The Fairest Kind of Love

Book 3: Windy City Magic

by Crystal Cestari

Genres: YA Coming of Age; YA Contemporary; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"Amber! I never even thought of that! Maybe she can tell you your match." Whoa. Now that's interesting. Amber Sand has spent half her life solidifying other people's happily-ever-afters. As a matchmaker, she has the ability to look into anyone's eyes and see their perfect match. But lately, her powers have been on the fritz, and not only is she totally unsure whether her matches are true, she can't see anyone in the eyes of her boyfriend Charlie Blitzman. With Amber and her friends graduating high school and about to take off for various colleges, Amber is hoping to have one last carefree summer-but she's also dying to find a way to fix her powers, and learn, for better or worse, if she and Charlie are truly meant to be. So when an online matchmaker named Madame Lamour comes to Chicago, Amber sets out to talk to her and find out who her match is once and for all. Of course, when it comes to the magical community, nothing's ever that easy, and Amber soon finds herself caught up in a breathless showdown that involves a fairy family feud and a magical-creature auction--and requires teaming up with a certain siren nemesis. Can Amber and her friends save the day one more time before setting off for their new lives? And will Amber ever learn whether Charlie is her one true love? With tons of laugh-out-loud moments, appearances by all your favorite characters, and one totally tearful reveal, you won't want to miss a single swoony moment of this romantic conclusion to the Windy City Magic trilogy.

Release date: March 5, 2019

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 320

Sample

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 is 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 this 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.

“Amber,” Amani whispers in a warning tone, big brown eyes wide in alarm. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t I?” I’ve exhausted every option, explored every avenue. I can’t go off to college and start the next stage of my life when this part is broken. What else can I do? It’s not like I didn’t know this place would be shady: any guy who sells pulsating animal organs in an Instagrammable display case is total bad news.

“If you’re somehow unconvinced of my magical prowess,” Roscoe adds, sensing my hesitation, “let me give you a taste of what I can do.” He leaves the office, returning with a small, fuzzy caterpillar in his palm. He presents the brownish-green bug, hovering his other hand above like a claw. After a few seconds, the caterpillar begins squirming, quickly twisting itself into a color-changing cocoon. It’s happening so fast, like watching a time-lapse video in real life, and seconds later, a gypsy moth breaks free, flapping its white-and-brown-speckled wings wide. A complete metamorphosis in a minute flat.

“Holy—!” I shout, but it doesn’t stop there. After enjoying a few moments of flight, the moth returns to Roscoe’s palm, curling its wings around its body and somehow returning to a cocoon(?!?!), then breaking free as the original caterpillar. It’s one of the most incredible and messed-up things I’ve ever seen, and these eyes have encountered a lot.

“With the right spell or talisman, I can unlock the magic of any creature,” Roscoe sneers, setting the little bugger free to crawl around the floor. “I’m sure I can pull the matchmaking magic out of you too, Miss Sand.”

My heart is pummeling my stomach like a mortar and pestle, grinding my insides into paste. Maybe I could find a worthy magical trade without involving Mom; maybe Roscoe just gets off by upping the intimidation factor. I’ve watched so many people put their hearts on the line for what they want: to get the big reward, you have to take big risks. Yes. I have to do this.

Holding back the urge to vomit, I reach forward to sign the scroll, hand shaking as I contemplate finalizing a deal with a devil. But thinking about how he held that moth’s life in his hand makes me wonder what he could do to me, and just before I tie myself to a dark warlock I barely know, I drop the quill. I want my magic fixed so badly, but there have to be other options; something better than a backroom deal with an evil stranger. I guess I’m not as gutsy as I thought.

“I’m sorry.” I sigh, shaking my head in frustration with myself. “I just . . . can’t.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs, rolling up the scroll. “If you ever change your mind, you know who to call.”

Let’s hope I never have to.

AMANI AND I AWKWARDLY wrestle into our caps and gowns in the cab on our way north to school.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she says, purposely looking into her compact mirror to avoid my eye.

“You mean, totally chicken out?” I ask, zipping up my silky emerald-green gown.

“No, I don’t blame you. That guy was a creepfest.”

“A creepfest who could find me answers.”

“I love you, but that was a horrible idea. He could kill you and not even think twice. And if your mom finds out, she may just kill you anyway.” She’s right, of course, but my stomach continues to churn with doubt. I’m still right back where I was: broken without answers. But it’s too late now, and I want to focus on something else besides my swirling intestinal dread. “I’m so relieved you didn’t sign.”

“Speaking of horrible ideas, who decided wearing a square on your head should be a symbol of knowledge?” I flash her a cheesy smile, batting my cap’s tassel out of my vision like a cat playing with string. Fitting the ridiculously shaped hat over my bla. . .