The Devil Makes Three

by Tori Bovalino

  Eliot’s car pulled in front of the house, half on the street, half on the curb in regular Pittsburgh fashion. He was outside, leaning against the driver’s side door, scanning an article on his phone. He kept snapping his fingers, calling a flame to them, and extinguishing it with the flick of his hand.

  “C’mon,” Tess said, skipping a greeting and sliding into the passenger’s seat. “You have a flight to catch.”

  His bags were in the backseat, toppled over like fallen gravestones. For a boy who had more money than the king, Eliot sure had some beaten-up luggage. This was all Tess could think as they drove to the airport, hands entwined on the center console. Eliot was driving now, one-handed, wearing sunglasses that made his smile look even shinier, but Tess would take his car back.

  He left her hand for just a moment to turn down the radio. “How was moving?” he asked.

  Tess sighed. “Depressing as hell. Everything is just as Mathilde left it. Obviously.”

  “It’ll be better,” Eliot said, squeezing her hand.

  She looked at him, admiring the peak of his nose, the curve of his ear. “I’m going to miss you. You know that, right?”

  That smile burned across his face, slow and true. “You won’t have to miss me for long. I’ll be back for school. How was your first lesson?”

  Tess shrugged. Alejandra had set her up with a musician from the symphony, insisting that they’d still chat once a week, but that it was better to have a teacher in person.

  “He’s strict,” she said, feeling the calluses on the tips of her fingers stinging.

  “Which isn’t a bad thing,” Eliot said. He took the exit to the airport, and Tess’s chest tightened. She was afraid of what would happen when he got on the plane and flew away for the rest of the summer. Here was the truth: Eliot’s mother was going to die. He knew it. She knew it. No spell, no grimoire, no devil was going to bring her back, no matter how much Eliot tried.

  And another truth: Tess did not know how to be soft for him. She was still uncomfortable with vulnerability, and though she’d opened up to Eliot before, she was not certain how to make him feel better when she was never fully okay herself. She did not know how to comfort him, how she’d put him back together when he shattered, if there was even a point in trying. Even in breaking, Tess only grew harder.

  Eliot pulled into short term parking. It seemed too brief, too strange for her to just drop him off, so they’d compromised by agreeing she would come into the airport. She stood by while he printed his boarding passes and waited for his check-in to work, with no shortage of snide asides about the lack of efficiency of the Pittsburgh Airport.

  Things would never be the same between them, after this summer. Tess was sure of it. He would think she was too rough, too cruel—she was the girl who’d killed Regina, the one who’d hurt him. Despite the cracks and all they’d been through, she couldn’t be certain what version of her Eliot saw.

  “But actually,” Eliot softly raged. “Why can’t they just fly direct? Why the hell do I have to go to New York, or Chicago, or Iceland? Iceland, Tess.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Softly: “Tess?”

  Eliot had taken off his sunglasses and was watching her carefully.

  “I need a minute,” she said.

  Eliot went to check his luggage, and she watched as he laughed with the airline attendant. This was Eliot, as he always had been: secure and brilliant and rich. And here she was. Lost.

  She’d been different, since the devil. Not by huge amounts; it wasn’t like her eyes turned into the universe and she inhabited other bodies, but different enough that she noticed. She felt colder, like she’d lost some small human bit of herself in the crypt.

  When she talked to Eliot like this, she thought he noticed, too. And more terrifying to that stony part of Tess that wanted to remain locked away: that he noticed, and it didn’t make him care about her less.

  But then he was back, and she couldn’t put on a fake smile to say goodbye to him. It was all she could do to hug him back when he wrapped his arms around her.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered into her hair.

  She couldn’t lie to him. “You’re going to go to England and come back and this will all be over, like it never happened. And when you come back, things will be different. You need someone who … I don’t know. I don’t need you to remind me who I am, ever. I’m like a rock. An unaffectionate rock. I don’t know how to make things better. And you’re magic. What am I supposed to do about that? In school, you’ll go back to being you and I’ll go back to being me and one of us is eventually going to leave.”

  He pulled away to study her face. She was being ridiculous, she knew, so she tried to hide in his chest once more, but he held her chin and kept her steady.

  “You’re wrong,” Eliot said, clear and quiet. “I’m going to go to England and think about you every day. And we will field all the gasps of horror on the first day of school when everyone realizes the talented, brilliant Tess Matheson is dating Dr. Birch’s gargoyle of a son. You’re right that you’re a rock. You’re a boulder, if anything. The world crashes around you, and you stay standing. At least one of us is strong.”

  Tess couldn’t help laughing. “You’re not a gargoyle,” she said.

  He leaned down and kissed her, once, twice. Whispered: “I’m never going to ask you to be weak for me.”

  She hugged him as tightly as possible and breathed in the scent of him. Dust and pages and sage. A slight hint of vanilla from those candles he was always burning.

  “I’m going to miss you,” he said.

  “Get on your plane, Birch,” Tess responded. She kissed him again, sweetly this time, and watched him get in line for security.

  She was halfway back to his car when her phone buzzed. A text from Eliot.

  I’ll be back before you know it, you witch-hunting fuckface.

  Her smile was instant and radiant. She looked over her shoulder, as if she could see through the walls and lines to where he stood, but she didn’t need to see him to know that he was laughing too.

  epilogue

  EVERYONE ON CAMPUS KNEW THE JESSOP LIBRARY WAS haunted. It wasn’t just the uncatalogued grimoires or inexplicable noises that made students take longer routes across campus to avoid the building entirely. It was also the murders that took place there over the summer, murders that hadn’t been solved—that might never be solved.

  Tess Matheson was not afraid of these ghosts.

  After all, she was the one who created them.

  On the first day of school, the first day that the library had been open in weeks, she reported at exactly 7:30. The new librarian was a young woman named Jackie. Tess had met her the week before in the park, and the two of them had coffee and tentatively discussed a schedule for the school year. It would be Tess’s responsibility to train any new student employees and make sure the work was getting done.

  In a way, she hated being here, but not just because of what happened. She also hated the library because she knew deep down that she belonged to it, and it belonged to her.

  There was power thrumming in Jessop’s walls. The ink knew her when she entered the halls. The words knew their master. There was nothing for her to fear here.

  No, in Jessop, she was not afraid. She was fearsome.

  She said hi to Jackie in the back office and stashed her backpack under the circulation desk. There was part of a schedule on the desk, names crossed off and scribbled again, and she squinted down at the written names to decipher who would be working. There’d apparently been some finagling this morning because more than one name was crossed off the list, leaving a mess of blotted ink.

  Above her, someone cleared their throat. Immediately, annoyance flooded through her. She hated when people did that to get her attention.

  Tess looked up. Navy and crimson tie immaculate over a white button down, capped with a navy sweater. Khakis pressed to perfection. A smirk that she knew far too well.

  �
��Eliot,” Tess said.

  He’d gotten in just the day before and she hadn’t been able to see him—hadn’t been sure what to say. They hadn’t spoken much since his mother’s funeral. Tess cared enough about him to give him time away from her edges. He looked tired and a little sad but also … lighter. Untethered.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, if you must know,” he said, obviously fighting a smile, “I work here.”

  Tess raised an eyebrow. He tapped on the schedule clipboard. And there it was: three names crossed off on the morning timeslot next to Tess’s, and then, scratched above them in Jackie’s handwriting, Eliot Birch.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tess said. She wanted to wipe that grin off his face. Or kiss him. She hadn’t decided which yet.

  Eliot shrugged, but he was already grabbing one of the carts, laden down with books that hadn’t been shelved in the time Jessop was closed. “Are you going to tell me where these go, Matheson?”

  She was going to kill him, one of these days. But then she caught sight of the spines: the books on the carrel were from the first floor cage. All of them had come from Eliot’s office in the first place.

  “Ask Jackie for a key,” Tess said, settling back in the desk chair. She already knew how many books were on the carrel because she and Regina had pulled every single one of them, and there was no way she was putting them back.

  He frowned. “Aren’t you going to help? There’s like, a hundred books here.”

  One hundred and forty-seven, to be exact, Tess thought. “Nope,” she said, opening a book from her bag. “This one’s all on you.”

  He sighed, but he took the cart back, like he was told. Tess watched him over the edge of the book, not even bothering to hide her smile anymore. It was true. Eliot Birch was insufferable.

  But at least now he could get his own damn books.

  In the comfort of the library, in the sanctuary of Tess Matheson’s body, you opened your eyes.

  acknowledgments

  IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO CONTINUE WITHOUT NOTING FIRST that I am absolutely an emotionally driven sap who has very little room for logic. As such, without the people listed below, this book never would’ve been more than a Word document.

  Thanks to my agents, Dr. Uwe Stender and Amelia Appel, who have been with me through years full of ups and downs. This book would have never existed without your careful notes and unending encouragement (and ignoring me every time I said, “It’s done, it’s over, let’s forget it ever existed”). Special thanks to Brent Taylor and the entire team at TriadaUS for being so lovely and supportive.

  For Lauren, my endlessly patient and enduring editor, who guided me through every step of the process. I hope you know you are stellar, but I could also be biased. Huge thanks to Will Kiester, Tamara Grasty, Mary Beth Garhart, Meg Palmer, Lizzy Mason, Lauren Cepero, Lynne Hartzer, and the rest of the team. Special thanks to Melia Parsloe for creating such a beautiful cover.

  My parents, sister, and family have supported me unquestioningly throughout my writing journey. Thanks for tolerating my secrecy and acknowledging when we weren’t allowed to talk about things publishing related. Quick sound-off: Jane and Vic, my parental units; Lex; Grandma Peg; Dana and Tony; Kim and Craig; Susan; Lindaly and Win Sr., Jeanna, Justin, Win, and all family; Stacy, Doug, Jacob, and Squid; Jeff, Britt, Chris, and Taylor; and all others. Special loving memory to my grandparents who did not see this book get published: Hengust and Vito; and Jean, who kept every bit of writing I ever did and wanted so much to be here.

  To Becca and Kat and Rebekah and Erin, who encouraged me even when I was awful. And for Evi, who read the early drafts of everything. To Mike and Kali, thanks for tolerating me. Also thanks to Dan C., Katina, Joe V., Rachel, and my much-loved Burgatory crew. Thanks to all other CP’s and betas who read sections of this and offered wonderful feedback.

  To all of my writing friends: thank you for being incredibly supportive, and also for just letting me complain a lot. Special thanks to Tasha S. and Carly, Bibi C., Kelsey R., Julia B., Hannah C., Chloe G., Hannah W., Claribel O., Kim V., Emma T., Alechia D., Kat D., and Daphne. Love and thanks to Pennwriters and crew, B Street 6, and everyone I might have left out in my haste.

  Special love and thanks to the lads, Kish and Michael. Thanks to RHUL Group 3, Shakira, Paul, Gema, Fabia, Steph, and Maddy. For encouragement and teaching, thanks to Dr. Anna Whitwham, Dr. Eley Williams, Dr. Adam Roberts, and Dr. Prudence Bussey-Chamberlain at RHUL, and Siobhan Vivian, Nancy Garcia, and Robert Yune at Pitt.

  Thanks to Matt, who tolerates me on a daily basis, and the entire Moss/McKenzie/Mutchell/Bird conglomerate.

  To anyone who I’ve forgotten, you have my thanks as well, and will probably get a sobbing apology for not including you. And a special thank you to anyone who has picked up this book and read it through. To you: it’s about you, always, and I am forever in your debt.

  about the author

  TORI BOVALINO is originally from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and currently lives in London with her cat, Sir Gordon Greendige II. She holds a BA in English and anthropology from the University of Pittsburgh and an MA in creative writing from Royal Holloway, University of London. She is currently a student in Royal Holloway’s creative writing and practice-based PhD program. Tori is obsessed with good chai, oversized sweaters, and talking about Pittsburgh. She is active on Twitter as @toribov.

  Thank you for buying this

  Page Street Publishing Co. ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty one

  Chapter twenty two

  Chapter twenty three

  Chapter twenty four

  Chapter twenty five

  Chapter twenty six

  Chapter twenty seven

  Chapter twenty eight

  Chapter twenty nine

  Chapter thirty

  Chapter thirty one

  Chapter thirty two

  Chapter thirty three

  Chapter thirty four

  Chapter thirty five

  Chapter thirty six

  Chapter thirty seven

  Chapter thirty eight

  Chapter thirty nine

  Chapter forty

  Chapter forty one

  Chapter forty two

  Chapter forty three

  Chapter forty four

  Chapter forty five

  Chapter forty six

  Chapter forty seven

  Chapter forty eight

  Chapter forty nine

  Chapter fifty

  Chapter fifty one

  Chapter fifty two

  Chapter fifty three

  Chapter fifty four

  Chapter fifty five

  Chapter fifty six

  Chapter fifty seven

  Chapter fifty eight

  Chapter fifty nine

  Chapter sixty

  Chapter sixty one

  Chapter sixty two

  Chapter sixty three

  Chapter sixty four

  epilogue


  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2021 Tori Bovalino

  First published in 2021 by

  Page Street Publishing Co.

  27 Congress Street, Suite 105

  Salem, MA 01970

  www.pagestreetpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  eISBN 978-1-64567-236-4

  Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020945234

  Cover design by Melia Parsloe for Page Street Publishing Co.

  Cover image © Daniil Kontorovich / Trevillion Images