Page 9 of Curses and Cauldrons

The noise of the room dims, my heartbeat taking over my ears. I rub my finger around the rim of my glass and wonder what would be worse. Never having children or having a child who I know will be plagued by a curse that could be worse than mine? Our family curses don’t always manifest in the same way, from one generation to the next. I only know that through random pieces of information I’ve picked up over the years. My parents don’t talk about my father’s curse. It’s another of those unspoken rules. As for my curse, I know I’m touching the glass because I see it. The pressure of the rim against my thumb is something I sense, but there is no feeling. If my glass shattered and a shard stabbed into my finger, it wouldn’t be painful. It’s simply nothing.

“Speaking of parenthood, where is my father?” It’s possible she hasn’t seen him with the barely legal Miller girl. It’s also possible I’m being petty and want to point out the hypocrisy of her pushing me toward marriage when her own has been such a farce.

“Oh, you know how much he detests having to greet all the puritanical Lumen witches. As if I enjoy having them in my home. He leaves all the responsibility up to me.”

My mother looks away, taking a sip of champagne from the flute delicately pinched between her fingers. I read between the lines. She’s more than aware that dear old dad is likely to take off at any moment to fuck someone a third of my mother’s age in the home they share. A part of me wants to feel sympathy for her, but she’s an awful person. My father’s equally despicable so, honestly, they deserve each other.

“Diana, we have eyes. Who the hell do you think you’re lying to?” Agatha Fitzsimons, otherwise known as Fitz to everyone she likes, appears in front of us in a way that’s probably magic. She’s too old to sneak up on someone that quickly.

Fitz is the oldest witch in Mystic Hollows. She’s an anomaly for so many reasons. No one knows which coven she was originally a part of. She belongs to neither at the moment, much to the displeasure of both the Lumen and Tenebris covens.

Witches live slightly longer than humans, but we’re not immortal. Agatha Fitzsimons must be over a hundred if she’s a day. Her paper-thin skin tells as much, although she’s not nearly as wrinkly as you’d expect. Her hair is pure white, and I’ve never seen it out of its long braid. If she’s over five feet tall, I’ll eat my shoe. She’s crotchety, outspoken, and doesn’t give two shits what anyone thinks. She has a faint lilt to her words that hints at a past in Ireland, but it only slips out now and again.

My mother makes a distressed sound before she composes herself. “I don't know what you’re referring to, Agatha.”

Fitz sighs loudly and rolls her head to look at me. The gleam in her eyes tells me she thinks my mother is as irritating as I do.

“Crone.” I dip my head. My mother gasps. Fitz chuckles. It’s a running joke between the two of us. I ran into her, literally, at a coven event as a child. I couldn’t have been more than five or six at the time, but I still recall the moment as clear as day. Even back then, she looked ancient. I’d stared at her and asked if she was the Crone. She snickered and told me no, but maybe someday. The name stuck.

My coven worships the Mother. The Lumen coven worships the Maiden. No one worships the Crone. I have no idea why, especially because she seems like the most relatable of the magical trio.

“Still a little shit, I see, Roman Blackthorn. Good. This world can use a little turbulence.” She turns back to my mother, inspecting her perfectly styled outfit. Not a wrinkle in sight. Fitz is wearing a tracksuit with a matching top and bottoms, just emphasizing that she doesn’t give a shit. She has a cane with a dragon carved into the handle. That thing is a weapon when she wants it to be.

“The misery pours off you, Diana. Maybe someday you’ll realize that all this”—Fitz waves her cane around, forcing my mother and I to both jump back to avoid her swing—“is meaningless.”

Fitz closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. When she opens them back up, they’re focused on me. She may be old, but she hasn’t lost any sharpness to age. “Do you believe in fate, Roman Blackthorn?”

“I’m a witch. I think I’m contractually obligated to believe in fate to some extent.”

“What about true love?” she volleys back. My mother clucks her tongue as if this entire conversation is beneath her.

“Are you hinting that you’re my fated mate, Crone?” I grin at the ancient witch.

“As if I’d want some young pup who needs me to take care of him.”

“I’ll have you know; I can cook and do my own laundry.”

“Ah, but do you actually do any of those things? Or does your hotel staff do them for you?”

“I’m also excellent at delegating.” I raise an eyebrow.

Fitz chuckles and taps the side of my leg with her cane. “The tides are changing. Best be prepared to get swept away by the wave or else be buried.”

“Honestly, Agatha. Are you trying to be purposely cryptic?” It’s my mother’s turn to sigh.

I sense a fight brewing, and I don’t want to be in the middle of it. “Yes, well. If you’ll excuse me. I wouldn’t want to be a rude host. I should make the rounds before someone accuses me of shirking my duties.”

I bow my head at Fitz and slip out of the corner before my mother can start in on me about marriage again. Not fast enough to escape her parting words, though. “I’ll make you a list, Roman. I expect you to take this seriously.”

The flow of people in and out of the party is constant. Everyone involved with the covens is expected to attend all six parties. Each family considers their party to be superior, but they’re all similar in a generic way. A string quartet plays sleepy classical music in the background. At the Roth’s party, it was a free jazz ensemble that made me want to stab someone, and at the Draven house, it was a woman with a low crooning voice singing old show tunes.

I’m stopped multiple times by people looking to provide a service at the resort and one who introduces me to their daughter. I see my mother has already been working to spread the word about me being on the market.

By the time I make it to my brother’s side, I’m ready to get the fuck out of here. “You all suck.”

Ambrose and Bram chuckle. Odie grins and shrugs, holding out a glass for me. I don’t even know what kind of booze is in there, but I throw it back. My mother has moved on to schmoozing with other high society guests, completely ignoring anyone from the Lumen coven. Fitz has disappeared completely. I don’t blame her.

“What was mommy dearest chewing your ear off about over there?” Bram’s eyes track the woman in question across the room.

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