“Of course, so they can enjoy their victory lap,” I commented sourly. “So, three challenges, three combatants . . . what happens if there’s a tie?”

“Well, it never has happened,” he said, brows peaking at the prospect; my father had always managed to pack an impressive amount of emotion into his unruly eyebrows. “But in the very unlikely event that it does, the Grimoire will put forth a final tiebreaker challenge. And the Victor of that one will take home the wreath.”

We probably wouldn’t need to worry about that possibility this time around, either, if Gareth’s effortless reconstruction of my glass was any indication of things to come. But from what I remembered of him, Rowan wasn’t exactly a pushover—and given the general caliber of Avramovs’ abilities, Talia might very well be a powerhouse herself. With the two of them working together, who knew how things might unfold?

“So, those are the broad strokes,” my father said, flipping the Grimoire closed with the quasi-reverent care he reserved for books. “In the meantime, this Grimoire is at your disposal for the duration of the Gauntlet, should you need to refer to it for anything. I’d recommend reacquainting yourself with all the Gauntlet entries, to begin.”

I reached for the Grimoire, steeling myself for another overwhelming magical assault. I didn’t really want to touch it again at all, but at the very least, I’d want to read over the rules, make sure this version didn’t contain any prohibition on an alliance between two houses. As if it sensed my apprehension, the spellbook sat circumspect under my touch, buzzing pleasantly against my skin but nothing more. I found its restraint oddly reassuring, giving me just a little hope that I wasn’t in quite as far over my head as I suddenly felt.

Maybe arbitrating the Gauntlet in the town I thought I’d left behind for good, while I helped Linden and Talia scheme against Gareth Blackmoore, Prince of Bastards, would be manageable after all.

7

The Ring Effect

My got-this attitude soldiered on until the night of the opening ceremony, before summarily abandoning me.

I stood in the vast and unruly garden behind The Bitters, the Avramovs’ demesne, my high heels sinking into the soil beneath the overgrown grass. Wearing the pair of power Jimmy Choos I’d splurged on to celebrate my Enchantify promotion had probably been a bad call, but tonight I needed every shred of confidence I could muster. Deep night loomed above, the crescent moon glowing against it like some trickster’s impish smile. Behind me, an ornate wrought iron fence, twined with ivy and topped with wickedly sharp finials, guarded against the thick woods that hulked behind The Bitters.

And in front of me, the three hundred or so members of the founding families stood robed and gathered, waiting for me to declare the Gauntlet begun.

Firelight from the scattered braziers painted their features with writhing lines of light and shadow, stripping even well-known faces of their familiarity. I couldn’t even pick out my own mother, Nana Caro, or Delilah amid the hooded throng, much less Talia or Linden, though I knew they must all be here tonight; I’d forgotten just how many of us witches there were in this town.