11. HOMECOMING RICHES
HOMECOMING RICHES
BECAUSE EMbrY WAS VERY GOOD AT SOME THINGS—WELL, MOST things—she’d managed to avoid being alone with both Alistair and Rye since the homecoming court was announced.
Actually, Alistair seemed to also be avoiding any alone time with her, which was helpful to the overall success of her operation.
Sure, he still came to meals and didn’t miss drama class or rehearsals, plus he smiled and laughed in all the right places.
But the diviner also didn’t do all the little things he’d used to that she’d just assumed were friendly but now knew meant more, such as flinging an arm around her shoulders in quiet moments or brushing her fingers when handing over the afternoon latte he still procured for her every school day.
The mix of normal and standoffish behavior was not only awkward for all involved, but it appeared to be proof that Embry’s attempt at being a good friend by not raising Alistair’s romantic hopes had seemingly backfired.
Rye, on the other hand, did not seem affected by their confrontation on the quad.
He did not shy away, he did not alter his plans, he did not hesitate in the slightest to forcibly change her blocking so that Embry’s Witch had to stand much closer to Alistair’s Baker during their scenes in the musical.
He seemed completely unmoved, even when Embry was not.
Which was probably why upon arriving to the Raven’s Head football stadium for the presentation of the homecoming court, the very first person she saw was Rye Knighton.
Pushed up against the stone wall behind the home team’s side, he wore a fraying navy cable-knit that was definitely cashmere, his requisite battered jeans, and Doc Martens that looked as if they’d been run over by a train.
Their eyes met and Rye’s lips quirked in the flicker of magical torch lamps above.
Embry took one look at that mouth and knew she was in deep trouble. But instead of launching into part two of his the-sorcerer-is-bad-for-you speech, Rye simply drew in a long breath and was suspiciously complimentary. “You look lovely, Woodcross.”
“And you look too old to be here, Knighton.”
A light in his eyes wilted before she’d even realized it had been there in the first place. Shame spread through her, clawing hot and searing up her throat.
Embry closed the gap between them, smoothing down the front of her pearl-colored gown.
It was slinky and elegant, accentuating every curve like a riverbank.
She’d loved it on sight during the private fitting at Atelier Aradia, but now, under Rye’s gaze, she suddenly wished she’d gone with something a little less Marilyn Monroe. “Why are you here?”
As soon as she said it, Embry hated that question, too. What was wrong with her? It was literal homecoming. There were graduates from every year since Raven’s Head’s founding in those stands. Including Daddy, one of Ames’s brothers, and the like.
Rye held up a fancy camera that she hadn’t noticed. “Lazarus wanted something better than his smartphone could provide. And then Miss Persephone flagged me down and asked if I could snag some photos for the Monthly Caller.”
Rye was a successful amateur photographer—because of course.
For as amazing a witch as he was, he never shied away from getting his hands dirty with an arsenal of nonmagical tactile arts.
That skill slotted in nicely somewhere between his amateur birding and his penchant for landscaping the coven’s meeting grounds.
Landscaping was actually a crucial skill at the top of her mind in that moment because that’s what he’d been doing the last time she’d avoided being alone with him.
As it just so happened, Embry created a magical cloaking spell (thanks to some hasty conservatory research) to obscure both her form and her footsteps as she left the Woodcross Residence on Sunday after yet another very grouchy tutoring session with Merle.
Which meant that because Rye happened to be trimming her father’s bushes on the west side of the pentagram, she did, in fact, see him.
She may have in fact missed a step and nearly face planted when she realized his ratty old white T-shirt was clinging to his well-muscled back like a second, near translucent skin. He’d done varsity crew with Fairfax and, well, it still showed.
Embry shook herself and that thought straight out of her mind. “The Caller? Don’t they have student photojournalists who should be documenting the court?”
“They’re all on the football team, the powder-puff team, in the band, or part of the court.” Rye shrugged, gesturing to the stadium at large. “And I don’t mind.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, let’s take Daddy’s pictures first.” Embry pointedly took a step back, into the glow of one of the dozens of magicked torches lining the stadium’s outer wall.
She knew her best angles and how the golden light would only enhance her summer tan skin, the pale cream of the dress, and the requisite tiara atop her head.
“May I?” Rye asked, stepping forward, one hand outstretched.
Embry nodded, and Rye drew closer. With careful fingers, he smoothed a lock of hair back from her temple and straightened the tiara a fraction.
When he was finished, he stepped back, his gaze consuming her like a half-finished painting.
Embry’s breath caught at the intensity he focused on her—Rye was serious about his art, and she was suddenly a piece of it.
He came close again, tipping her chin just so with the pad of his thumb.
Embry’s stomach trembled and when she glanced his way, she found the barest hint of a smile.
“Now the light hits you perfectly.”
With three large steps back, he lined up his shot and took it.
“Ow, ow! Look at you, Embry Woodcross!” exclaimed Ames, coming around the back of the stadium with Oakley, newly placed tiaras glittering merrily with every step.
All three friends were wearing the same cherry lipstick shade from Embry’s extensive collection.
What’s more, Oakley did not bring her ever-present backpack and completely unravel the whole look—not that she didn’t try.
It was like her security blanket or something, but they eventually convinced her to leave it in her room. “Homecoming royalty, made to order!”
They looked exceptional in the dresses they’d picked from Atelier Aradia.
Ames in an above-the-knee, rose-pink A-line dress, more sophisticated than sweet against the caramel brown of her skin.
Meanwhile, the designers had surprised Oakley with a mock-1940s gown inspired by photographs they’d found of Hannah Crawford, aka the last vampire to attend Raven’s Head, in the school’s archives.
The woman was all Hedy Lamarr glamour, and the resulting dress was a V-neck cap sleeve with a tea-length skirt in ruby silk.
Embry had paid for Oakley’s dress out of her own pocket, given the vampire had been so stunned by the final price that she’d dropped the to-go cup of blood she’d been holding and inadvertently turned Embry into a live installation of that big scene in Carrie.
It was bound to happen with the way Oakley was flaunting her blood drinking these days, Embry supposed, even if the timing and setting combined to be absolutely undesirable.
Thank goodness for Embry’s patented magical stain remover. Well, and Daddy’s credit card.
“I promise I won’t douse your gown in blood when I accept my crown,” Oakley assured Embry as the pair stepped in for air-kisses.
Embry swallowed down a grimace as she went through the motions of greeting Oakley.
Ever since the court announcements, the vampire had doubled down on her recurring “joke” that she was going to win.
Combine that with a pointed reminder of the mess they’d made in the dress shop in front of witches she’d known her whole life and…
well, Embry was ready to retire both narratives after Oakley’s inevitable loss at the dance tomorrow night.
She smiled tightly. “I’m covered head-to-toe in a stain repellent spell. Try me.”
“Good Goddess, don’t give anyone a challenge,” Ames whispered, eyes rolling toward the other end of the wall where Skye and a siren, aptly named Ariel, were striding in. Then, she raised her voice. “Ryszard,” Ames called, “document our gorgeousity, will you?”
“That’s not a word, Amethyst,” Rye deadpanned.
She waved him off. “We’re too beautiful for words. Out here creating new ones! Take our picture before the boys get here and ruin it.”
“I don’t know,” Embry said, catching sight of three dark suits in the distance. “I think they make us look better.”
“Only because they highlight our beauty.”
Apparently, they immediately found just the right light because instead of adjusting them, Rye snapped away without hesitation. Past Rye’s lens, Alistair, Fairfax, and Balthazar approached. All three wore identical tiaras in their hair—Raven’s Head royalty must, no matter the nominee’s gender.
Embry’s attention immediately set on Balthazar.
His dark hair was pomaded back in a neat Clark Kent way, the brilliant blue of his eyes sparkling as much as the faux diamonds atop his head as they met hers.
His lips dropped open as if he’d remembered something, and then he produced a small box from his pocket.
“Hey, Princess,” he said, and Embry felt the entire scene fall away. It was as if they were under the same spotlight on the stage, the rest of the world dark and unimportant. “I thought this might go nicely with your dress.”
Embry opened the box. A stunning string of petite white orchids lay on a cushion, as delicate as spun sugar. It was a day early for a corsage, but considering it was their little signal that she was his for the dance, Embry was thrilled.
Mouth suddenly very dry, Embry swallowed and whispered, “It’s stunning.”