The Fairest Kind of Love

by Crystal Cestari

  Copyright © 2019 by Crystal Cestari

  Cover art © 2019 by Michael Heath

  Photographs by Henryk Sadura/Shutterstock

  Vibrant Image Studio/Shutterstock

  Designed by Jamie Alloy

  Cover design by Jamie Alloy

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-04491-2

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  LOVE IS KIND OF the worst.

  No, for real, hear me out for a second. Think of all the insane consequences that get kicked up due to matters of the heart: people fight for love, literally battle over it, and, even worse, write horribly sappy songs that live on for eternity on adult contemporary radio stations. It’s a killer, honestly—a menace to society. We long for it, dream of it, even though our logical minds know the chances of everything ending up happily ever after are slim to none. And yet, any tiny glimmer of romantic possibility gets our weak hearts working overtime, forcing us to put it all on the line time and time again. Do we ever learn?

  Of course not. We’re all a bunch of dummies, myself included. Which is exactly why I’m pacing back and forth in a place I never thought I’d step foot inside: a black magic shop. Or, as it’s officially referred to on its website, an “Alternative Alchemy and Enchantment Establishment.” I nervously gnaw at my nails, chomping them short so I don’t accidentally scratch out my eyeballs upon seeing the horrors around me. Sometimes you have to go to greater lengths to get what you need. Trust me when I say that coming here is a last resort.

  “Amber, I swear to the Gods, you’re going to give us both a panic attack if you don’t just sit. Down.” My best friend—the light of my life—Amani Sharma, gives me the kind of disapproving look I thought was only reserved for Wiccan mothers. Long, dark lashes blink in objection while she nervously tugs at the edge of her blush-pink skirt. She doesn’t want to be here—I barely want to be here—but because she’s ride-or-die, she’s tagged along anyway. She sits on a backless, low-to-the-ground stool, upholstered with a fabric that seems more about style than function. Just like me, she’s doing her best not to gawk at our surroundings, because they’re almost too ridiculous to be true.

  Windy City Magic is not the only shop in the city that caters to magical clientele; we’re just the most visible—and reputable. There are other underground shops and merchants that wheel and deal in products and services Mom would never allow in our store. Things that don’t take skill or talent to make dangerous. Things that put power in the wrong hands.

  You’d expect a place like this to be dark and seedy, but this exposed-brick loft is bright and cozy, sunlight streaming in on all the darkness below. It’s almost like stepping into an indoor farmers’ market where everything is organic, gluten-free, and, oh yeah, illegal. The entire space defies dark magic stereotypes, bringing its blacklisted inventory aboveground and housing it in a clean, contemporary showroom that could easily inspire a “farmhouse Goth” Pinterest board. Row after row of glass cases perched atop repurposed shipping crates present true horrors like they’re cool flea-market finds, showing off disjointedly scary items like a barely beating heart, seeds for a poisonous carnivorous flytrap, and something called “Black Night,” which coats the glass in a color and texture that is straight out of my nightmares. The juxtaposition of “scary” and “trendy” is so off-putting, I can barely function.

  “I’m sorry! I can’t help it,” I whisper-screech, nearly spitting out a pinkie nail. “On top of hating this place with every fiber of my being, I am both completely terrified and unbelievably psyched that maybe I’ll get some answers today.”

  Amani pinches her lips, sealing up whatever discouraging thing lives inside her brain, which is kind, considering what I’ve put her through these past couple months. Ever since I looked into my boyfriend Charlie Blitzman’s eyes and saw only static, I have been dragging my supernatural bestie all over Chicago trying to understand why. We’ve read every single one of my mom’s grimoires, crashed countless coven meetings of Dawning Day, and went to an event called WizardCon, which turned out to be a total bust (false advertising, if you ask me). I’ve done meditation and yoga, swallowed a lifetime supply of healing herbs, and laid crystals over my entire body to no avail. Amani has been there every step of the way, and done her precog best to try to see my future, but since she can’t force her visions, nothing has materialized, and probably won’t at this point, since we pissed off the Fates pretty badly one desperate afternoon when we conjured them up in her bedroom. I bet they worked overtime to tie up any and all loopholes now, just to keep me guessing. I really hate those guys.

  Why have I been so insane about this? Well, if Charlie’s bad reception was an isolated event, maybe I could let it go (but let’s be honest, probably not). Since winter, my matchmaking sessions have been on a slow, strange decline. I started seeing really messed-up stuff: not the matches themselves, but the way they were presented. Sometimes I’ll look into a client’s eyes and see two alternate realities playing out side by side; other times my visions flicker, randomly showing me flashes of two, or even three, potential happily-ever-afters.

  As you can imagine, this is extremely upsetting. At first, I thought the Fates were just messing with me by manipulating Charlie’s match; you’d think they’d be busy, oh, I don’t know, watching over the trials and tribulations of the entire world instead. But as the futures of total strangers began taking equally confusing turns, I realized the problem was not with Charlie but me. I wasn’t seeing clearly anymore, and it was making me crazy. During my regular matchmaking shifts at Windy City Magic, I probably looked like a robot short-circuiting, desperately trying to hold on to my programming while my motherboard slowly burned to a crisp. I scared Bob on more than one occasion as I cursed over my fragmented visions. It got so bad, I begged my mom to let me temporarily close down my matchmaking table until I figured out what’s going on. Matters of the heart are sensitive enough as it is. I can’t, in good conscience, give out bad information. But I’ve been searching for months, and now, at the threshold of summer, I’ve yet to see a clear match.

  Am I broken? What is happening to me? For over a decade, every minute of every day has been a constant reminder that love i
s real, happy endings flooding my view in perfect clarity. Why would I go from firing on all cylinders to sputtering to a halt? What changed? What did I do? Did I pull an Ivy Chamberlain and somehow use up all my magic before I’m even legal? Matchmaking has always been such an inconsequential talent in the magical community, I didn’t think anyone would bother to keep tabs on me, which is probably why no one can find me answers either.

  Two months ago, I found out about this shop—Roscoe’s Runes—through one of our regular gemstone suppliers. He gave me a very “wink wink, nudge nudge” suggestion that I could possibly find answers in the über-trendy West Loop neighborhood, a place where old warehouses have been converted into glam yoga studios and wine bars—places for those who are too cool for school to take selfies that tout their VIP status. It’s a part of the city I rarely venture to, mostly because I could care less about being cool and don’t have time to keep up with the hipster trend of the moment. To help achieve the level of exclusivity that’s so painfully desired in this area, Roscoe and his runes are available through appointment only, and the earliest consultation I could schedule was today. Graduation day. Inconvenient? Yes, but perhaps also serendipitous, as maybe I’ll be able to leave both high school and my magical drama in the past in one glorious swoop.

  “If he doesn’t come out soon, we’ll have to bail to make it to the ceremony on time,” Amani says, kicking the duffel bag that holds our caps and gowns, which sits on the floor near her feet. “I suffered through four long years at that school, and I’m not going to miss the chance to tell all the people I hate good-bye forever.”

  “I know, I know.” I nod my head, still pacing. I want to give one final side-eye to all my enemies, but I also can’t wait another two months for a new appointment with Roscoe. I would like to alleviate this inner turmoil so I can enjoy my summer in peace. The acoustic covers of ’90s hip-hop playing on a loop are bringing more irk than Zen, and I’m curious as to what could possibly be preventing a warlock from keeping appointments on time. It’s not like he’s performing brain surgery. I’ve now memorized the annoyingly cool sans serif font that spells out OFFICE and PRIVATE COLLECTION on the two doors before us. “Hey, what do you think is in the private collection?” I ask Amani, who can’t stop checking the time on her cell.

  She looks up. “Well, for a place that keeps exotic snakes out in the open, it has to be something truly weird.” She taps her nails and rose-gold flats in the same anxious rhythm. C’mon, dude, come out here before my best friend snaps.

  Finally, the office door opens, and a woman with ferociously amber, practically orange, eyes calls my name. I try not to flinch at her catlike aesthetic, bored yet commanding in her effortlessly casual “I woke up like this” topknot and relaxed button-down, a calico-colored tail wagging behind her. She hardly takes notice of us, but I feel like she could instantly destroy us with a flick of her razor-sharp claws. She must be a shape-shifter who holds on to shadows of her feline identity even while in human form.

  “Can I offer you some kombucha? LaCroix?” she purrs with disinterest, guiding us into a small, windowless room illuminated by candlelight. Her bare feet quietly tiptoe through the space, and I feel she could easily hop onto the armoire in the corner, curl up, and take a nap. I shake my head, blinking rapidly to adjust to the near darkness. There are no chairs, but piles and piles of oriental rugs and floor pillows, and some seriously stinky incense burning. “Roscoe will be with you shortly, then.”

  Once Catwoman leaves, Amani shoots a death look at the door. “What is with this place and uncomfortable seating?” she huffs. “I cannot sit on the floor in this skirt.” She’s decked out in her graduation dress, a short, summery shift that shows off her long legs. I’m also wearing a skirt, though against my will, because apparently wearing semiformal attire is required at graduation, even though we’ll all be covered in gowns, so whoever came up with this rule is truly evil. Amani’s outfit is happy and bright, while I think I last wore this black skirt to a funeral.

  “I don’t know, dude. Just do that weird cheerleader sit pose. Here, I’ll do it too.” I sit down, awkwardly tucking my heels behind me. “Go, team!” She gives a small laugh, placing a massive pillow over her lap as she plops down beside me.

  “I hope this works out,” she says, candlelight dancing on her face.

  “Gods, me too.” Just then, the man of the moment enters. Roscoe, wearing a large-brimmed fedora, V-neck tee under a satin vest, and jeans with strategically placed holes and rips that make them look like he’s worn them for years but in reality they’re probably brand-new. Patchy facial hair creeps up his jawline, like he was trying to grow a beard but failed, and mystically bent tattoos cover his fingers and forearms. He’s simultaneously exactly yet nothing like what I’d expect for a warlock in this part of the city.

  “Welcome, ladies. I’m Roscoe,” he says, pressing his hands together in prayer position and giving a small bow. “I apologize for the wait. I had a shipment of dragon eggs come in just as you arrived, and they require extra care during delivery.”

  I do a wildly erratic double take typically reserved for cartoon characters. “I’m sorry, did you say dragon eggs?”

  Roscoe smiles devilishly, revealing a gold tooth on the right side of his mouth. “Yes. Two of them, to be exact. They are extremely rare, as I’m sure you can imagine. To find a pair was quite a stroke of luck.”

  For a second, I forget all about my matchmaking woes, thinking about how cute Charlie’s face will look when I tell him this news. “But, I mean, dragons are real? Like, for real?” Not my most eloquent thoughts, but . . . dragons!

  “They are nearly extinct and have become nocturnal creatures out of survival, only hunting and flying at night.”

  “And they breathe fire and all that?” I can’t hide my excitement. Gods, Charlie is going to lose his damn mind!

  Roscoe, confused by my wonder, says, “Yes, but I’m sure your mother has told you all this? Though she has been out of the exotic trade for quite some time.”

  “Wait, you know my mom?” I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Mom knows all the black market merchants, though I’m not particularly interested in the reasons why. I’ll file this acquaintance under “mistakes of Mom’s youth” and try to never think about their association again.

  “We used to collaborate, yes,” he confirms with a grin I want to immediately wipe from my memory. Amani gives an equally disgusted reaction to his reminiscing, frowning at his delight. “Though I’m guessing you must be in quite a spot to come to me instead of her for help.”

  I was already nervous enough being here—at the end of my magical rope—but now that I know this aging hipster has Sand-family history, my insides are coated with an extra layer of grime. Mom has done her best to help me too, but every potion and spell she’s tried has come up short. It’s too late now; I told myself I’d stop at nothing to get the answers I need. “Yeah, well, I’m a matchmaker, and my magic seems to be on the fritz.”

  He leans forward, tatted fingers touching his lips. “Interesting. How so?”

  “When I look into people’s eyes, sometimes their matches are clear, but sometimes they’re . . . off. I don’t understand why, and I want to know what’s wrong with me.” Amani reaches over, squeezing my hand for support.

  “Can you see my match?” he asks curiously.

  I lock eyes with the warlock, and while the vision I receive is clear and unpixelated, the images are upside down, making it hard to discern the features of his future lady love. They sit together eating spaghetti, completely normal save for the fact their feet and the table are all topsy-turvy. So unless Roscoe and his love are able to walk on ceilings, this is another example of my malfunction.

  “Not exactly,” I groan.

  “Hmm.” As he considers this, Roscoe swirls his two pointer fingers around each other, creating a cyclone of pale blue waves and sparkles around his hands. I can’t figure out what the symbols on his hands mean, and I wonder if he’s doing th
is little performance to razzle-dazzle us, but honestly I’ve seen way too much crazy stuff to be awed by something as basic as this. I’ll only be impressed if he can actually help me. “Well, Amber, truth be told, in all my travels I’ve never met a matchmaker before. And I don’t mean to offend, but I’m sure you understand that your particular kind of magic is rather . . . trivial. While most wouldn’t bother to work with you, I like a challenge. I’m going to need to do some additional research, but I would like to take on your predicament.”

  This is the complete opposite of what I wanted to hear. I’ve already been dealing with this for months, and I was hoping he’d have a quick solution. The idea of sitting on my hands while he does his research feels like pure torture. Deflated, I ask, “So, you can’t help me today?”

  “Unfortunately no, but I see great potential here, especially considering that Lucille is your mother.”

  Uh-oh. “What does that—”

  “I take payment in many different ways, Miss Sand,” Roscoe continues. “Money is nice, though it’s quite common, don’t you think? I’m more interested in uncovering the one-of-a-kind jewels of our community.”

  I don’t like where this is going, especially since there’s no way I can compete with dragon eggs. What does he want, for me to pull a unicorn out of my butt? (I mean, that would be pretty epic.)

  He makes his way over to the armoire, shuffling what sounds like paper. “For me to help you, I’ll need you, or perhaps your mother, to return the favor with a supernatural item or service.” He pulls out a legit scroll, unfurling the parchment to reveal lines and lines of magical legalese in the most magnificently curly calligraphy I’ve ever seen. I can barely read it, let alone understand what it says, yet he hands me a quill, waiting for me to sign on the bottom line.

  “But, um . . . I don’t have anything to offer.” My voice quivers, hope slipping away. “What happens if I can’t come through on my end?”

  Darkness collects on Roscoe’s face. “I wouldn’t recommend that route, but let’s just say there are always those who need human bones for their witchcraft.” Oh good, glad I asked.