10. AN INVITATION （OR TWO） #2
Embry watched Balthazar literally head into the sunset, annoyance flaring at a conversation done, yes, but left completely unfinished in her opinion.
She whirled away from the beauty in front of her to the beast behind her, who had, in the intervening seconds swaddled them with a shimmering sound-muffling spell. “Neighbor stuff? What the—”
“You gave the sorcerer a coven coin? Are you insane?”
Embry gaped at him. “That’s not insane.”
“You invited him to our meeting!”
“As I have the right to do.” Embry was immediately so furious she didn’t even want to clarify that he’d asked for entry himself. “Every member is allowed to use their judgment in recruiting new members.”
“You do have a right, yes. But your reasons are completely wrong.”
There was no mirth in the way Rye said it, or in his stance—as rigid as the trees in this quad.
He wasn’t goading her; he was serious, disappointed.
A stone wall just feet away, ready to take on her gathering tidal wave of pure indignant frustration.
Suddenly, she was grateful for the spell he’d cast to clearly yell at her in relative privacy because it was going to take everything in her not to shout back.
“He’s witch adjacent and my friend; what other reasons do I need? ”
“You did not invite him for those reasons,” Rye deadpanned. His green eyes met hers and, in that moment, Embry felt her cheeks flush hot. He’d seen their exchange of chaste kisses.
“I did.”
“If that were true, you would’ve invited Alistair long ago.” Her cheeks grew hotter. Rye came closer. “Or you would’ve invited Oakley, but you didn’t. They’re friends and they can do magic—that makes them witch adjacent, too.”
Rye was right in front of Embry now, sandy hair a rosemary-scented mess against the enchanted background. His arms were crossed over his chest, vintage Radiohead T-shirt peeking out from between his muscled forearms.
Goddess, she loved a nicely shaped forearm.
She gave Rye one hard look, grabbed that exceptional arm, and hauled him off the brick, into the grass, and to the semiprivacy of a massive tree.
Just because they couldn’t be heard didn’t mean they couldn’t be seen bickering.
Embry had never considered using one of those finicky, super-draining invisibility spells until this very moment. Ugh.
Discarding Rye, she proceeded to put a good three feet between them. Much better.
“I’m the daughter of Lazarus Woodcross; of course I understand that the criteria governing the Woodcross coven are different than those I use for my Raven’s Head clique,” Embry informed him coolly.
“My invitation to Balthazar is totally appropriate. All sorcerers are witches, but not all witches are sorcerers.”
Everyone knew witches and sorcerers were from the same line before Merlin.
The comparison was basically squares to rectangles, not apples to oranges.
And besides, she’d never actually seen Balthazar do any spells to know if his magic was truly different than hers—or Rye’s—for that matter.
She’d never seen him hold a charged crystal, sacrifice an animal, or let blood.
And he certainly hadn’t mentioned the rumored dark well of magic.
“You don’t believe that guff, do you?” Of course, Rye would use guff non-ironically. “They’re just antisocial witches. Sorcerers are the magical equivalent of guys adding esquire to the end of their email signatures because they think it makes them sound important. It’s not real.”
It almost sounded as if he agreed with her—for all either of them knew, being a modern sorcerer was all about, well, branding. But they weren’t in agreement.
“For something that’s not real, you’ve clearly taken notice of dudes who’ve added esquire to their sign-offs. Is that why you’re pre-pre-law?” The extra pre was a little pointed, but it was accurate. “For that sweet, sweet esquire tag? But you earned it?”
Rye’s head dropped back with yet another dramatic sigh. Embry squeezed his elbow, showing affection in the face of his frustration. “You love me—but you judge me far too much. All the time.”
She dropped his elbow and watched as, pinching the bridge of his nose, Rye inhaled deeply. “While I’d like to blame your vanity for this whole conversation, the truth is I think about you because I care about you.” Embry’s heart gave a stubborn kick. “And the sorcerer doesn’t.”
“You don’t even know him—”
“I know him as much as you do.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Right.”
Rye flung out a hand. “I was there when you met.”
Limited proximity did not make Rye an expert, even though he liked to believe his special way of drawing the truth from her made him one on her. He wasn’t.
“Yes, but you’re not at our lunch table. Or studying in my room—”
Rye covered his eyes with a hand, pained. “Please do not list out all the places you see that sorcerer when I can’t be there to—”
“Rescue me? Is that what you were going to say? Like I need it? Balthazar is my friend, Rye.” Embry prodded him.
“You have heard of friends, right? It’s a thing that people have.
Maybe not you in your sonnet-filled gap year, but for other people, high school people, having friends is normal.
We don’t have to volunteer to force other people to interact with us. ”
The second the last sentence was out of her mouth, Embry regretted it.
Rye’s expression rearranged, hurt flickering in the set of his jaw. She’d cut to draw blood, and she’d succeeded. The knot in his throat bobbed. Embry’s shame flared.
Finally, he said, “It sounds like you want to be more than just a friend to him.”
Embry couldn’t refute this. So she deflected.
“Sounds like you’re again paying far too much attention to me.”
Rye’s eyes seemed to grow three shades darker, from sea glass to the forest floor. “As I clearly stated, I care about you, Em. Of course I pay attention.”
Her heart kicked again. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“Fine. But I just want you to be careful with him. He’s a stranger—”
“He’s not a stranger; he’s my homecoming date.”
Embry felt a bit smug saying it—even as it was evident that Rye hadn’t missed that part of their conversation, either. His lips twisted as if he’d just swallowed a lemon slice.
“I thought you insisted you were going in a group after you tore out Alistair’s heart and stomped all over it, publicly, in front of your entire group of mutual friends.”
Ouch.
Embry flung back her hair from her shoulders, suddenly feeling hot and strangled. “Well, yes, we’re going as a group. But Balthazar and I agreed that he’d buy my corsage.”
“I’m not a lawyer yet, but I can confidently say that’s not legally binding.”
He might have meant it as a joke, but his tone was still heavy, gruff, frustrated.
Embry was done. Drawing a line in the sand, she turned away. “Bye, Knighton.”
Lifting his spell, Rye whispered a goodbye at her back, which she acknowledged with a rather violent wave. But as she stomped into the waning sun—straight to her room, not in the mood for a trip to the store or home now—Embry grew more and more annoyed.
What was Rye’s problem anyway? Was it really that he didn’t trust Balthazar, or something else entirely?
This time every year new people came to the coven, students or brand-new faculty, or simply folks who moved to Ravenwood Island because they could.
The invitation she’d given was valid and normal.
No different from her accepting his corsage.
Rye was overreacting. All this was mundane, run-of-the-mill, totally normal high school senior stuff even for pretty, popular, not-so-normal high school senior Embry Woodcross.
What was the worst that could happen?