9
The Color of Impure Thoughts
This early in the evening—though by non-witch time, it was already well after eleven—Talia and I had the dance floor nearly to ourselves. Haunting minor-key sonatas wafted around us as I let her draw me close, and spin us into a lazy, swaying dance. She was one of those aggravating （yet irresistible） people who looked even better up close; skin seemingly poreless, eyeliner perfectly winged, deep plum gloss lending her lips an edible sheen.
Or maybe it was just a gloss like any other, and me who wanted to bite her.
“Well, that was delightful,” she crowed, her wolf’s eyes sparkling. “I feel almost faint with glee.”
I felt myself flush hot, elated by her admiration. “I just thought making him sweat a little could come in handy for you and Rowan on Saturday. Throw Gareth off his game for once.”
She let out a low whistle, lifting an approving eyebrow. “Downright diabolical. I really didn’t think you had it in you, Harlow. Would have figured classic psychological warfare to be out-of-bounds for such a good girl.”
“It’s just like chess; there’s cheating, and then there’s outwitting your opponent,” I replied with a one-shoulder shrug. “One is dishonorable and vile. The other? Just good strategy.”
“The honor of a Girl Scout, and the twisted mind of a Targaryen.” Talia shuddered in mock ecstasy, grinning. “I’m perilously close to liking you, Harlow.”
“How close, though? Close enough to consider using my first name?”
She leaned in, dipping her head until our cheeks nearly brushed. Her warm breath fanned out against my ear, sending a flurry of goose bumps racing down my neck.
“Let’s just say I’m trying to pace myself.”
The music segued into something a little more up-tempo, closer to a macabre version of a waltz. Now that I thought about it, the eerie strains of song purling around the ballroom sounded live, but I hadn’t seen a single musician all night.
“What’s the deal with your invisible help?” I asked Talia. “The trays, the music . . . How does it work?”
“Family secret,” she whispered, tipping a conspiratorial wink. “I could tell you, but then strigoi would claw their way through the floor and drag you down to the nether realms.”
“Naturally.” I pursed my lips in thought, cocking my head. “So, probably better not, then.”
“I mean, it’s up to you.” She pulled a face. “But I hear this is not the time of year for excursions into hell.”
“So, does it feel like all the elders are staring at us?” I asked her as we whisked by a cluster of Thorns that included Linden’s parents, Aspen and Gabrielle. Aspen was technically the patriarch of the family, being a Thorn by blood, but Gabrielle had become its de facto head, being the stronger witch despite having come into her magic by marriage. It was one of those mysterious quirks that just happened sometimes, yet another Thistle Grove phenomenon no one had ever properly explained.
Gabrielle looked beautiful tonight, candlelight playing over her dark skin as if the years had parted around her like water streaming around a stone, without carving any lasting mark. A swarm of moths fluttered around her, alighting on her long box braids; she was the only witch I knew whose magic attracted an entourage. Her liquid dark eyes moved over me and Talia with a speculative cast, but she lifted a hand in greeting and smiled at me as warmly as when I used to spend half my life over at her orchards, getting into mischief with her daughter. As if my long absence had changed nothing between us.
A few people over, copper-haired Elena Avramov stared at us with much sharper curiosity as we whirled past, her feline eyes narrowing.
“I do believe your mother just gave me the old evil eye,” I added. “Approximately how long do I have to live?”
“Oh, I doubt it. That’s not so much her thing, these days.”
I eyed her askance. “You know, I can never tell when you’re joking about bad magic and when I should be scared.”
“Probably safest to always assume I’m serious.” Her eyes glittered with sly humor. “And of course they’re all looking at us. Gives them something to gossip about over their sherries.”
“I don’t think middle-aged people necessarily gravitate toward sherry.”
“Elena does. It’s a disgrace. These days she even skips her customary Stoli aperitif.”
“Because there was a time when your mother did slam predinner vodka shots as, like, a matter of course?”