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Synopsis
After leaving her old life behind and starting over for good, a former country star finds herself at odds with a handsome new man—but is he the enemy ... or her only ally?
Musician Ella McMillan can't believe she just walked away from her life. So long, boyfriend. Goodbye, country music career. Coming home to Magnolia Harbor could be a fresh start with her mom—until Ella discovers that her mother is getting married again. Now Ella's been roped into planning an engagement party with the groom's utterly gorgeous and infuriatingly buttoned-up son. Fortunately, they have one thing in common, even if they don't agree on what to do about it ...
Dr. Dylan Killough strongly objects to his father's upcoming marriage. He'll do almost anything to sabotage the engagement, andhe needsElla's help. But despite her own feelings, Ella is determined to throw the perfect party and give her mother the wedding of her dreams.
Between sampling party hors d'oeuvres and visiting romantic wedding venues, sparks are suddenly flying between Ella and Dylan-and Dylan is questioning everything he thought he knew about relationships. Now can he convince Ella that he believes in happily-ever-afters after all?
Release date: May 10, 2026
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 416
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A Game of Cat and Witch
Ruby Rune
In her life, Avery Alarch had made many stupid decisions. This one was monumentally, catastrophically, write-it-in-the-history-books-as-a-cautionary-tale levels of stupid. She followed the stone path through the quadrangle as the dusky sun plunged the University of Caerwyn into a fiery haze. Enforcers stood guard at the entrance of the building, their rifles blazing with the red core of magic imbued within them. Students meandered around, lazing in the last dregs of the sun before winter. They sprawled across the campus in clusters that Avery would never be part of again; some studied, while another group was passing around a bottle that was definitely not allowed on campus. None of them knew what she was about to attempt. None of them would attempt it, because they weren’t fucking stupid. However, none of them were desperate enough either. Their familiars came easily, while hers evaded her like a rabid squirrel.
If they did happen to know, they would probably pour in droves to her show. “Come one, come all: watch this useless witch attempt forbidden magic. It’s sure to be the comedy of the century!”
The enforcers nodded her through, and she continued along the path that led into the belly of the forest. Trees dropped their crimson leaves in a colorful rain, and yellow wolf’s milk flowers dotted the floor. The limbs of the oaks twisted into the setting sky, their trunks wider than ten men but still offering little protection against the bite of the October wind. It was as cold as a witch’s tit. Thanks for nothing, trees.
Her blazer took the brunt of it, the thick fabric flapping against the assault of the weather. Her nose stung; the tip blushed from the chill. It was something her sisters always teased her about; her face turned pink from the slightest change or comment. Both of them had somehow practiced the mask of pale statues, but she displayed every emotion like a billboard in Times Square.
She readjusted her leather bag, hiking it back onto her shoulder. Candles, her grimoire, and her expectations of how this would actually go—which were abysmal, deplorable, pathetic, and every other adjective that belonged in the thesaurus—weighed down the bag.
Arches crumbled around her, relics of a lost time. A statue of their goddess Cerituen still stood. Someone or something had cut away at the statue next to her, leaving just the plinth. No one seemed to know why, or they just ignored its existence entirely.
This was the only private place on the island. Caerwyn was small but populated, like a sardine can of magical prowess. There was the university and a town with a pub and shops that were destined to be your legacy if you failed to become a proper witch. Generally, one person a generation failed to summon a familiar, and lucky her, she was going to be that person. It seemed to run in the family. The last person to fail was her Aunt Alys, who was currently serving a sentence in Anoddun, for goddess knows what, no one would ever tell her.
For some reason, few people came to these woods. Students labeled it creepy. They were obviously not versed in the beauty that forests held. And, they were cowards.
The sound of crashing waves was a familiar calling. Rocks marbled the edge of the forest, the floor turning from crunching leaves to mossy stone. It was the only logical place to do a ritual, away from the prying eyes of others. Perhaps this was part of her failure. She hated being observed by anyone, and whenever she had attempted a summoning before their watching eyes, they became witnesses to her incompetence, solidifying her position as an underachiever, born loser, good-for-nothing witch. Perhaps she would win the university award for “Most likely not to succeed.”
Wind whipped through the branches, their crack roaring with the sounds of waves bashing against the cliffs. The weather had significantly picked up. Maybe it was a warning from Cerituen that she should heed. That’s what she would do if she weren’t about to be expelled from Caerwyn and confined to this island for the rest of her days.
In this case, the goddess could go kindly—in case she really was listening—fuck herself. Avery’s father always told her she was a dog with a bone when she wanted something. She would show Cerituen how much she wanted this. How desperate she had become to be a witch. How could she not be when her only other option was to be expelled? What job would she be able to get? The one pub on this tiny island? Listening to balding witches complain about their wives and kids, even though they hadn’t picked up a dish in the sink for the last twenty years? She secretly always rooted for the wives getting so fed up that they killed their partners, took their money, and moved so they could sip cocktails in the Bahamas’ witch enclave. Now that was an idea she could get behind. Maybe life wasn’t so bleak, after all. If only she could leave the island.
She dropped her bag to the forest floor, the wax candles rolling out like they were running away from a monster.
“Ugh, come on,” she muttered, exhaling a sigh and picking them up one by one. She placed them in a circle, trying to remember if the spacing mattered. Probably? Everything in magic seemed to matter, which was honestly exhausting.
Seven candles (normal), seven animal bones (don’t ask), seven sticks of sage (from the corner shop, next to the chocolate bars), and seven wolf’s milk flowers (an odd choice but luckily one that grew abundantly on the island) lay in front of her in an arranged pattern. For the love of the fucking goddess, she hoped this worked.
Fumbling in the pockets of her uniform, she fished out a matchbox. Before she lit the candles, she let the sun dip below the horizon, the twilight settling in before she struck the match. Clutching it in her palm, she hesitated, almost to save herself the disappointment. If she walked away now, she wouldn’t have to feel like a failure again. She simply wouldn’t try; she could return to her bed with its Sparky blankets and sleep the rest of the night away, blissfully unconscious for eight hours.
But morning would always come.
Instead, she pushed that feeling down as it gnawed its way through her chest, trying to find something to latch onto, like an army of parasitic anxiety bugs. If only she could bug bomb herself. If only it were so easy to rid herself of the feeling. Even on the days when anxiety quietened down to the back of her mind, the bugs would rear their ugly heads again if Avery had the slightest doubt.
She struck the match, and the night came alive around her in red hues. Heat rolled off the tiny flame as she touched it to the candles one by one, sealing her fate in wax. The old language flowed through her—as best it could, she still butchered the pronunciations—as she channeled the earth around her, pulling its essence into a summoning circle. The smell of decaying leaves invaded her senses as the frigid wind picked up at the call of her voice.
The lines carved themselves into the platform, glowing red on the outer ring, the magic running like a river of blood, illuminating more of the circle. Each stream rushed toward her, following its engraved path of symbols and weak, intricate patterns like lava between rocks.
She swallowed, those damn anxiety bugs pumping adrenaline through her veins, her heart thumping so hard she thought it might bruise. Was she really doing this? Was she really so desperate that forbidden magic was what she had to resort to?
Yes. Yes, she was.
She’d rather be dead than not have magic. Did anyone know how convenient it was to be a witch? You could turn off the light without leaving your bed. You could make the kitchen your personal chef. The possibilities were endless, and she’d be damned if she let such a fantastic opportunity pass her by. It was kind of ironic the lengths she was going to be lazy, though.
Okay, it was more than that. It was status. Acceptance. It meant she could leave this stupid island she had spent her entire life on. If she got a familiar, if she joined one of the houses, she could finally fucking leave.
The forest suddenly pressed in on her, the tall walls of pines and oaks closing in. Her limbs shook like branches in the wind. Her breath caught in her chest, panic lacing her veins with its poison, and all she wanted to do was run. She turned, following the magic making its way up the stone to the statue of the goddess above. Her eyes, once stone, now glowed an unsightly red, as if she were casting divine judgment upon her. Avery swallowed, her stomach twisted with nausea, and she felt the bile climbing its way up her throat until it burned.
She turned away from the statue. Out of sight, out of mind. Kneeling, she touched her hand to the middle of the circle. It could be her imagination, but she swore to the goddess she felt a hum underneath her fingertips, like that of a cat’s purr. Or perhaps they were close to falling off from frostbite. It was hard to tell.
Wind whipped through the branches as she continued the incantations, her voice competing with their cracking and the waves roaring against the cliffs.
She pulled a dagger from her bag, ready to complete the final step. A drop of her blood was all it took. It would take all her problems away. She could graduate, she could become a healer like her father, and go about her normal life. Only, something in her knew that wouldn’t happen, that this would change something fundamental. That perhaps, she would fuck up more spectacularly.
She had come too far to turn back.
Chanting the words, she called upon the forest to bring her a familiar. Please be something powerful, she had gone to all this trouble. A dragon. A griffin. A pegasus. Not a toad. Anything but a toad. The way they licked their eyeballs with their tongues freaked her out.
The ritual demanded her blood. She stared at the hungry circle, the forest threatening to swallow her if she didn’t heed its needs. It was far more than forbidden to use blood magic; it was sacrilege. Even the thought of blood made her sick. But her fucks were flying away faster than the island’s migrating geese.
So she gave it. She dragged the knife over her wrist, wincing, as sharp pain shot up her arm—because using your palm was stupid; she needed that hand—almost letting out a whimper. But she would be damned if she let the goddess have any doubt that she was strong enough for this, that she deserved this.
The pungent scent of magic suffocated her nostrils as the circle ate her blood up hungrily, the symbols of the old language now glowing brighter than they ever had.
The last thing she saw before it went dark was the bloodred moon.
A deep voice slithered through her mind.
“Witch.”
The night before the ritual...
Avery’s mother always said it was her who should have been eaten in the womb. That the twin Avery ate would have been a more successful student. Today, Avery was inclined to believe her because she was about to be expelled.
The watered-down whiskey tingled as it met her lips, leaving a fiery trail of cinnamon sliding over her throat and settling warm in her chest. Drinking wasn’t the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but for now, it would do.
As the warmth of the alcohol spread through her limbs, her dorm room became a little hazier. The dark wood of the furniture blended with the sunset, and the crackle of the fireplace was the only sound apart from the maddened rise and fall of Maya’s breathing across from her. The valedictorian sprawled out on Avery’s bed, her usually pristine uniform loose and in crumples. She had one sock on and one off; she had given up on propriety three drinks ago. Even her bra lay lonely on the chair after she flung it away mid-rant, declaring it was as useless as the men in the reality TV show they were watching.
“Boooo,” Maya slurred, throwing chocolate almonds at the flickering projector. She’d paused it because she had become so angry that her favorite couple had just broken up. “He couldn’t resist putting his dick in a new arrival for twenty-four hours after he had publicly declared that he loved the girl?”
Avery caught the almond midair and popped it into her mouth. “Men.”
The human TV show was inane enough to leave you clinging to waning brain cells at the end of it. But it was a pleasant distraction from the reality she found herself in.
Thunder rolled outside the window, flickering the projector on and off; the electricity at the university was at the weather’s mercy. You would think, as witches, they could solve that problem, but no, instead they spent their energy on more useless things, like watching reality TV. It was kind of addictive, though.
“Gimme some more of that,” Maya said, stirring. She made a half-hearted grab toward the bottle in Avery’s hand.
Avery held it straight up out of her reach, with a surprisingly quick motion for a tipsy person. “No, no more for you. I don’t want to clean up your vomit off my floor again.”
“That was one time!”
“Was it, though?” Avery raised a pointed eyebrow at her because it was definitely more than once. The piece of bleached wood stood out like a sore thumb from their celebration a year ago. One that she now knew was entirely premature.
“Fiiiine.” Maya flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “I should probably stop drinking now, anyway. Two days isn’t enough time to sober up for class.”
The very thing Avery had been drinking to forget slapped her in the face like a flaccid cock. Two days to summon a familiar or probably be expelled. It was literally the only requirement for their final year. She was going to kiss her magical education goodbye.
Maya’s face crumpled as soon as she said it, a hand flying to her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine,” Avery said, waving her off. “It’s something you should be proud of. You worked your ass off.”
“Yeahhh, but so did you.” Maya shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Julian fucking Ainsworth got a familiar before you. The man is as dumb as a doorknob.”
Avery let out a bitter laugh, taking another swig from the bottle. A delightful burn coated her throat.
Maya propped herself up on one elbow, her dark braided hair falling messily over her face. “You were, like, at least five points ahead of him in the final theory test.”
Maya attempted to brush a piece of hair away and failed miserably. “He and his new familiar can go. Fuck. Themselves,” she said, punctuating each word by poking her finger through a circle she’d made with her other hand.
It was hilarious seeing Maya like this. She was usually so reserved and determined not to say a bad thing about anyone, but drunk Maya had opinions. Loud ones.
The sound of wings beat overhead, the force of them enough to rattle the windows.
Maya sighed. “Ugh, I hate dragon riders; they really need to introduce a no-fly policy past midnight. The number of times I’ve woken up from one of those dumb beasts…”
“What if you got one of those dumb beasts?”
“Nah, I’m way too cool for a dragon. That’s why I got a crow.”
As if on cue, the black shadow perched on Avery’s window let out an ear-screeching caw. Avery snorted at Maya’s statement. Dragons were known as the most powerful familiars you could summon; anyone would be lucky enough to have one. Crows, foxes, cats, bats, horses, etcetera, etcetera, were all considered normal. They gave you power, but it was nothing compared to the mythical beasts. The only person to summon anything mythical in their year was Julian fucking Ainsworth and his griffin. They say familiars look like their owners, and both looked like pompous pricks.
Maya had summoned her crow a year ago, as soon as we were allowed to perform the ritual. It was a given that she was the first to get a familiar. In theory, it was easy. You drew a summoning circle, set up the candles, read the incantations, and offered the goddess a token in exchange for a familiar; out popped a crow, and Bob’s your witchy uncle.
However, Bob was not her uncle, nor was he helpful at all in summoning a fucking familiar. Maya had done it all perfectly. The rest of her class followed over the following months. It was now a fucking petting zoo and Avery still had manifested nothing but perpetual disappointment.
Jealousy festered within her. It was a wound that wouldn’t heal. She tried not to give a fuck, but unfortunately, she gave too many; she was a slut for them. She was happy for Maya to be the first. But selfishly, she would like to be a little happy too.
Maya sighed again, stumbling as she made her way out of the bed, half sliding, half crawling like a cat that missed its jump, hanging onto the duvet for dear life. “I should go back to my dorm before the wicked witch notices me gone. The woman has a second sense for me, I swear to the goddess.”
The wicked witch was wicked indeed. Their housemother was the epitome of what humans thought of witches… well, how their movies displayed them anyway. Warts growing on a protruding nose, wrinkles forming lines where they shouldn’t, hairs on her chinny, chin chin. It was a crude depiction, even though humans were well aware of how witches actually looked. And usually, they looked normal. The only giveaway that they weren’t human was a magical signature that set off alarms if they crossed the wards without permission in the human territories.
Witch enclaves were designed to keep witches in and humans out. Step through the barrier without clearance, and as Avery had discovered when her cabin fever became particularly bad, you were magically flung back. Still, better than being burned alive at the stake, which humans had done at one point.
Even shifters had more rights than witches. The humans let them walk around and travel wherever they wanted, and it was said that they could turn into literal monsters—but she wasn’t sure if that was a myth or not. Back in the distant past, shifters played nicer with the humans, working with them rather than against them. Witches, on the other hand, preferred to stay in their hidden enclaves, only interacting when it benefited them. Turns out the humans took that personally. They shouldn’t; most witches just wanted to stay near the ley lines that ran under the enclaves, where they were most powerful.
However, Avery didn’t care, and she really wanted to taste some chicken nuggets. Tragically, there was not one chicken shop on the whole island. Maybe see a few of the world’s wonders too. Anything but the same university and town skyline.
Maya paused, one foot touching the floor. “There’s still time for you to summon a familiar, you know.”
Avery’s hand tightened around the bottle. She wanted to believe her, she really did. The subtle hope still simmered like embers in her chest long after she had doused it. The small child in her refused to believe that her dream was long over. Hope was cruel. So she shoved that little light as far down as she could, locking it in a dark box and starving it of oxygen where the fire couldn’t rage inside her.
She took another swig of the bottle, the contents of it almost empty. Fourth-year started in two days. She had two days to somehow produce a familiar out of her ass and present it to the university council. A seemingly impossible task, when she had tried and failed so many times before. And as her close, personal friend, Charlotte Lucas, from Pride and Prejudice once said: I’m twenty-seven years old (twenty-two actually), I have no money (true) and no prospects (if she didn’t get a familiar), I’m already a burden on my parents (parent), and I’m frightened (the truest of all).
“Avery—” Before Maya could finish, a massive thump shook the ceiling. They both scrambled back against the bed as roof tiles clattered overhead, sliding down and shattering on the balcony with dramatic clangs.
“What was that?” Maya said, suddenly far more sober. She clutched a pillow to her chest, as if it would protect her from whatever had just landed on the roof.
“I’m not sure,” Avery said honestly. The whiskey had dulled her senses far enough to get off the bed and investigate the noise. She may be smart, but she was still an idiot. She took careful steps toward the arched doors and saw there was nothing to see but the moon rising over the silhouette of the campus’s spires snarling over buildings reaching far up into the sky.
“Avery? Get back here,” Maya whispered desperately.
And for a brief moment, Avery saw the shimmer of iridescent scales against the orange light. Her heart jumped as a knock rang out through the room.
“Shit.” She kept her voice low. “Hide the whiskey, it’s Wren.”
In her drunken stupor, Maya sprang into action with the grace of a newborn foal. Her body hit the floor with a thud before she scrambled under the bed to plant the whiskey far out of sight. In doing so, she hit her head on the slats and clanged the bottle against the bed frame. To top it off, the crow let out an alarmed squawk, its collar jingling as it did. Wren was going to kill her.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Coming!” Avery’s voice cracked at the high pitch of someone trying to have a semblance of normalcy in it. Smoothing her uniform and her hair, she cracked open the door to find her eldest sister, her eyes as fiery as her dragon perched on the roof.
“Hey!” Avery said with a hiccup.
Wren looked past her, her eyes landing immediately on Maya’s disheveled state, the faint smell of cinnamon not yet aired out. Her expression was unreadable, but blessed be the fucking goddess, she said nothing. Although with Wren, it was hard to tell. Avery was convinced the university’s beautician had magically altered her to stay that way, something Wren vehemently denied at every dinner Avery brought it up at.
“What are you doing?” Wren asked, her tone flat.
“Nothing,” Avery said too quickly. “What are you doing?”
Wren was absolutely, utterly not convinced by her answer. Avery was convincing no one, let alone her sister. She was dressed in her full enforcer regalia, the fitted maroon blazer tight against her muscled form. A rifle was slung across her back, the red crystal embedded within it giving a small hum.
Another shot of jealousy ripped through Avery as she eyed the golden patches, which signaled that Wren was a High Commander. She had no desire to become an enforcer, but at this point, she would take it. It was almost like looking in a mirror of what she could be. Although, Avery didn’t really look much like her sister. Where Avery had hair like cinnamon, Wren’s hair was black, a symptom of her cold, cold heart. A terrible disease, really. Tragic.
The main difference between them, though, was that Wren looked as if a giant stick was up her ass, especially since she assumed the position of High Commander, and it was now shoved even further. Their mother had that effect on people, though, and it wasn’t surprising her smile had faded after spending more than a minute with the devil like Wren did.
Finally, Wren broke the tension.
“The High Councilor would like to speak to you.”
“You mean, Mother would like to speak to me?”
Wren raised an eyebrow, a warning not to challenge her. She had enough ammunition in this room alone to get Avery expelled. Avery wondered what she would become besides the pub pouring bitch. A barista, perhaps in one of two coffee shops on the island? Potentially a seller of the forbidden toe pictures? Maybe she could become homeless! What a treat. Her small world was truly her oyster. The only good thing about being expelled was that she could have some proper time to plan her escape. Although she had tried her damn hardest to do that, but every time she somehow made it to the ferry, she was irritatingly, magically, sling-shotted back to Caerwyn Island. Was it too much to ask that a simple witch would like to get a taste of some chicken nuggets?
Her toxic trait was her confidence in thinking she could swim her way to the mainland of Wales, that somehow the only thing standing between her and the coast was unwavering determination, and her deluded hope that maybe the witch boundary magic didn’t work in the water. She probably could do it; swimming was her primary hobby, if the magic didn’t pull her back first. The only thing standing between her and attempting a swim to freedom was the idea of being trapped in the jaws of a shark, and no, she didn’t care that the percentage was as low as her dead grandmother’s bosoms. With her luck in the last year, it would happen.
“Wow, I didn’t know you could do that.” Avery pointed to her own wiggling eyebrows. “With, you know, the work you’ve had done.”
She was really pushing it now.
Wren only pinched the bridge of her nose, probably regretting her decision to personally fetch her. It was likely Mother’s idea. Wren would rather fetch a turd out of a toilet than doing this right now.
“Please don’t be difficult. She said it’s urgent.”
In reality, they both knew Avery was stalling. Seeing her mother was never a pleasant experience, and especially now, when she was the only one in her class not to summon a familiar. She was almost sure this was her mother’s way of solidifying the idea that she was the family’s failure, a letdown of generational proportions. Just like her aunt. Her mother was absolutely going to expel her. At least she had it in her cold, dark heart to tell her in person, instead of sending a pigeon or something. Something so cute shouldn’t be burdened with such messages of misery.
Wren stared her down. “Are you going to go to the chambers or will Sparky have to carry you?” If Avery didn’t come willingly, she was sure Wren would have incapacitated her and taken her anyway. They had such a lovely sisterly bond.
Maya yelped as the massive dragon dropped its head down from the roof, its golden eye the size of a dinner plate, peering through the balcony doors. Wren had bonded the gigantic lizard three years ago, and Avery still hadn’t gotten used to the beast. As much as Wren declared Sparky a whittle baby, Avery always gave him a wide berth.
Walking it was.
As if he sensed her hesitance, Sparky blew out a breath toward her, fogging up the glass. His black body shook in a way that Avery was fairly sure meant he was laughing at her. Even Wren’s dragon was an asshole.
“I’ll walk. I prefer my feet attached securely to the ground.”
Wren only shrugged. “Your loss, enjoy the stairs.”
It was Avery’s turn to roll her eyes. They weren’t that bad.
The stairs really were that bad.
At least two years had passed since Avery had climbed the stairs to the council tower, and she had completely forgotten how steep the walk was between here and the main campus. There had to be at least a thousand steps on this goddess-forsaken path. That mixed with nausea from both the alcohol and a pit of nervousness that would not go away. Her head swirled, and the tree-lined steps blurred as saliva pooled in her mouth and her stomach churned.
Halfway up the stairs, her body decided to expel the alcohol she had so lovingly bestowed upon it and spray the trunk of a poor pine tree that had done nothing but be in the wrong place, wrong time. To make it even worse, the moon had completely disappeared, and her phone had died. So with no light, an overwhelming urge to brush her teeth, and a whole lot of misplaced confidence in her footing, she somehow made it up the stairs with minimal scraping.
When she reached the top gate, the air was noticeably thinner. Her breath came in ragged pants, forming little ghosts in the cool wind. The dense forest canopy had given way to a manicured garden that surrounded a path of stone and arches. Flowers bloomed the same blazing maroon as the ivy that coated the council tower. The scent of it always confused her. The garden should have carried the smell of a florist; instead, it smelled of decaying leaves and damp earth. It hadn’t changed at all in two years.
She leaned against the iron posts, catching her breath. For a swimmer, stairs shouldn’t be her worst enemy, but in her eyes, they were worse than shifters, and given that they were a witch’s mortal enemy, it was saying a lot.
The council tower was easily the most ominous building on campus. Built on a sheer cliff-side of jagged, mossy rocks, it was a thin, entirely menacing building that seemed to be shrouded in fog, no matter the weather. It was visible practically everywhere you went in Caerwyn. At the top sat a belfry. A sound that rang in only the most dire of situations. One that maybe she should ring now, as seeing her mother was really reserved for the most dire of things.
An enforcer eyed her from the last arch encasing an iron gate that did very little to actually secure the building, given beds of flowers surrounded it rather than a fence. With a nod, he opened the squeaking gate, the noise preparing her for the grating voice of her mother being disappointed in her yet again. Giving him a curt smile, she walked past with every inch of confidence she could muster, which was abysmal, akin to a mouse that had challenged a cat.
Wren leaned against the stone building, looking minuscule in comparison to the statue of their goddess, Cerituen, that was carved into the building next to her. Cerituen looked about as lifelike as Wren. Their stony features were a mirror image of each other. Her marble form looked so real, the way the fabric draped across her eyes and her body, even her expression, Avery wouldn’t be surprised if her lips star
If they did happen to know, they would probably pour in droves to her show. “Come one, come all: watch this useless witch attempt forbidden magic. It’s sure to be the comedy of the century!”
The enforcers nodded her through, and she continued along the path that led into the belly of the forest. Trees dropped their crimson leaves in a colorful rain, and yellow wolf’s milk flowers dotted the floor. The limbs of the oaks twisted into the setting sky, their trunks wider than ten men but still offering little protection against the bite of the October wind. It was as cold as a witch’s tit. Thanks for nothing, trees.
Her blazer took the brunt of it, the thick fabric flapping against the assault of the weather. Her nose stung; the tip blushed from the chill. It was something her sisters always teased her about; her face turned pink from the slightest change or comment. Both of them had somehow practiced the mask of pale statues, but she displayed every emotion like a billboard in Times Square.
She readjusted her leather bag, hiking it back onto her shoulder. Candles, her grimoire, and her expectations of how this would actually go—which were abysmal, deplorable, pathetic, and every other adjective that belonged in the thesaurus—weighed down the bag.
Arches crumbled around her, relics of a lost time. A statue of their goddess Cerituen still stood. Someone or something had cut away at the statue next to her, leaving just the plinth. No one seemed to know why, or they just ignored its existence entirely.
This was the only private place on the island. Caerwyn was small but populated, like a sardine can of magical prowess. There was the university and a town with a pub and shops that were destined to be your legacy if you failed to become a proper witch. Generally, one person a generation failed to summon a familiar, and lucky her, she was going to be that person. It seemed to run in the family. The last person to fail was her Aunt Alys, who was currently serving a sentence in Anoddun, for goddess knows what, no one would ever tell her.
For some reason, few people came to these woods. Students labeled it creepy. They were obviously not versed in the beauty that forests held. And, they were cowards.
The sound of crashing waves was a familiar calling. Rocks marbled the edge of the forest, the floor turning from crunching leaves to mossy stone. It was the only logical place to do a ritual, away from the prying eyes of others. Perhaps this was part of her failure. She hated being observed by anyone, and whenever she had attempted a summoning before their watching eyes, they became witnesses to her incompetence, solidifying her position as an underachiever, born loser, good-for-nothing witch. Perhaps she would win the university award for “Most likely not to succeed.”
Wind whipped through the branches, their crack roaring with the sounds of waves bashing against the cliffs. The weather had significantly picked up. Maybe it was a warning from Cerituen that she should heed. That’s what she would do if she weren’t about to be expelled from Caerwyn and confined to this island for the rest of her days.
In this case, the goddess could go kindly—in case she really was listening—fuck herself. Avery’s father always told her she was a dog with a bone when she wanted something. She would show Cerituen how much she wanted this. How desperate she had become to be a witch. How could she not be when her only other option was to be expelled? What job would she be able to get? The one pub on this tiny island? Listening to balding witches complain about their wives and kids, even though they hadn’t picked up a dish in the sink for the last twenty years? She secretly always rooted for the wives getting so fed up that they killed their partners, took their money, and moved so they could sip cocktails in the Bahamas’ witch enclave. Now that was an idea she could get behind. Maybe life wasn’t so bleak, after all. If only she could leave the island.
She dropped her bag to the forest floor, the wax candles rolling out like they were running away from a monster.
“Ugh, come on,” she muttered, exhaling a sigh and picking them up one by one. She placed them in a circle, trying to remember if the spacing mattered. Probably? Everything in magic seemed to matter, which was honestly exhausting.
Seven candles (normal), seven animal bones (don’t ask), seven sticks of sage (from the corner shop, next to the chocolate bars), and seven wolf’s milk flowers (an odd choice but luckily one that grew abundantly on the island) lay in front of her in an arranged pattern. For the love of the fucking goddess, she hoped this worked.
Fumbling in the pockets of her uniform, she fished out a matchbox. Before she lit the candles, she let the sun dip below the horizon, the twilight settling in before she struck the match. Clutching it in her palm, she hesitated, almost to save herself the disappointment. If she walked away now, she wouldn’t have to feel like a failure again. She simply wouldn’t try; she could return to her bed with its Sparky blankets and sleep the rest of the night away, blissfully unconscious for eight hours.
But morning would always come.
Instead, she pushed that feeling down as it gnawed its way through her chest, trying to find something to latch onto, like an army of parasitic anxiety bugs. If only she could bug bomb herself. If only it were so easy to rid herself of the feeling. Even on the days when anxiety quietened down to the back of her mind, the bugs would rear their ugly heads again if Avery had the slightest doubt.
She struck the match, and the night came alive around her in red hues. Heat rolled off the tiny flame as she touched it to the candles one by one, sealing her fate in wax. The old language flowed through her—as best it could, she still butchered the pronunciations—as she channeled the earth around her, pulling its essence into a summoning circle. The smell of decaying leaves invaded her senses as the frigid wind picked up at the call of her voice.
The lines carved themselves into the platform, glowing red on the outer ring, the magic running like a river of blood, illuminating more of the circle. Each stream rushed toward her, following its engraved path of symbols and weak, intricate patterns like lava between rocks.
She swallowed, those damn anxiety bugs pumping adrenaline through her veins, her heart thumping so hard she thought it might bruise. Was she really doing this? Was she really so desperate that forbidden magic was what she had to resort to?
Yes. Yes, she was.
She’d rather be dead than not have magic. Did anyone know how convenient it was to be a witch? You could turn off the light without leaving your bed. You could make the kitchen your personal chef. The possibilities were endless, and she’d be damned if she let such a fantastic opportunity pass her by. It was kind of ironic the lengths she was going to be lazy, though.
Okay, it was more than that. It was status. Acceptance. It meant she could leave this stupid island she had spent her entire life on. If she got a familiar, if she joined one of the houses, she could finally fucking leave.
The forest suddenly pressed in on her, the tall walls of pines and oaks closing in. Her limbs shook like branches in the wind. Her breath caught in her chest, panic lacing her veins with its poison, and all she wanted to do was run. She turned, following the magic making its way up the stone to the statue of the goddess above. Her eyes, once stone, now glowed an unsightly red, as if she were casting divine judgment upon her. Avery swallowed, her stomach twisted with nausea, and she felt the bile climbing its way up her throat until it burned.
She turned away from the statue. Out of sight, out of mind. Kneeling, she touched her hand to the middle of the circle. It could be her imagination, but she swore to the goddess she felt a hum underneath her fingertips, like that of a cat’s purr. Or perhaps they were close to falling off from frostbite. It was hard to tell.
Wind whipped through the branches as she continued the incantations, her voice competing with their cracking and the waves roaring against the cliffs.
She pulled a dagger from her bag, ready to complete the final step. A drop of her blood was all it took. It would take all her problems away. She could graduate, she could become a healer like her father, and go about her normal life. Only, something in her knew that wouldn’t happen, that this would change something fundamental. That perhaps, she would fuck up more spectacularly.
She had come too far to turn back.
Chanting the words, she called upon the forest to bring her a familiar. Please be something powerful, she had gone to all this trouble. A dragon. A griffin. A pegasus. Not a toad. Anything but a toad. The way they licked their eyeballs with their tongues freaked her out.
The ritual demanded her blood. She stared at the hungry circle, the forest threatening to swallow her if she didn’t heed its needs. It was far more than forbidden to use blood magic; it was sacrilege. Even the thought of blood made her sick. But her fucks were flying away faster than the island’s migrating geese.
So she gave it. She dragged the knife over her wrist, wincing, as sharp pain shot up her arm—because using your palm was stupid; she needed that hand—almost letting out a whimper. But she would be damned if she let the goddess have any doubt that she was strong enough for this, that she deserved this.
The pungent scent of magic suffocated her nostrils as the circle ate her blood up hungrily, the symbols of the old language now glowing brighter than they ever had.
The last thing she saw before it went dark was the bloodred moon.
A deep voice slithered through her mind.
“Witch.”
The night before the ritual...
Avery’s mother always said it was her who should have been eaten in the womb. That the twin Avery ate would have been a more successful student. Today, Avery was inclined to believe her because she was about to be expelled.
The watered-down whiskey tingled as it met her lips, leaving a fiery trail of cinnamon sliding over her throat and settling warm in her chest. Drinking wasn’t the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but for now, it would do.
As the warmth of the alcohol spread through her limbs, her dorm room became a little hazier. The dark wood of the furniture blended with the sunset, and the crackle of the fireplace was the only sound apart from the maddened rise and fall of Maya’s breathing across from her. The valedictorian sprawled out on Avery’s bed, her usually pristine uniform loose and in crumples. She had one sock on and one off; she had given up on propriety three drinks ago. Even her bra lay lonely on the chair after she flung it away mid-rant, declaring it was as useless as the men in the reality TV show they were watching.
“Boooo,” Maya slurred, throwing chocolate almonds at the flickering projector. She’d paused it because she had become so angry that her favorite couple had just broken up. “He couldn’t resist putting his dick in a new arrival for twenty-four hours after he had publicly declared that he loved the girl?”
Avery caught the almond midair and popped it into her mouth. “Men.”
The human TV show was inane enough to leave you clinging to waning brain cells at the end of it. But it was a pleasant distraction from the reality she found herself in.
Thunder rolled outside the window, flickering the projector on and off; the electricity at the university was at the weather’s mercy. You would think, as witches, they could solve that problem, but no, instead they spent their energy on more useless things, like watching reality TV. It was kind of addictive, though.
“Gimme some more of that,” Maya said, stirring. She made a half-hearted grab toward the bottle in Avery’s hand.
Avery held it straight up out of her reach, with a surprisingly quick motion for a tipsy person. “No, no more for you. I don’t want to clean up your vomit off my floor again.”
“That was one time!”
“Was it, though?” Avery raised a pointed eyebrow at her because it was definitely more than once. The piece of bleached wood stood out like a sore thumb from their celebration a year ago. One that she now knew was entirely premature.
“Fiiiine.” Maya flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “I should probably stop drinking now, anyway. Two days isn’t enough time to sober up for class.”
The very thing Avery had been drinking to forget slapped her in the face like a flaccid cock. Two days to summon a familiar or probably be expelled. It was literally the only requirement for their final year. She was going to kiss her magical education goodbye.
Maya’s face crumpled as soon as she said it, a hand flying to her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine,” Avery said, waving her off. “It’s something you should be proud of. You worked your ass off.”
“Yeahhh, but so did you.” Maya shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Julian fucking Ainsworth got a familiar before you. The man is as dumb as a doorknob.”
Avery let out a bitter laugh, taking another swig from the bottle. A delightful burn coated her throat.
Maya propped herself up on one elbow, her dark braided hair falling messily over her face. “You were, like, at least five points ahead of him in the final theory test.”
Maya attempted to brush a piece of hair away and failed miserably. “He and his new familiar can go. Fuck. Themselves,” she said, punctuating each word by poking her finger through a circle she’d made with her other hand.
It was hilarious seeing Maya like this. She was usually so reserved and determined not to say a bad thing about anyone, but drunk Maya had opinions. Loud ones.
The sound of wings beat overhead, the force of them enough to rattle the windows.
Maya sighed. “Ugh, I hate dragon riders; they really need to introduce a no-fly policy past midnight. The number of times I’ve woken up from one of those dumb beasts…”
“What if you got one of those dumb beasts?”
“Nah, I’m way too cool for a dragon. That’s why I got a crow.”
As if on cue, the black shadow perched on Avery’s window let out an ear-screeching caw. Avery snorted at Maya’s statement. Dragons were known as the most powerful familiars you could summon; anyone would be lucky enough to have one. Crows, foxes, cats, bats, horses, etcetera, etcetera, were all considered normal. They gave you power, but it was nothing compared to the mythical beasts. The only person to summon anything mythical in their year was Julian fucking Ainsworth and his griffin. They say familiars look like their owners, and both looked like pompous pricks.
Maya had summoned her crow a year ago, as soon as we were allowed to perform the ritual. It was a given that she was the first to get a familiar. In theory, it was easy. You drew a summoning circle, set up the candles, read the incantations, and offered the goddess a token in exchange for a familiar; out popped a crow, and Bob’s your witchy uncle.
However, Bob was not her uncle, nor was he helpful at all in summoning a fucking familiar. Maya had done it all perfectly. The rest of her class followed over the following months. It was now a fucking petting zoo and Avery still had manifested nothing but perpetual disappointment.
Jealousy festered within her. It was a wound that wouldn’t heal. She tried not to give a fuck, but unfortunately, she gave too many; she was a slut for them. She was happy for Maya to be the first. But selfishly, she would like to be a little happy too.
Maya sighed again, stumbling as she made her way out of the bed, half sliding, half crawling like a cat that missed its jump, hanging onto the duvet for dear life. “I should go back to my dorm before the wicked witch notices me gone. The woman has a second sense for me, I swear to the goddess.”
The wicked witch was wicked indeed. Their housemother was the epitome of what humans thought of witches… well, how their movies displayed them anyway. Warts growing on a protruding nose, wrinkles forming lines where they shouldn’t, hairs on her chinny, chin chin. It was a crude depiction, even though humans were well aware of how witches actually looked. And usually, they looked normal. The only giveaway that they weren’t human was a magical signature that set off alarms if they crossed the wards without permission in the human territories.
Witch enclaves were designed to keep witches in and humans out. Step through the barrier without clearance, and as Avery had discovered when her cabin fever became particularly bad, you were magically flung back. Still, better than being burned alive at the stake, which humans had done at one point.
Even shifters had more rights than witches. The humans let them walk around and travel wherever they wanted, and it was said that they could turn into literal monsters—but she wasn’t sure if that was a myth or not. Back in the distant past, shifters played nicer with the humans, working with them rather than against them. Witches, on the other hand, preferred to stay in their hidden enclaves, only interacting when it benefited them. Turns out the humans took that personally. They shouldn’t; most witches just wanted to stay near the ley lines that ran under the enclaves, where they were most powerful.
However, Avery didn’t care, and she really wanted to taste some chicken nuggets. Tragically, there was not one chicken shop on the whole island. Maybe see a few of the world’s wonders too. Anything but the same university and town skyline.
Maya paused, one foot touching the floor. “There’s still time for you to summon a familiar, you know.”
Avery’s hand tightened around the bottle. She wanted to believe her, she really did. The subtle hope still simmered like embers in her chest long after she had doused it. The small child in her refused to believe that her dream was long over. Hope was cruel. So she shoved that little light as far down as she could, locking it in a dark box and starving it of oxygen where the fire couldn’t rage inside her.
She took another swig of the bottle, the contents of it almost empty. Fourth-year started in two days. She had two days to somehow produce a familiar out of her ass and present it to the university council. A seemingly impossible task, when she had tried and failed so many times before. And as her close, personal friend, Charlotte Lucas, from Pride and Prejudice once said: I’m twenty-seven years old (twenty-two actually), I have no money (true) and no prospects (if she didn’t get a familiar), I’m already a burden on my parents (parent), and I’m frightened (the truest of all).
“Avery—” Before Maya could finish, a massive thump shook the ceiling. They both scrambled back against the bed as roof tiles clattered overhead, sliding down and shattering on the balcony with dramatic clangs.
“What was that?” Maya said, suddenly far more sober. She clutched a pillow to her chest, as if it would protect her from whatever had just landed on the roof.
“I’m not sure,” Avery said honestly. The whiskey had dulled her senses far enough to get off the bed and investigate the noise. She may be smart, but she was still an idiot. She took careful steps toward the arched doors and saw there was nothing to see but the moon rising over the silhouette of the campus’s spires snarling over buildings reaching far up into the sky.
“Avery? Get back here,” Maya whispered desperately.
And for a brief moment, Avery saw the shimmer of iridescent scales against the orange light. Her heart jumped as a knock rang out through the room.
“Shit.” She kept her voice low. “Hide the whiskey, it’s Wren.”
In her drunken stupor, Maya sprang into action with the grace of a newborn foal. Her body hit the floor with a thud before she scrambled under the bed to plant the whiskey far out of sight. In doing so, she hit her head on the slats and clanged the bottle against the bed frame. To top it off, the crow let out an alarmed squawk, its collar jingling as it did. Wren was going to kill her.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Coming!” Avery’s voice cracked at the high pitch of someone trying to have a semblance of normalcy in it. Smoothing her uniform and her hair, she cracked open the door to find her eldest sister, her eyes as fiery as her dragon perched on the roof.
“Hey!” Avery said with a hiccup.
Wren looked past her, her eyes landing immediately on Maya’s disheveled state, the faint smell of cinnamon not yet aired out. Her expression was unreadable, but blessed be the fucking goddess, she said nothing. Although with Wren, it was hard to tell. Avery was convinced the university’s beautician had magically altered her to stay that way, something Wren vehemently denied at every dinner Avery brought it up at.
“What are you doing?” Wren asked, her tone flat.
“Nothing,” Avery said too quickly. “What are you doing?”
Wren was absolutely, utterly not convinced by her answer. Avery was convincing no one, let alone her sister. She was dressed in her full enforcer regalia, the fitted maroon blazer tight against her muscled form. A rifle was slung across her back, the red crystal embedded within it giving a small hum.
Another shot of jealousy ripped through Avery as she eyed the golden patches, which signaled that Wren was a High Commander. She had no desire to become an enforcer, but at this point, she would take it. It was almost like looking in a mirror of what she could be. Although, Avery didn’t really look much like her sister. Where Avery had hair like cinnamon, Wren’s hair was black, a symptom of her cold, cold heart. A terrible disease, really. Tragic.
The main difference between them, though, was that Wren looked as if a giant stick was up her ass, especially since she assumed the position of High Commander, and it was now shoved even further. Their mother had that effect on people, though, and it wasn’t surprising her smile had faded after spending more than a minute with the devil like Wren did.
Finally, Wren broke the tension.
“The High Councilor would like to speak to you.”
“You mean, Mother would like to speak to me?”
Wren raised an eyebrow, a warning not to challenge her. She had enough ammunition in this room alone to get Avery expelled. Avery wondered what she would become besides the pub pouring bitch. A barista, perhaps in one of two coffee shops on the island? Potentially a seller of the forbidden toe pictures? Maybe she could become homeless! What a treat. Her small world was truly her oyster. The only good thing about being expelled was that she could have some proper time to plan her escape. Although she had tried her damn hardest to do that, but every time she somehow made it to the ferry, she was irritatingly, magically, sling-shotted back to Caerwyn Island. Was it too much to ask that a simple witch would like to get a taste of some chicken nuggets?
Her toxic trait was her confidence in thinking she could swim her way to the mainland of Wales, that somehow the only thing standing between her and the coast was unwavering determination, and her deluded hope that maybe the witch boundary magic didn’t work in the water. She probably could do it; swimming was her primary hobby, if the magic didn’t pull her back first. The only thing standing between her and attempting a swim to freedom was the idea of being trapped in the jaws of a shark, and no, she didn’t care that the percentage was as low as her dead grandmother’s bosoms. With her luck in the last year, it would happen.
“Wow, I didn’t know you could do that.” Avery pointed to her own wiggling eyebrows. “With, you know, the work you’ve had done.”
She was really pushing it now.
Wren only pinched the bridge of her nose, probably regretting her decision to personally fetch her. It was likely Mother’s idea. Wren would rather fetch a turd out of a toilet than doing this right now.
“Please don’t be difficult. She said it’s urgent.”
In reality, they both knew Avery was stalling. Seeing her mother was never a pleasant experience, and especially now, when she was the only one in her class not to summon a familiar. She was almost sure this was her mother’s way of solidifying the idea that she was the family’s failure, a letdown of generational proportions. Just like her aunt. Her mother was absolutely going to expel her. At least she had it in her cold, dark heart to tell her in person, instead of sending a pigeon or something. Something so cute shouldn’t be burdened with such messages of misery.
Wren stared her down. “Are you going to go to the chambers or will Sparky have to carry you?” If Avery didn’t come willingly, she was sure Wren would have incapacitated her and taken her anyway. They had such a lovely sisterly bond.
Maya yelped as the massive dragon dropped its head down from the roof, its golden eye the size of a dinner plate, peering through the balcony doors. Wren had bonded the gigantic lizard three years ago, and Avery still hadn’t gotten used to the beast. As much as Wren declared Sparky a whittle baby, Avery always gave him a wide berth.
Walking it was.
As if he sensed her hesitance, Sparky blew out a breath toward her, fogging up the glass. His black body shook in a way that Avery was fairly sure meant he was laughing at her. Even Wren’s dragon was an asshole.
“I’ll walk. I prefer my feet attached securely to the ground.”
Wren only shrugged. “Your loss, enjoy the stairs.”
It was Avery’s turn to roll her eyes. They weren’t that bad.
The stairs really were that bad.
At least two years had passed since Avery had climbed the stairs to the council tower, and she had completely forgotten how steep the walk was between here and the main campus. There had to be at least a thousand steps on this goddess-forsaken path. That mixed with nausea from both the alcohol and a pit of nervousness that would not go away. Her head swirled, and the tree-lined steps blurred as saliva pooled in her mouth and her stomach churned.
Halfway up the stairs, her body decided to expel the alcohol she had so lovingly bestowed upon it and spray the trunk of a poor pine tree that had done nothing but be in the wrong place, wrong time. To make it even worse, the moon had completely disappeared, and her phone had died. So with no light, an overwhelming urge to brush her teeth, and a whole lot of misplaced confidence in her footing, she somehow made it up the stairs with minimal scraping.
When she reached the top gate, the air was noticeably thinner. Her breath came in ragged pants, forming little ghosts in the cool wind. The dense forest canopy had given way to a manicured garden that surrounded a path of stone and arches. Flowers bloomed the same blazing maroon as the ivy that coated the council tower. The scent of it always confused her. The garden should have carried the smell of a florist; instead, it smelled of decaying leaves and damp earth. It hadn’t changed at all in two years.
She leaned against the iron posts, catching her breath. For a swimmer, stairs shouldn’t be her worst enemy, but in her eyes, they were worse than shifters, and given that they were a witch’s mortal enemy, it was saying a lot.
The council tower was easily the most ominous building on campus. Built on a sheer cliff-side of jagged, mossy rocks, it was a thin, entirely menacing building that seemed to be shrouded in fog, no matter the weather. It was visible practically everywhere you went in Caerwyn. At the top sat a belfry. A sound that rang in only the most dire of situations. One that maybe she should ring now, as seeing her mother was really reserved for the most dire of things.
An enforcer eyed her from the last arch encasing an iron gate that did very little to actually secure the building, given beds of flowers surrounded it rather than a fence. With a nod, he opened the squeaking gate, the noise preparing her for the grating voice of her mother being disappointed in her yet again. Giving him a curt smile, she walked past with every inch of confidence she could muster, which was abysmal, akin to a mouse that had challenged a cat.
Wren leaned against the stone building, looking minuscule in comparison to the statue of their goddess, Cerituen, that was carved into the building next to her. Cerituen looked about as lifelike as Wren. Their stony features were a mirror image of each other. Her marble form looked so real, the way the fabric draped across her eyes and her body, even her expression, Avery wouldn’t be surprised if her lips star
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A Game of Cat and Witch
Ruby Rune
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