Page 52 of Curses and Cauldrons

Weatherby takes our coats, and Bram frowns at me. “Guests?”

“Weatherby, who else is attending tonight?” I don’t have any more information than Bram on the subject. The butler opens his mouth, but before he can wheeze out an answer, my mother’s heels are clicking through the entryway.

“It’s about time. Abraham, quit dragging your feet and making Roman late.”

“Mother,” I sigh.

Bram mocks a bow. “Of course. My sincerest apologies, Diana. My slothful ways and inability to read a clock has delayed us.”

My mother glares at Bram. I step in front of him, cutting off her direct line of sight to my brother. “Standing in the entry will only make us later, won’t it?”

That brings my mother’s glare in my direction. “Yes. Come now. It would be rude to dally any longer.”

“Dally?” Bram scoffs behind me as we follow Diana Blackthorn to the dining room.

Thanksgiving dinner at Blackthorn Manor is not a comfortable affair. My mother is wearing an evening gown with jewels adorning her neck, ears, and wrist. She may as well throw on a tiara to complete the outfit. Bram and I are both in suits, as is required. There’s no stuffing yourself until you can’t move. Nothing about this dinner will be enjoyable.

Blackthorn Manor has a formal dining room with a table long enough to seat twenty. When Bram and I enter the room, I notice that most, but not all, of the seats are filled. The table has been lavishly decorated in autumn decor. Pumpkins and gourds are interspersed with orange, red, and yellow leaves, obviously spelled to keep their color and shape and not crumble on the tablecloth.

“I wasn’t aware you were having a party this year.” I keep my voice low as I stop by my mother’s side at the entry to the room.

My mother plasters on a smile. “Yes, well, if you ever answered your phone, you might not be so surprised.”

Unlikely. My mother never would have mentioned this because she knows me too well. There’s no way Bram and I would have shown up if we’d been told all these people would be here. We would have begged Giana’s forgiveness and fucked right off.

I peer around the room, finding my father speaking with two women, his eyes fastened on the younger’s enthusiastically displayed breasts. A frown wrinkles my brow as I take in the rest of the room. Each of the families present has a daughter with them. One my mother would consider of marriageable age. The Davenports are here, the Lexingtons and, for fuck’s sake, the Millers. Does my mother not know that her husband slept with their daughter the night of the founders party?

Maybe she wasn’t invited for me.

“Is this supposed to be a setup for me?”

My mother cups my elbow, steering me into the room. I grit my teeth. She knows how much I detest being touched. The lack of feeling brings the ache to see Josephine roaring to life. The night at the cabin was the best of my life. Since then, we’ve spent every night together. Both of us sneaking around like fucking teenagers to avoid the watchful eyes of the coven, but I know we can’t keep it up for long. Someone will eventually see us. I’m starting to question why it matters. Will the coven kick me out? Will my parents strip away the hotel? Leaving it all to Bram? I imagine my mother would have strong feelings about that. And the last thing dear old dad wants is to be saddled with a full-time job when he could be out playing golf with his cronies, fucking impressionable young women, and generally giving zero shits about anything.

Josephine’s situation is another matter entirely. Jo’s mother holds sway over her. She hasn’t come right out and said it, but there have been several indications that Francesca Delvaux uses her youngest daughter to strong-arm Josephine into doing whatever she wants.

“Come, come. Let’s go sit and have dinner like civilized witches.”

I’m led to a seat in the middle of the table, where my mother leaves me with a sly smile. I sit with reluctant acceptance. Thesooner we get this started, the earlier I can get out of here and go see Josephine. She was dreading her family’s Thanksgiving as much as me. I’m already looking forward to comparing notes.

Brooke Davenport sits down in the chair to my left. She smiles and bats her massive lashes. Those can’t be real. According to my mother, she's eighteen, but has this girl even graduated high school? I feel sorry for her. Her parents are likely pushing her toward me to make a strong match for their family. She should be at house parties making out with boys her own age, not trying to get the attention of a man who’s fourteen years older than her.

“Mr. Blackthorn.”

I nearly choke on the air in my lungs. Brooke’s doing her best to appear sultry and worldly, but being addressed like I’m her teacher definitely isn’t my thing. Maybe I should direct her toward Bram. I can see how he might be into that.

I nod at Brooke. I’m not a complete asshole all the time.

The chair to my right pulls out. This time, I can’t help the low groan from escaping when I see who it is. Anastasia Lexington slides into the seat, having to maneuver her body like a stiff board because her dress is so tight. I find my smiling mother at the end of the table and glare at her. She nudges her head, her brows raised as if to say, “Go on, enjoy.”

“Roman. How wonderful to see you again. I was so disappointed when you had to leave the club so suddenly last week. But imagine my delight when we were invited over for Thanksgiving dinner.” Her blonde hair is stick-straight, hanging in a long sheet down her back. She flips it over her shoulder, offering me a demure smile with the practiced action.

“I can only imagine,” I reply.

Bram is across the table from me, struggling to control his cackles. I drag my hand over my face, flipping my brother off at the same time. His laughter only gets louder.

“Really,” my mother scolds from her end of the table. Bram lifts his glass of wine and salutes her.

My father is still ogling the Miller girl’s tits.

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