Curses, Keys, and Secret Societies

Book 2: Sisters of Light and Shadow

by Breanne Randall

Genres: Fantasy; Contemporary Fantasy; General Fiction; Romance; Paranormal Romance; Witches

Synopsis

A witch hiding a dangerous secret is thrust into an elite magical academy, where survival means risking her life and her heart—in the standalone follow-up to Spells, Strings, and Forgotten Things.

Dark secrets. Deadly choices. A destiny that can’t be outrun. Welcome to Shadowcraft Academy.

Eléa Deniz dreads going home to the French countryside after leaving four years ago. Upon her return, she finds the estate has become host to the Shadowcraft Academy, an elite graduate school where a world of mysteries and power plays await. What’s worse, her father is the enigmatic and ruthless headmaster with an agenda of his own. And then she discovers a prophecy about her magic that could change everything.

As her power is tested, Eléa becomes torn between Alex, her stoic first love whose loyalties are as murky as his past, and the brash, irreverent Logan, who challenges her to see herself in new ways. Faced with family secrets, a secret society, and the weight of her own magic, Eléa must reclaim her power and forge her own path. Destiny is calling . . . and it demands a price.

The Sisters of Light and Shadow duology begins in Spells, Strings, and Forgotten Things!

Release date: May 26, 2026

Publisher: Dell

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chapter 1

Every night, without fail, Eléa Deniz dreamed of home. She’d glide along the fields in front of Château d’Ancy, the grass a rich candy apple green so bright she could almost taste it. As she passed the meticulously trimmed topiaries, she could hear the bubbling waters of the River Serein. The pull into the château was an insistent ticking that echoed in her chest like a clock running out. The lion’s head doorknob was cold to the touch. The door pushed open easily, lighter than a feather despite its towering height. She would barely register the harsh lines and gilded opulence, the marble columns and mosaic floor, and the familiar smells of wood polish and citronella, when her father would appear at the top of the sweeping grand staircase.

“Abomination,” he would whisper. “You are not welcome here. This is no home of yours.” And then, with a lazy flick of his hand, as if she were nothing more than a gnat, he would kill her.

The dreams rarely varied, though sometimes she would have time to traverse those old corridors, sneak into her room or beloved library before he appeared and whispered those damning words. And always, she’d wake sobbing and disoriented. This time, though, her mother appeared beside her father. Their cold gazes sent a stake of ice down her throat, freezing her insides.

“The girl does nothing but read and draw in her room all day, Ahmed. Whatever your father is doing, it’s not working.”

“Have patience, Céline,” Ahmed responded. “This has been generations in the making. Everything will come to fruition. Bana güven,” he added in Turkish. Trust me.

He waved a hand, and the floor opened beneath her. Then she was falling, falling, falling . . .

Eléa woke on a scream, her stomach dropping as she remembered she wasn’t in her own home. The plane dipped, and her stomach went with it. It had been four years since she’d flown, and seeing the storm clouds out the window did nothing to calm her nerves. Scrabbling frantically, she pulled out her sketchbook and opened to a blank page. The weight of the pages on her lap, the binding pressing into her knees, comforted her. She swept her charcoal pencil across the page, and soon Château d’Ancy began to take shape despite her trembling hand. She focused her breathing, remembering the details. The row of dormer windows, the sweeping front lawn, and the moat. She hadn’t been home for four long years, and the closer she got, the more her skin tingled, and the magic yawned inside her like it was waking up after a long nap.

Goddess above, she thought. I’m doing this. I’m going back.

She’d packed a bag, left a note for her brother, Lucien, and left Gold Springs, California, her home for the last four years. She knew her departure would make her brother worry, but she’d be back soon, and life would resume its predictable pattern. Sarai was the only one who knew what she was doing. And Eléa was shocked when her best friend, the constant worrier that she was, hadn’t cautioned her against going.

“I understand,” Sarai had said. “You have to do this for yourself.” It was such a Sarai thing to say, full of compassion and empathy. Eléa had stayed in Gold Springs, getting her degree in art history by night and working at the Petridi sisters’ Tea and Tome bookshop by day. Sarai, meanwhile, had continued her job as a prolific curse breaker, traveling around the world and helping anyone who needed it. Eléa didn’t see her often, but when she did, it was as soothing to her soul as chamomile tea on a winter evening.

Eléa trailed a finger over the page of her sketchbook. On the outside, it looked like any other notebook with its plain black cover. But this one was charmed with endless pages and filled with not just charcoal sketches but recipes, spells, and journal entries. It was more of a scrapbook than anything. Seeing Château d’Ancy on the page, she felt the ache in her heart shimmer with empty longing like a mirage in the desert. The house, if it could be called that, had always been like another family member to her. When her mother would scold her, a mug of hot chocolate would appear on her bedside table as she cried silently into her pillow. Sometimes books would appear on her dresser. Novels she was certain her father would never allow in the library. As she got older, the château grew thick, sturdy vines up around the lattice outside her bedroom window, so she could climb down them without having to sneak through the halls. Other times, a fire would appear in the grate before she’d even said she was cold. Those stone walls offered more warmth than her mother ever had.

And now her mother was dying.

The captain’s voice crackled over the speakers. Time to arrival was now one hour. A flight attendant came by with a cart, pouring coffee and handing out water bottles. Eléa squeezed the flimsy cup of wretched black coffee too tight until some of it spilled over and burned her fingers. It was true that those stone halls were riddled with bad memories, but there were good ones, too. Birthday tea with her father, the one time of year when she could be sure of his undivided attention. Learning his Turkish traditions and laughing together as he taught her the language. French was her first language, but Turkish came naturally, and she practiced En­glish with her brother and Malik every chance she got. By the time she turned seven, she was fluent in all three.

And then there was playing with Alejandra, the daughter of a Shadowcraft family that sometimes had meetings with Ahmed. The comfort of the library. Midnight escapades with Alex.

Her stomach dipped again. She’d been trying so hard not to think of him. To put him out of her mind. He probably wouldn’t even be there. But still, his image was burned into her retinas like she’d been looking at the sun.

She remembered the first time she’d ever seen him, on the banks of the River Serein. She’d been crying over a panicked duckling that’d lost its mother when, as if by magic, the mother duck appeared out of nowhere to soothe the soft, shrill whistles of her duckling. Alex had been tall and gangly but breathtakingly beautiful, and she quickly wiped her eyes, not wanting to appear weak.

“It’s okay,” he’d said with a kind smile. “Tears just mean you care, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of about that.” They swam together after that, jumping into the river fully clothed and laughing as the ducks circled them. She could still see the carefree way he shook the water out of his eyes on that hot summer day.

With years and distance between them, it was easier to admit that she’d been in love with her childhood best friend. The enduring, heart-­wrenching, life-­altering kind of first love that made your world a kaleidoscope of light and color. Until he’d left without explanation.

She’d simply woken up one day and he was gone. The sting of his sudden departure had dimmed over the years, but she still felt it even now. A bitter flavor in her mouth that tasted of arugula and peppercorns. She was only seventeen the last time she’d seen him, shortly before Lucien had whisked her away. And yet she could still perfectly conjure the dimple in his right cheek, the soft curls of his dark blond hair. She rarely allowed herself to think of Alex, the anger at his disappearance always warring with the fond memories of growing up alongside him. Even now, one of those memories tugged at the fringes of her mind. They’d been lying under a blanket of stars talking about something important, though she couldn’t remember what. But he won’t be there, she told herself. He’d dreamed for so long of going to Le Cordon Bleu, the prestigious culinary arts school in Paris. Of opening his own patisserie or chocolaterie. The only thing that would be left of him at Château d’Ancy was the ghost of memories from their misspent youth.

Her coffee gone, Eléa began to fill in some of the shading on her sketch, losing her thoughts until the flight attendant made the announcement to put up the tray tables.

Half an hour later, the plane landed, and she disembarked. The bustle of the Paris-­Charles de Gaulle airport settled into her bones. There was the cacophony of a dozen different languages being spoken all at different volumes and the sound of the loudspeaker in French detailing departure times. She stopped at Paul’s, a boulangerie chain, and ordered a croissant and an espresso, moaning indecently as she consumed both at a standing table while watching families rush by.