All things considered, do you think Emmy’s relationship with Gareth was the worst thing to happen in her life—or possibly, the best? How might her life have looked otherwise, had the romance between them never happened?
Why do you think Talia chose to cede her wreath to Emmy? Do you think this was the right decision on her part? How do you think Talia’s mother, Elena Avramov, feels about her daughter’s course of action?
Emmy and her cousin Delilah have a complicated relationship. Do you think one of them is more at fault than the other? Do you have any similarly fraught relationships in your life?
Do you think it’s likely that Emmy will spend much time in Chicago in the future? How do you think she and Talia will navigate splitting their time between Thistle Grove and the city?
If you could visit just one of the Thistle Grove venues described in the book—consider the Honeycake Orchards, The Bitters, Castle Camelot, Lady’s Lake, Tintagel, and Tomes & Omens to get you started—what would it be, and why?
There’s more to come in Thistle Grove. Keep reading for a preview of
From Bad to Cursed
by Lana Harper.
Coming soon from Jove.
1
Deviously Done
The thing no one tells you about summoning demons is, sometimes you have to think outside the box.
I should know; I’ve been calling them up into my circles since I was a kid. My mother even encouraged it, as a slightly safer alternative to a way riskier burgeoning fascination with elder gods. （PSA, if you don’t want your daughter developing an interest in the gnarlier chthonic entities before she can even ride a bike, maybe don’t read her Lovecraft at bedtime. Seems obvious enough, right?）
The books go on about how summonings are supposed to be these disciplined, rule-bound affairs—and most of the time, they are, if you know what’s good for you. The truth is, if you take sensible precautions, it’s not nearly as dangerous as people think. And such a rush, too; the daemonfolk are interesting as hell, pun intended. Sometimes they’re inclined to share juicy secrets or ancient spells, the kind you won’t find in even the oldest, dustiest grimoires. Other times they’re so gorgeous it breaks your heart, or so horrifying that even a quick glimpse before you banish them is enough to leave you panting, heart battering against your ribs, blood boiling through your veins while your whole skin rolls with chills.
Shit, even when you play it safe, there’s nothing quite like a demon summoning to make you feel alive.
Of course, there’s always the odd time that even a pro like me fucks it up just a wee bit.
As usual, I’d cast my summoning circle in the warrens of basement beneath The Bitters, in a chilly, cavernous room that had started out as Elena’s third wine cellar—because who gets by with just one these days, certainly not my mother—and now doubled as my demonic lair. No windows, musty air that smelled like centuries-old stone and aged Bordeaux, witchlight sconces flinging trembling shadows on the walls; the perfect ambiance. The summoning spell was already whipping through me like a tempest, my protective amulets glowing hot against my chest. Everything felt like it should, all systems go.
But as soon as Malachus began to coalesce, I felt a twinge of wrongness in my gut, an unsettling, instinctive awareness that something was off.
According to my research, Malachus was supposed to manifest as a brawny reptilian dude, macho and mindless to the max. The type of mostly harmless demon whose bark was way worse than his bite. I hadn’t summoned in a while, so tonight was meant to be just a practice flex, easing myself back into the swing of things after a little break.
But the silhouette gathering in my circle, on her knees and with her back to me, was unmistakably femme-presenting, with the kind of ridiculous waist-to-hip ratio that would’ve put Cardi B to shame. A swoop of hair, black and glossy as moonlit water, curled around an even darker set of wings folded neatly against her back. I could see their outline fill with a faint scrawl like one of my own croquis sketches; a vague suggestion of feathers, before they sprang into a three-dimensional profusion of lush black down. And the scent that engulfed the cellar wasn’t just the usual rank whiff of sulfur and brimstone, but something sweeter, more elegant and piercing. Lily of the valley, with a subtle patchouli twist. The kind of interesting perfume that made you want to follow someone around drooling until they told you what they wore.
When she turned to look over her shoulder at me, with massive eyes the color of molten gold, my mouth went as dry as sand. I couldn’t be positive, having never seen one before—they weren’t exactly a dime a dozen—but for my money, this sure looked like one of the former seraphim.