There’s not much for my mother to do except dress up and pose next to my father.
Speaking of…I see him chatting with one of the eighteen-year-olds my mother pointed out earlier.
I polish off the rest of my drink in one more swallow.
“No one needs to know you’re not fluent in multiple languages until after you're married.”
“Yes, because a relationship founded on lies is the perfect way to start a marriage.”
My mother turns toward me, giving her back to the room. “Now that you’ve brought it up, I think it’s time for you to seriously consider settling down.”
I do a terrible job of keeping the disdain off my face. “I didn’t bring it up, but just who am I settling down with?”
My mother has been after me to get married for years. It’s my responsibility to carry on the Blackthorn line: magical duty and all that. Crone, save me, I’m only thirty-two.
She waves her hand through the air. “Take your pick. You are from one of the most powerful magical families in Mystic Hollows. Women would line up to be with you. And you know,” she pauses conspiratorially, “it’s really time you start thinking about having children.” Her nostrils flare, and the corner of her eye twitches like it does whenever she’s hiding something or lying. What the hell is she lying about? “Besides, it’s not like a fated bond is magically going to appear. You may as well wait for a unicorn to fly down from the sky.”
“I don’t think unicorns fly.” I sigh and my mother rolls her eyes.
The noise of the room dims, my heartbeat taking over my ears. I rub my finger around the rim of my glass and wonder what would be worse. Never having children or having a child who I know will be plagued by a curse that could be worse than mine? Our family curses don’t always manifest in the same way, from one generation to the next. I only know that through random pieces of information I’ve picked up over the years. My parents don’t talk about my father’s curse. It’s another of those unspoken rules. As for my curse, I know I’m touching the glass because I see it. The pressure of the rim against my thumb is something I sense, but there is no feeling. If my glass shattered and a shard stabbed into my finger, it wouldn’t be painful. It’s simply nothing.
“Speaking of parenthood, where is my father?” It’s possible she hasn’t seen him with the barely legal Miller girl. It’s also possible I’m being petty and want to point out the hypocrisy of her pushing me toward marriage when her own has been such a farce.
“Oh, you know how much he detests having to greet all the puritanical Lumen witches. As if I enjoy having them in my home. He leaves all the responsibility up to me.”
My mother looks away, taking a sip of champagne from the flute delicately pinched between her fingers. I read between the lines. She’s more than aware that dear old dad is likely to take off at any moment to fuck someone a third of my mother’s age in the home they share. A part of me wants to feel sympathy for her, but she’s an awful person. My father’s equally despicable so, honestly, they deserve each other.
“Diana, we have eyes. Who the hell do you think you’re lying to?” Agatha Fitzsimons, otherwise known as Fitz to everyone she likes, appears in front of us in a way that’s probably magic. She’s too old to sneak up on someone that quickly.
Fitz is the oldest witch in Mystic Hollows. She’s an anomaly for so many reasons. No one knows which coven she was originally a part of. She belongs to neither at the moment, much to the displeasure of both the Lumen and Tenebris covens.
Witches live slightly longer than humans, but we’re not immortal. Agatha Fitzsimons must be over a hundred if she’s a day. Her paper-thin skin tells as much, although she’s not nearly as wrinkly as you’d expect. Her hair is pure white, and I’ve never seen it out of its long braid. If she’s over five feet tall, I’ll eat my shoe. She’s crotchety, outspoken, and doesn’t give two shits what anyone thinks. She has a faint lilt to her words that hints at a past in Ireland, but it only slips out now and again.
My mother makes a distressed sound before she composes herself. “I don't know what you’re referring to, Agatha.”
Fitz sighs loudly and rolls her head to look at me. The gleam in her eyes tells me she thinks my mother is as irritating as I do.
“Crone.” I dip my head. My mother gasps. Fitz chuckles. It’s a running joke between the two of us. I ran into her, literally, at a coven event as a child. I couldn’t have been more than five or six at the time, but I still recall the moment as clear as day. Even back then, she looked ancient. I’d stared at her and asked if she was the Crone. She snickered and told me no, but maybe someday. The name stuck.
My coven worships the Mother. The Lumen coven worships the Maiden. No one worships the Crone. I have no idea why, especially because she seems like the most relatable of the magical trio.
“Still a little shit, I see, Roman Blackthorn. Good. This world can use a little turbulence.” She turns back to my mother, inspecting her perfectly styled outfit. Not a wrinkle in sight. Fitz is wearing a tracksuit with a matching top and bottoms, just emphasizing that she doesn’t give a shit. She has a cane with a dragon carved into the handle. That thing is a weapon when she wants it to be.
“The misery pours off you, Diana. Maybe someday you’ll realize that all this”—Fitz waves her cane around, forcing my mother and I to both jump back to avoid her swing—“is meaningless.”
Fitz closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. When she opens them back up, they’re focused on me. She may be old, but she hasn’t lost any sharpness to age. “Do you believe in fate, Roman Blackthorn?”
“I’m a witch. I think I’m contractually obligated to believe in fate to some extent.”
“What about true love?” she volleys back. My mother clucks her tongue as if this entire conversation is beneath her.
“Are you hinting that you’re my fated mate, Crone?” I grin at the ancient witch.
“As if I’d want some young pup who needs me to take care of him.”
“I’ll have you know; I can cook and do my own laundry.”
“Ah, but do you actually do any of those things? Or does your hotel staff do them for you?”
“I’m also excellent at delegating.” I raise an eyebrow.
Fitz chuckles and taps the side of my leg with her cane. “The tides are changing. Best be prepared to get swept away by the wave or else be buried.”
“Honestly, Agatha. Are you trying to be purposely cryptic?” It’s my mother’s turn to sigh.
I sense a fight brewing, and I don’t want to be in the middle of it. “Yes, well. If you’ll excuse me. I wouldn’t want to be a rude host. I should make the rounds before someone accuses me of shirking my duties.”
I bow my head at Fitz and slip out of the corner before my mother can start in on me about marriage again. Not fast enough to escape her parting words, though. “I’ll make you a list, Roman. I expect you to take this seriously.”
The flow of people in and out of the party is constant. Everyone involved with the covens is expected to attend all six parties. Each family considers their party to be superior, but they’re all similar in a generic way. A string quartet plays sleepy classical music in the background. At the Roth’s party, it was a free jazz ensemble that made me want to stab someone, and at the Draven house, it was a woman with a low crooning voice singing old show tunes.
I’m stopped multiple times by people looking to provide a service at the resort and one who introduces me to their daughter. I see my mother has already been working to spread the word about me being on the market.
By the time I make it to my brother’s side, I’m ready to get the fuck out of here. “You all suck.”
Ambrose and Bram chuckle. Odie grins and shrugs, holding out a glass for me. I don’t even know what kind of booze is in there, but I throw it back. My mother has moved on to schmoozing with other high society guests, completely ignoring anyone from the Lumen coven. Fitz has disappeared completely. I don’t blame her.
“What was mommy dearest chewing your ear off about over there?” Bram’s eyes track the woman in question across the room.
Bram has a special kind of dislike for Diana Blackthorn. He lived with his own mother until he was six years old, but when she died, he came to live with us. My mother didn’t speak to him at first, at least not around my father. After a few months, she took every opportunity to whisper nasty comments about Bram’s mother to him. She made attempts to hide it, but I saw her. I tried to help and keep her away from Bram whenever I could. Our father didn’t give a damn. Much like his loyalty to his marriage vows, he doesn’t give two shits about his children.
“Carrying on the Blackthorn genes.” I spot her pointing in our direction, her hand on the arm of Anastasia Lexington. At least she’s in her mid-twenties; that’s the most complimentary thing I can say about her. I know her by reputation. Anastasia is a social climber from a middling magical family. They’re determined to find their way into the founding families’ circle.
Anastasia rolls the glass she’s holding against her bottom lip, her tongue coming out to touch the rim as she stares at me. Even across the distance, her icy eyes lock onto me with a heated desire. Maybe I should be interested. On paper, Anastasia is perfect. Her long blonde hair is a shiny sheet. Her tan skin is fresh and dewy. Her eyes are a perfect sky blue.
And absolutely devoid of humanity.
I shudder at the thought of touching her—even if I could feel.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” I drop my glass on the closest surface and stalk out of the house I grew up in without another word.
We slip into the limo I hired for the night. Most of the town has drivers who take them to all the parties. They’re famously known to be drunken disasters. None of us can stand to be sober through the tedious night.
“Where to next?” Bram settles back into his seat before pulling a bottle of whiskey from his coat. He twists off the cap, takes a swig, and holds it out. Odie swipes it from him and gulps back an impressive amount before handing it off to me.
“We still have all the Lumen parties to hit.” I’m not drunk enough for the impending torture. I take a drink to rival Odie’s and pass the bottle onto Ambrose. What’s the possibility that I’ll run into Josephine at the Delvaux family party? Visions of snaring her in some dark corner slip into my head. The way her wide green eyes would peer up at me, words failing to form on her perfect lips.
My brow creases. Why do I keep thinking about her? When I saw her earlier today, she had dark circles under her eyes. Her cheekbones were too pronounced, and her lips were pinched as though something pained her. Then there’s someone like Anastasia, who’s practically glowing with vitality. Granted, there’s a good chance it’s from a purchased spell, but why doesn’t she do a damn thing for me?
“Let’s do the Vandenbergs, then the Beaumonts, and finish up with the Delvaux party.” If we’re late enough, then Josephine probably won’t be there. It’s best if I stay away from her. Even if I can’t think of a reason why at the moment.
Bram groans, snagging the bottle from Ambrose and taking a pull. “I don’t know if it’s better to save the worst for last or if we should get the Delvaux party out of the way first.”
Odie signs, “They all suck.”
“Good point. Let’s just get this over with. Then we can celebrate Roman’s impending nuptials for real.” Ambrose grins at me.
“Fuck off.”