Rhys’s father.
“Is your dad going to come here,” she asked Rhys, “and, like, smite us?”
The corner of Rhys’s mouth lifted just the littlest bit. “Honestly, with most people, I’d make fun of the word ‘smite’ here, but in my father’s case . . .”
The smile faded, and Vivi’s hopes went with it. She thought of the tarot card Gwyn had drawn, Aunt Elaine’s cabin as The Tower, cracked in two and sliding off the side of the mountain.
What if that had been some kind of prophecy?
“You’re turning green,” Gwyn said, crossing the room to stand in front of Vivi.
“We’re gonna fix this,” she said, laying her hands on Vivi’s shoulders and giving a shake. “We’re badass witches, remember?”
“You’re a badass witch,” Vivi reminded her. “Aunt Elaine is a badass witch. I’m a history teacher.”
“You can be both.” Gwyn’s hands tightened. “And this isn’t your fault. It was my idea to curse him, remember?”
“But it was my magic that did it,” Vivi replied, remembering that candle flame, how the words coming out of her mouth had felt different. Heavier. Charged, somehow.
The one truly powerful spell she’d ever managed, and it was going to wreck everything for her.
Classic.
“If I, as the cursed party, might interject here,” Rhys said, shoving his hands in his pockets, “isn’t it possible we might all be overreacting a little? Yes, tonight was shit, no getting around that. Yes, we’re all a bit freaked out and understandably so, but so far, these little buggers”—he nodded at the skull he’d tossed to the chair—“are the only thing we’ve dealt with.”
“That and my simple ‘hey, close the drapes’ spell ending in fire,” Vivi reminded him, and he shrugged.
“You said yourself, your magic has always been a bit . . . what was the word? Wonky?”
“Well, mine is very much unwonky,” Aunt Elaine said, hands on her hips. “And that spell I used to clear the store was far more powerful than I intended.”
Rhys nodded. “All valid points. But maybe not enough evidence to say things have gone completely tits up yet, begging your pardon, Ms. Jones.”
“I have tits, so I think I can handle hearing the word spoken, Mr. Penhallow,” Aunt Elaine said with a dismissive wave before sighing and steepling her fingers against her mouth.
Never a good sign. The last time Vivi had seen that gesture from Aunt Elaine had been the time Gwyn had briefly gotten engaged to the guy who read fortunes at the Ren Faire and called himself “Lord Falcon” despite his driver’s license saying “Tim Davis.”
But now Aunt Elaine only took another deep breath and said, “I think you may be right. Maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems.”
“It seems pretty bad, Mom,” Gwyn said, frowning. “Speaking as someone nearly eaten by plastic.”
“No, Rhys has a point,” Vivi said, surprising herself. And Rhys, too, if his raised eyebrows were anything to go by.
“We don’t know how bad this is, or if it was just some weird little spike. And whatever it is, we’re not going to fix it tonight.”
The more she talked, the better she felt. Of course, what they needed was a plan.
Vivi was really good at plans.
“Look, we’ll all go home, get some sleep, and in the morning, we’ll see what things look like. Rhys, you’ll talk to your father.”
He scowled, but didn’t disagree, so Vivi went on, pointing at Elaine, “And you’ll see what you can find about removing curses, and you”—she turned to Gwyn—“will . . . just keep running the store and assuring people that tonight’s little show was all part of the Founder’s Day fun.”