Back in a spell, p.1
Back in a Spell, page 1
PRAISE FOR
FROM BAD TO CURSED
“I am happily and completely under the spell of The Witches of Thistle Grove series.”
—Emily Henry, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Book Lovers
“The only flaw in Lana Harper’s magical, whimsical, sexy-as-hell The Witches of Thistle Grove series is that I can’t set up shop in Thistle Grove myself right this second! These books truly do cast a spell.”
—Erin Sterling, New York Times bestselling author of The Ex Hex
“Clever, fiery, and so much fun. From Bad to Cursed is a sharply written romp with wicked imagination. It’s pure magic.”
—Rachel Harrison, author of Cackle
“Packed with mystery, danger, lots of love-to-hate-you foreplay, family drama, and an identity crisis thrown in. Sound like a lot? It is, but still oh so fun. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Atmospheric and lush, this captivating story ignites the senses. The magic lends itself to big, cinematic scenes, while conflicts about familial expectations and mental health struggles ground the story with realness. The romantic relationship is emotionally rich and deliciously sexy.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“These books are intensely queer, honest, and essentially kind. I adore them so.”
—Seanan McGuire, New York Times bestselling author of Where the Drowned Girls Go
“With a fresh, fun voice, Harper brilliantly blends romance, mystery, and magic. Series fans will not be disappointed.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rarely is the second book in a series better than the first, but as Harper continues her Witches of Thistle Grove series, following Payback’s a Witch, the world-building and exploration of family cultures enhances this already fascinating setting . . . Harper’s latest is imaginative and captivating.”
—Booklist
PRAISE FOR
PAYBACK’S A WITCH
“The sexy Sapphic modern Gothic I didn’t know I needed . . . fresh, sharp, and often frankly hilarious . . . a perfect winter read, highly recommended for one of the longest nights of the year.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Payback’s a Witch is the book I’ve been waiting for all my life. A sexy, funny, charming romp of a novel that scratches that witchy, autumnal itch just right. I read this story in one breathless, giggling sitting, and at the first fall nip in the air, I know I’ll be reading it again. One of my favorite reads in years.”
—Emily Henry, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Book Lovers
“Payback’s a Witch is like the first Halloween wind through the corn: brisk, breezy, and altogether refreshing. This is a sweet, charming read, absolutely designed to be enjoyed on a crisp fall evening. I want to go to Thistle Grove.”
—Seanan McGuire, New York Times bestselling author of Where the Drowned Girls Go
“A sexy, charming, and completely magical romance full of sparkling dialogue and loveable characters. Emmy’s quest to find out where she belongs is so relatable, with some spells and supernatural elements included to spice things up.”
—Kerry Winfrey, author of Just Another Love Song
“No tricks, all treat! Lana Harper’s debut Payback’s a Witch is a compulsively fun read.”
—Jacqueline Carey, New York Times bestselling author of the Kushiel’s Legacy series
“Harper makes her adult debut with a queer rom-com that bewitches from the very first page . . . This magical joyride manages to feel both vibrantly current and timelessly mystical while avoiding the typical queer rom-com stereotypes.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Harper’s adult debut is gorgeous in every way. It’s hilariously funny, deeply moving, powerfully uplifting, and so glue-you-to-the-page engrossing that this reviewer literally did not put it down for the final hundred pages.”
—BookPage (starred review)
TITLES BY LANA HARPER
Payback’s a Witch
From Bad to Cursed
Back in a Spell
BERKLEY ROMANCE
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2023 by Lana Harper
Readers Guide copyright © 2023 by Lana Harper
Excerpt from In Charm’s Way copyright © 2023 by Lana Harper
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and Berkley Romance with B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harper, Lana, author.
Title: Back in a spell / Lana Harper.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley Romance, 2023. | Series: The Witches of Thistle Grove
Identifiers: LCCN 2022021262 (print) | LCCN 2022021263 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593336106 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593336113 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A7737 B33 2022 (print) | LCC PS3608.A7737 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022021262
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022021263
First Edition: January 2023
Cover design by Katie Anderson
Cover title design by Viki Lester
Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover
Praise for Lana Harper
Titles by Lana Harper
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. Let It Snow
2. Whimsical Bitches and Trickster Gods
3. A Winter Spell
4. You’re That Nina
5. The Lady of the Lake
6. The Starstruck Coin
7. A Play of Ice and Fire
8. What Did You Do to Me?
9. The Starstruck Coin, Again
10. Definitely Not Just a Lawyer
11. A Crashing and Spectacular Chaos
12. My Forever Kenzi
13. Why Won’t You Just Melt
14. An Echo of Morgan Herself
15. Sometimes You Have to Roll the Hard Six
16. Ice Swans and Silver Mulberry Bushes
17. Offerings of Flowers and Cake
18. The One Who’s in Charge
19. So Full of Stars
20. A Deity’s Favor
21. Not Just Goddess-Touched
22. The Right Thing
23. To Duel or Not to Duel
24. Fire in the Sky
25. Say Goodbye to Fire, Farewell to Light
26. A New Era for Us All
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Questions for Discussion
Excerpt from In Charm’s Way
About the Author
_142201953_
For Cindy, who loves these books—and Thistle Grove—as much as I do. Thank you for everything.
1
Let It Snow
I’ve never been what one might call a winter person.
Witches are supposed to feel naturally aligned with the Wheel of the Year, receptive to the charms of every season—and nowhere is that easier than in Thistle Grove, where every type of weather is utterly and gorgeously flamboyant, the most extravagant cosplay version of what it might look like anywhere else. In theory, I could appreciate the extremeness of its contrasts; all that diamond-faceted white, blazing against the blue of windswept skies and the stark black silhouette of Hallows Hill. I could even get behind winter chic, when it came to sleek après-ski wear. And then there was Yule, with its fragrant wreaths and crackling logs and sea of candlelight. Arguably the most luminous and magical of the solstices.
But in practice? Winter is horribly inelegant and messy, almost impossible to calibrate. One too many layers leaves you sticky and sweltering, while one too few lets the chill creep into your bones. Your hair turns into kindling, or poufs into a staticky halo immune even to glamour spells. You can’t even run properly in winter, unless you’re a die-hard marathoner with no self-preservation instincts left intact.
All around cruel and unusual. At least we rarely suffered more than two months or so of such yearly punishment in Thistle Grove.
But this year, strangely, winter seemed to suit me. This year, I found every fresh snowfall soothing, almost meditative. There was one raging right now beyond the frost-rimed window of the Silver Cherry, where I was grin- and-bearing my way through a jewelry-making class; a feathery whirlwind, like being inside a shaken snow globe filled with drifting down. It felt hypnotic, a chaotic escapade of white that made it hard to hold on to any single thought for long. Which, these days, was more than fine by me.
These days, my thoughts and I didn’t tend to be on the best of terms.
“Sweetheart,” Jessa said, in that delicate tone she’d taken to using on me, like one harsh note might topple me over, damage me in some irreparable way. She didn’t have to be quite that careful with me, but I loved that she wanted to be. “You’re doing your depressed-mime face again.”
The words themselves didn’t tend to match up with the spun-sugar tone all that often, because she was still Jessa, and I loved her for that, too.
“What?” I mumbled, finally tearing my eyes from the window. “My . . . what?”
“You know.” She rearranged her adorable, ringlet-framed features into a truly dismal expression, drooping puppy-dog eyes and a dramatically downturned mouth like a melancholy bass. “Like you’re about to perish of chronic woe. Or possibly planning to re-create that scene from The Giver where the kid and his little brother escape into the snow to die with their emotions.”
“It’s been a while since middle school English class, but even so, I’m fairly sure that wasn’t supposed to be the takeaway,” I told her with a snort. “And hard pass on that cold demise. If I absolutely have to die somewhere with my emotions, I’d rather go all nice and toasty.”
Dragging my attention back to my little work tray, strewn with a glittery mishmash of wire and beads, I saw that I’d been halfheartedly tooling around with making earrings before the blizzard got the best of me. Once upon a time, I’d have crafted something gorgeous given an opportunity like this, painstakingly applied myself until I had it just right. Too bad “once upon a time” felt like several eons and an infinity of wrong turns ago.
“Burn you at the stake, then, noted,” Jessa quipped—though of course, thoroughly normie as she was, my best friend had no idea how close to home that hit. As far as I knew, Jessa had never once seriously considered the notion that our charming postcard of a town really was settled by witches, exactly like Thistle Grove legend would have you believe.
To her, I was just Nina. Best friend and partner in crime from our shared law school days, now in-house counsel to my family’s extensive business interests. Not Nineve Cliodhna of House Blackmoore, second in line to the most powerful witch dynasty in Thistle Grove.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” I assured her. “I do still have considerable will to live. Just not, like, enough zest to care about these earrings, apparently.”
Jessa pooched out her lower lip, abandoning the complicated (and suspiciously BDSM-looking) beaded choker she’d been working on.
“But that’s the point,” she insisted, smooth brow wrinkling with concern. “That’s what these classes are for, Nina. We’re supposed to be nurturing our creative selves, meeting new people, rediscovering your zest. Unearthing it.”
She looked so crestfallen that for the barest moment, I entertained the idea of assembling the pitiful bead hodgepodge into something pretty with a simple transmutation spell of the pumpkin-into-carriage variety, but even more basic. The raw materials were already right in front of me, half-threaded. I could have done it with just a few words, using a single, purely distilled thought as a vehicle of my will.
But that wouldn’t have been honest or fair, which was part of the reason I never did magic in front of my best friend. For the safety and the continuing preservation of our town, as per the Grimoire—the spellbook that also held sway over the conduct and governance of Thistle Grove’s witch community—only long-term, witchbound partners were permitted access to that secret. And for all that I adored Jessa to pieces, our friendship wasn’t the kind of love the founders had had in mind when deciding who should be privy to our magic.
Letting the oblivion glamour that was cast over the town take hold of her, erasing her memory of whatever spell I’d worked, would have felt . . . traitorous. A little gross, even.
And it would have been a cop-out at best. Jessa was the kind of delightful whirlwind of a person who effortlessly transformed strangers into friends—or short-lived partners, as the case may be—wherever she went, and I knew she’d been hoping a little of that joie de vivre might rub off on me. Tonight’s jewelry-making class was the fourth hopeful outing of its kind, following a disastrous wine-and-paint night (during which I’d gotten the not-artistically-conducive kind of wasted), an equally catastrophic pottery class that had reminded me of Sydney’s love of ceremonial teacups and sent me spinning into a meltdown, and a flower-arranging class that had only managed to unearth memories of the ivory-and-rose-gold palette I’d chosen for the flowers at my own wedding.
A wedding that was never going to happen, much like the perfect life with Sydney that had been meant to materialize thereafter. A life that now seemed not just fictional, but so fantastically unbelievable that I, a flesh-and-blood descendant of the sorceress Morgan le Fay, couldn’t conceive of it as a reality.
“You’re talking about me like I’m some archeological dig, Jess, and we’re troweling for ancient potsherds of joy. What if there’s no zest to unearth? What if I’m just a barren wasteland?” I dropped my chin, the familiar, hateful well of tears pressing against my eyes. I was so damn sick of crying at the slightest provocation, like some weepy damsel stuck in a mire of never-ending distress, but I’d apparently won the sob lottery. Team #Leaky4Life over here. “Permanently broken?”
“Everyone’s fixable, sweetheart,” Jessa assured me, slipping a soft arm around my shoulders and tilting her temple against mine. She favored those subtle skin-musk perfumes that you couldn’t detect on yourself—the kind I’d never go for, because what was the point if you couldn’t catch indulgent whiffs of it throughout the day?—but that made her smell gorgeous, a vanilla-cedar scent that hit somewhere between gourmand and woody. Being hugged by her felt like free aromatherapy.
“Even that guy you dated with the towering manbun?” I asked, a little damply.
“You say that like there’s only been one . . . which, would that were the truth.”
“The one who drank so much Bulletproof Coffee it was like he was speaking in fast-forward all the time,” I clarified. “And did biceps curls while taking dumps.”
“Fuck no, not him.” She shuddered delicately against me, sticking out her tongue—which was pierced, something no other estate lawyer I knew could ever have gotten away with. Apparently a deceptively angelic face like Jessa’s covered a multitude of sins, even when it came to the most uptight of clients. “Everyone but Chasen, then.”
“Of course that was his name. And what about dictators? Or sex cult leaders? Or serial killers?”
“Now you’re just being difficult. Allow me to rephrase, counselor.” She shifted sideways against me, just enough to boop me on the nose. “You are fixable, sweetheart. Eminently so.”
“Then why can’t I get into even this, the most emotionally undemanding of activities?” I asked her, that relentless ache lurching in my chest again. A panging disorientation that felt almost like homesickness, as my gaze skimmed over the dozen or so other people happily crafting beneath the cherry cutouts dangling from the ceiling, the recessed lighting spilling over them in a mellow glow. Mostly clusters of women around Jessa’s and my age, along with a few mothers with their tweens in tow.
Even the solitary goth enby with the pentagram neck tattoo—likely a tourist drawn to the Silver Cherry by its affiliation with Lark Thorn, who not only was teaching this class but also sold her line of enchanted jewelry here—looked to be having a more exuberant experience with this mortal coil than I was.
“What kind of mess can’t focus on stringing beads together? Or letting loose on a pottery wheel?” I swiped at my eyes, trying in vain to keep from smearing my eyeliner. “It’s been a whole year, Jess. How long is this emotional fugue state even supposed to last?”
My voice rose enough that on the other side of the room, Lark Thorn abruptly straightened from where she’d been instructing one of the tweens. She turned just enough to flick a concerned glance at me over her shoulder, deep brown skin glowing against the vivid turquoise of her scoop-neck sweater, her dark eyes liquid with sympathy. The Thorns were empathically attuned to one another’s feelings, and acutely sensitive to others’ emotional landscapes, too. Though I doubted Lark even needed their particular brand of ESP to detect the seismic rumble of my distress.
