Page 51

She set out a bowl of water and some sunflower seeds, then locked the bus and went inside before she could talk herself out of it.

She stood near the door for a moment and took stock.

The crowd was a decent size. Tempest counted at least forty, maybe fifty people. The tables were pushed together in small clusters, and almost everyone had a drink in hand. The room buzzed with competitive anticipation. Some people couldn’t wait to get started and were already testing each other as a warm-up. She heard the staccato back and forth of questions and answers mixed in with the steady murmur of conversation. She couldn’t help noticing how many of the pre-gamers were getting the questions wrong.

She kept her mouth shut and continued to assess the competition.

A chalkboard near the bar listed the tournament rules and, beside it, a standing leaderboard displayed the registered team names in chalk. She scanned them with interest. The Smarty Pints, Hell’s Belles, Whatever Ales You, Tater Tots Unite.

Almost everyone was seated in tight groups of two to six. She looked at those groups and felt a sinking sensation. It was the same feeling she’d had every time she’d started at a new school—that moment of walking into the lunchroom on the first day and not knowing where to sit.

She read the rules. Her heart sank lower. She hadn’t realized, when she’d heard the announcement on the radio, that you needed at least one partner to enter. Solo competition was not allowed at The Loaded Spud. She considered hightailing it back to the bus. She could probably keep driving for a couple more hours. But then what?

She pictured Fortune giving her the eye.

Suddenly a tall, beautiful dark-skinned woman with brilliant blue hair bumped into her, spilling beer all over Tempest’s sweater.

“Oh no!” the woman exclaimed. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that!”

Tempest had the vague impression that there was something magical about the woman, but she couldn’t place her type. There was something familiar about her, though. She had on a leather biker jacket over a plain white tee, and faded jeans.

She stuck out her hand. “My apologies. I’m Asha, and I’m not usually clumsy like that. My friends and I have a table. Why don’t you join us and we’ll see what we can do to clean you up? My friend Zara’s not half bad at cleaning charms.”

So this woman and her friends were magical. But Asha was not a witch. Tempest would have sensed it if she was. Witch blood always sang to greet kin. And they weren’t shifters. Something else. Something older.

Asha ushered Tempest toward a table by the far wall where two other women were seated. They all had matching jackets, Tempest noticed, but the similarities ended there. Asha was tall and curvy. The one with the shocking white hair was pale and thin, with a necklace made of tiny, perfect seashells. The third woman was petite, and olive skinned, with a glossy, burgundy-highlighted brunette bob.

“Honestly, Zara, you don’t have to style the snacks,” the third woman said. She was dressed head to toe in black leather, watching the white-haired one rearrange the potato halves and assorted toppings on the table. “There are no bonus points for presentation in a trivia contest.” She tossed her hair and Tempest noticed the tiny dagger earrings dangling from her ears. They matched the dagger on the back of her jacket.

The blonde laughed, a bright, unself-conscious sound. “Good thing I’m sitting this one out then, Nell. I don’t think either you or Asha want me on your team.”

“We’ve found a use for your talents after all,” Asha interjected. She pulled Tempest forward. “Seems I got a little clumsy and spilled my drink on this poor stranger’s sweater. I thought you might be able to help?”

She stared pointedly at Zara, who seemed genuinely confused. Zara’s brow furrowed. She glanced at Asha’s full glass, then back at Tempest’s sweater.

The brunette kicked her beneath the table. Zara blinked.

“Right,” she said, standing. The brunette extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Nell.” She smiled, and Tempest noticed her teeth were pointed. “Sorry about Asha and her sudden onset of clumsiness. Anybody else gives you trouble tonight, you let me know.” Her eyes flashed, and Tempest could tell she meant it.

Magic again. But nothing she recognized.

“Here, hand me the sweater,” Zara said. “And tell us your name?”

“Tempest.” She slid out of her sweater and handed it over. She watched closely to see what kind of spell the woman would use. Perhaps that would give her some clue as to what type of magical beings these three were.

“Oh.” Zara’s eyes went wide as she turned the cardigan over in her hands. “That is a fantastic name. I’m rather partial to anything weather-related. Rainy, Stormy, Tempest, Windy, Gale…” She rattled off a few favorites.

“My mother’s name was Halcyon,” Tempest offered.

“Halcyon,” Zara repeated, with half-closed eyes and a blissed-out expression. “Oh, yes, we mustn’t forget her.”

She spread the sweater across the table, covered it with napkins, and waved her hands absently over the bundle without chanting. She didn’t mind chatting while she worked. Tempest could have sworn she smelled fresh flowers.

“You should join our team,” Asha said, pushing a chair toward Tempest. “We could use a fourth.”

“Are you here alone?” Zara asked, still working. “Do you need a partner?”

Tempest hesitated.