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I roll my eyes. Cat has only been here for thirty-seconds, and already we’re discussingthem. I would say it’s a record, but it isn’t. Like death or getting a suggested follow request for your one-night stand, some things are just inevitable. Whenever we attend an Order event, inevitably the Montague family will come up within five minutes.
“How was the mixer?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Fine.”
From Cat, “Fine,” means “Excellent,” so I appreciate that she left early.
My best friend was attending a student/faculty mixer for our program at Elsinore University, where we are both seniors. I should have attended as well, but my mother asked—no, demanded—that I attend this auction instead. Being me, I couldn’t work up the courage to tell her “No.”
The auction is part of a week’s worth of Founder’s Day activities. Founder’s Day in the town of Stratford, Massachusetts is the biggest event of the year. At least, it is for those of us from the eight founding families.
Stratford might seem like any normal, upper-class, New England town from the outside, but it’s so much more than that. Stratford is a town built on secrets and magic, where favors flow like currency and debt gives a whole new meaning to the term “blood money.”
Founder’s Day celebrates not only the town’s establishment, but the creation of “the Order.” A pact between our ancestors that kept them from being caught up in the hysteria in the nearby city of Salem. Everyone knows about the witch trials. What everyone doesn’t know is that the real witches survived, and their descendants are living comfortably a few miles down the road, using everyday magic to run hedge funds and mold a new generation of media and tech moguls.
Cat elbows me in the ribs. “Incoming.”
I jump, distracted by my own thoughts, and follow her line of sight. My lips thin into a tight line. “Ty, I didn’t know you were coming.”
My cousin Tyberius strides toward us, immediately noticeable in a maroon suit with a plaid pocket square that reminds me of our old Verona Valley Prep uniforms. “Juliette!” he calls too-loudly. “You should have told meyouwere coming. I would have picked you up.”
My nose wrinkles. I hate my name, but Tyberius—a fellow owner of a miserably pretentious and hard to spell name—always forgets. I give him a tight smile. “I didn’t know we’d both be here. Mom didn’t mention it.”
What I want to say is: “What the fuck?” but I hold it together. Fighting with my cousin in public will reflect worse on me than on him. Still, if Tyberius—who has graduated from Elsinore and is a full-fledged member of the Order—is here, why did I have to miss my school event to represent our family?
Ty falls in next to us. He flashes a veneered smile that doesn’t quite reach his gray eyes and brushes an ash-blonde curl off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Hasn’t this started yet?”
I shake my head. “They’re running late.”
“Of course. And here, I was late on purpose.” He looks like this is the disappointment of his entire life. “I’m getting a drink. Do you want something?”
I shake my head, again, even as Cat says: “Yes,please.”
Tyberius mutters an unintelligible incantation under his breath and draws a symbol in the air with his middle finger I recognize immediately as a summoning rune.
Nothing happens.
He throws a sideways glance at me, as if I’ve done something to cause this, and shakes his hand vigorously. He tries drawing the rune again to no avail. “What the hell is going on?”
“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?” Cat asks sweetly.
Tyberius scowls at her as I try not to laugh. “No magic tonight,” I inform him, leaning back against the rose adorned cocktail table. “The council thought it would be safer.”
“Fuck that,” Tyberius grumbles as he wanders away toward the bar. “If I’d known we were playing human I wouldn’t have come.”
Cat and I share a knowing look of disdain. Champagne problems can be a real pain in the ass.
Tyberius doesn’t return, and I’m starting to wonder if I can sneak out the back door, when someone taps on an old-fashioned microphone. “Good evening, and welcome. Blessed be you all.”
There’s a smattering of applause and a return chorus of “Blessed be,” as Councilman Lawrence, the head of the Order and, in turn, the city council, stands at the microphone.
“Finally,” Cat mutters. “I thought he might have died while we were waiting.”
Councilman Lawrence is holding a glass of red wine and wearing an immaculately tailored tuxedo and his bright white hair is the exact same color as his shirt. His voice warbles slightly as he addresses the restless crowd. “Before we begin this evening’s auction, I’d like to take a few minutes to remind us all of the losses our community has suffered this year, and offer our prayers to the Andronicus family and the House of Montague.”
Instead of the moment of silence Councilman Lawrence is no doubt intending, the crowd erupts in mutters, shifting and rustling. If any of the whispers are actual prayers, I would drop dead from shock.
Like many around me, my eyes narrow up at the stage. “Are we still at the ‘thoughts and prayers’ stage?” I whisper to Cat. “Seriously?”
