Delia Merriweather did not believe in magic. Not even a little. But as she sat beneath the carefully knotted bundles of aromatic dried herbs hanging from the hundred-year-old rafters in her grandmother’s kitchen, she had to admit things felt pretty magical.
Steam billowed about the room as Grandma Maddie gazed into the giant pot of boiling water, which fogged the thick lenses of her glasses and made her massive halo of silver curls coil and bounce like a nest of snakes.
Delia took a sip of spiced chai tea to hide her grin, because her grandmother looked like a pint-size, legally blind Medusa. “How’s the soup coming?”
Grandma Maddie pointed her face in Delia’s general direction. “Did you just say soup?”
Unfortunate slip of the tongue. “Sorry. I meant to say spell. Or is it more of a potion?”
Grandma Maddie sighed in disappointment over Delia’s question, as if maybe Delia had forgotten that Austin was the capital of Texas, or that the fork went on the left side of the plate and the knife on the right. “We’re casting a spell that includes a potion,” she said with a tone of exaggerated patience. “There’s a blue moon tonight. Surely, you haven’t forgotten the importance of that.”
Delia glanced up at the small sign above the archway in the kitchen that said A FAMILY THAT DWELLS TOGETHER, SPELLS TOGETHER. And it didn’t refer to a game of Scrabble.
Most of the folks in the small Texas Hill Country town of Willow Root considered Delia’s family a bit quirky or eccentric. The rest thought they were off their collective rockers. Because Delia’s grandmother and great-aunts identified as witches. And not New Age witches, either. They were old-school witches of the pointy hat and black cat variety. The fact that none of them could cast an actual spell or concoct an effective potion or utter any valuable curses beyond the occasional f-bomb didn’t alter this heartfelt belief.
Their lack of magic, they said, was due to an ancient hex cast upon their ancestors by an evil witch. This was impossible to prove and, therefore, a perfect excuse.
Delia rose from the creaky cypress table and wandered over to the stove. “It’s been a long time since the last blue moon. I might be a bit rusty.”
The ritual of the Blue Moon Spell was utter nonsense, but it was delightful nonsense, and it didn’t cause a lick of harm to anyone. Delia loved the loony traditions that filled so many of her childhood memories. Maybe none of the other kids were dragged out of bed to dance in the moonlight or to make fairy circles. But Delia wouldn’t trade a single minute of it for all the money in the world.
“A potion is liquid,” Grandma Maddie lectured. “We’re meant to consume it.”
Delia’s stomach growled as she eyed the onions and cloves of garlic resting on the counter. It had been a long time since breakfast tacos, and she’d worked through lunch. “It’s perfect weather for hot—” She stopped herself from saying soup. “Potion.”
The first cold front of the season had blown through early that morning, officially ushering in fluffy sweaters, pumpkin spice anything and everything, and, of course… magic.
“Our spell, if you remember, calls for…”
Delia swallowed uneasily, her appetite waning ever so slightly. “The boiling of an innocent,” she said quickly, as if running the words together would somehow lessen their comical-yet-horrible meaning. The sentence lingered in the air—a reminder that it was all fun and games until somebody mentioned human sacrifice.
“Which is more innocent?” Grandma Maddie asked. “A carrot or a potato?”
Delia grinned. “I’d say it’s a toss-up.”
It had been a long time since Delia had first attempted to cast the Blue Moon Spell that was supposed to break the hex and restore magic to her family. In fact, it had been on her eighteenth birthday, which was when she’d officially (insert air quotes) come into her power as the Blue Witch—an auspicious honor bestowed upon her because she’d been born during a blue moon and also had a birthmark on her left butt cheek that looked like a pentagram if you squinted just right.
On that day, they’d returned home from the town’s fall festival to find a mysterious note poking out from beneath their doormat.
With the blue moon, the Blue Witch’s power will rise.
133.4 MER
p 32
Excitement had coursed through them, because there was a rare blue moon that very night. Aunt Thea had recognized the cryptic numbers and letters as a call number for a library book, so they’d trotted off to the Willow Root Public Library, where, sure enough, a book of magic spells and potions entitled Clavis Hexicus was sitting right there on the shelf in front of God and everybody.
They’d dutifully carried it to the circulation desk, where Justine Tarte had entered it into the library’s system, only to find it didn’t exist.
“Well, what do we do?” Grandma Maddie had asked.
Justine had shrugged and handed it back. “It doesn’t belong to the library.”
Grandma Maddie had discreetly tucked it under her arm, and they’d made a hasty exit.
That night, beneath a blue moon, Delia had opened the dusty, leather-bound book to the Blue Moon Spell, only to discover that she didn’t have what it took to break the hex. Because the potion had called for ingredients far more heinous than eye of newt or hair of hound, and things had suddenly become very real and very batshit crazy and very illegal in all fifty states.
Delia had slammed the book shut with a shudder of disgust, and after a moment of stunned silence, her aunt Aurora had finally said what they’d all been wondering: Are we supposed to boil a fucking baby? To which the ever-practical Aunt Thea had responded: Where would we find a pot that big? Followed by Aunt Andi’s proclamation: But I’m a vegetarian!
The end result—Blue Moon Non-Baby Vegetable Potion—had since become another beloved Merriweather tradition, albeit not a very often one, since blue moons happened only, well, once in a blue moon.
Somewhere along the way, Delia had come to realize that there was no such thing as magic. The book had been a joke. Everyone in Willow Root knew the Merriweathers believed themselves to be witches, and someone had played a mean, nasty prank.
Grandma Maddie blindly grabbed a handful of herbs from the rafters above her head and dropped them into the pot. Then she nodded at a mound of potatoes on the counter before squinting up at Delia. “Care to do the honors?”
A birthmark on the ass was a birthmark on the ass, so Delia had to be the one to cut the sacrificial potato. Just as she picked up the knife, the back door opened, and then slammed shut, rattling the stained-glass window above the sink. Aunt Thea rushed in, red-faced and panting. “Oh my Goddess, Madora. Did you actually start without us?”
“Six o’clock sharp means six o’clock sharp,” Grandma Maddie snapped, looking at her watch. “Timing is important. The magic is in the details.”
“So’s the devil,” Thea said, removing her jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. Thea was an accountant, so she knew about details. “And speaking of devils, there’s a gang of them outside, singing their silly little songs.”
Delia groaned. For as long as she could remember, local kids had been gathering outside their home to chant and taunt and occasionally throw eggs at the “witch house.”
The house, for its part, cooperated fully by being in a constant state of disrepair, although it had a lovely turret tower, which happened to be Delia’s bedroom.
“They’re such darlings,” Grandma Maddie said. “Did you give them any candy?”
“I cackled at them,” Thea said. “And they ran.”
“What good fun,” Grandma Maddie said.
The back door opened and slammed shut again, followed by stomping and cursing as Delia’s other great-aunts, Aurora and Andi, became momentarily lodged in the mudroom doorway before bursting into the kitchen. “Are we too late?” Aurora asked, brushing leaves out of her hair. “I’m starving.”
“We’re just getting started,” Delia said.
Andi stepped in front of her twin sister, holding up a green bag with the image of a black broom on it. “I brought sage from the shop.”
Andi and Aurora owned a bookstore called the Crooked Broom, whose inventory was about ten percent books and, in the words of Delia’s mom, “ninety percent crapola.” Its shelves overflowed with things like crystals, tarot decks, incense, and, of course, Grandma Maddie’s teas and herbal remedies.
“We need to smudge,” Andi said. “Before Delia breaks the hex.”
“Says who?” Grandma Maddie asked.
“Says a bunch of New Age malarky,” came a low, sultry voice from the doorway.
Delia clapped her hands. “Mom! You came!”
Fiona Merriweather crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. “I heard there would be soup.” Tall, lithe, blond, and graceful, she looked very much like the Good Witch Glenda if the Good Witch Glenda was slightly jaded and full of sarcasm. In other words, the exact opposite of the rest of the shorter, rounder, and merrier Merriweathers. Delia had inherited the blond hair, but her eyes were dark brown, and at a whopping five feet and three inches, she lacked her mom’s height. Her body had decided to invest square footage in boobs and hips instead.
“There will definitely be potion,” Delia said, winking at her mom with the gentle reminder.
Fiona considered herself to be in recovery from witchcraft, so she didn’t suffer these rituals very often. She’d even moved out of the house in an effort to distance herself from it. But like Delia, she found her family difficult to quit.
“The more Merriweathers, the merrier,” Grandma Maddie said. “Oh, and, Fiona, is Hartwell’s cat still out there? I saved him some tuna from my lunch.”
Fiona gave Grandma Maddie a quick peck on the cheek. “No black cat crossed my path,” she said. “And, Mother, you really shouldn’t feed strays.”
“He’s not a stray, Mom,” Delia said. “And even if he were, we couldn’t let the poor thing starve.”
“Yes,” Grandma Maddie said. “Especially now that Hartwell is gone…” There was a slight tremor in her voice, and she seemed to lose her train of thought.
Delia reached over and squeezed the older woman’s hand.
Hartwell Halifax had been their next-door neighbor for as long as Delia could remember. Two months ago, he’d suffered a massive heart attack and died, alone in his home. Since then, many attempts had been made to get Hartwell’s cat to come inside and stay, but he always managed to sneak back to Hartwell’s house next door.
Before any serious level of melancholy could set in, Fiona dropped her purse on the counter and said, “This is damned inconvenient. I have an open house tomorrow, and not a single room has been staged.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Delia said. “I’ve had a crazy busy week. But everything is on-site. Amy is going to help me first thing in the morning. The place will be fully bedazzled before anyone arrives. Promise.”
Her mom crossed her arms. “You haven’t bitten off more than you can chew, have you?”
“Are you kidding?” Delia said. “This is how dreams are made. By swallowing whole chunks without chewing.”
“That’s gross, dear,” Grandma Maddie said. She nodded at the knife in Delia’s hand. “Get back to chopping.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Starting a new business was exciting, but it was also utterly bone-deep exhausting. And Delia should know, because she’d done it about a billion times. There’d been Delia’s Dog Grooming, after which she’d tried her hand at personal training, followed by her short stint as a handy-girl (turns out she wasn’t very handy), before launching Merriweather Merry Maids, where she’d been the only maid and not a very merry one. Something had gone wrong with each and every one of those ventures, but this one—Southern Charm Interior Decorating and Design—felt different. It felt like an actual calling.
Ever since Delia was a child, she’d been somewhat obsessed with bringing order to chaos, particularly, the chaos of their home, which seemed to be structured around whatever the opposite of feng shui was. She’d eventually given up, retreating to her overly pink and highly decorated round turret bedroom, where she watched hours and hours of HGTV.
Last year she’d taken the bull by the horns and enrolled in an online interior design program. She’d loved it and had graduated with top honors. But unfortunately, she was having a hard time convincing local residents that the same girl who’d recently cleaned their homes was now qualified to decorate them. Living in the witch house probably didn’t help, and so far, her mom’s real estate business was her only real client.
Fiona straightened. “Speaking of open houses, guess who agreed to have one?”
“Who?”
“Try to guess. He’s the last person you’d expect.” Fiona winked and nodded in the direction of Halifax Manor next door.
Delia gasped. “No way. You can’t be talking about the asshole. And, oh my gosh, you’re listing the house?”
The left corner of her mom’s mouth curled up, and she nodded.
“That’s fantastic,” Delia said.
“Who is it?” Aurora asked, fanning away the sage smoke. “And shall we spill his blood? Maybe all we’ve been missing these many blue moons is the blood of an asshole.”
“No, no,” Thea said, eyebrows drawn. “The spell calls for the blood of a witch’s true love. Not the blood of an asshole. Unless, of course, they’re one and the same.”
Andi held up a finger and began ticking off the so-called ingredients. “A boiled innocent. The blood of a witch’s true love. And an angry spirit.”
“An agitated spirit,” Thea corrected. “There’s a difference between angry and agitated.”
After the soup, there would be a short but dramatic séance, where they’d try to provoke dead ancestors with insults. It was absolutely the best part of the evening.
“I could have sworn we needed an angry something or other,” Andi said.
“What if we literally need an angry asshole?” Aurora asked. “And all that’s required is someone with hemorrhoids?”
Delia snorted. “Hemorrhoids might explain Max Halifax’s disposition.”
Max Halifax was Hartwell’s nephew. He’d arrived in Willow Root shortly after Hartwell’s death in order to settle the estate. When Delia and her family had marched over with an apple pie (to offer their condolences and also because they were nosy), Max had opened the door like a startled serial killer caught in the middle of dismembering a body. He’d accepted the pie and condolences as if he were accepting a subpoena, and then… he’d shut the door! Without even inviting them in!
Since then, Delia had seen him now and then over the fence, but when she offered a friendly wave, he pretended not to see her. “You’d think that after inheriting a house like that, he’d have something to smile about,” she said.
“Not to mention his handsome face,” her mom added.
Delia shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed his handsome face.”
Hazel eyes ringed with black lashes, full lips, dark stubble on a cleft chin, black hair, and cheekbones a girl would die for.
Grandma Maddie grinned. “Whatever you say, dear.”
Aunt Andi raised a delicate eyebrow. “So, he’s rich and handsome.”
“Don’t start,” Delia said.
“All I’m saying is that his standoffishness might be explained by something a bit of cream could cure,” Aunt Andi said.
Aunt Thea grimaced. “Saying that boy was standoffish is like describing a rattlesnake as being a tad antisocial.”
“Maybe he’s just grieving,” Andi persisted.
“Whether he’s a grieving asshole with hemorrhoids or a rattlesnake cursed with horridly unforgivable manners, he’s asked me to sell the house,” Delia’s mom said. “And hopefully, he’ll let Delia get in there to work some magic with staging.”
Yes! Delia’s skin literally tingled at the thought. She freaking loved Halifax Manor and had dreamed of living in it ever since she was a little girl. Hartwell had been like a surrogate grandfather, and she’d spent much of her childhood there. Decorating the manor, even if it was just for a staging, would be an amazing opportunity.
“He has a slight accent, doesn’t he?” Aurora said. “Where on earth is he from? Someplace exotic, I bet.”
In Willow Root, anyone who didn’t say y’all was considered to have a strange accent.
“Maybe Delia can find out where he’s from,” Grandma Maddie said.
“I don’t care where he’s from,” Delia said. “I have zero interest in pursuing a cranky rich guy on his way out of town. And anyway, I’m a Merriweather woman. I’m happy being single.”
“Just as well,” Grandma Maddie said, holding up a knife. “If anyone were to fall in love with Delia, we might have to kill him.”
Max whistled cheerfully as he moved through the large, rambling house known as Halifax Manor. Boxes lined the walls, and the rooms held that particular gloomy echo of impending emptiness.
It was music to his ears. He’d been in Willow Root for six weeks and was ready to get back to his normal life as a venator, traveling the world in search of rare magical antiquities. All he had to do was pack up approximately two tons of stuff first.
Flipping on the light in the library, he gazed at the bookshelves that spanned floor-to-ceiling on every wall. The books couldn’t be haphazardly thrown into piles for keeping and giving away. Like many other items crammed into every nook and cranny of the home, some of them might be dangerous.
Uncle Hartwell had also worked as a venator. But unlike Max, he’d been a rascal and hadn’t handed over some of the more rare and dangerous things to the Concilium, which was the governing body of the witching world.
Max headed for the bookcases. It was time to get to work, and although any normal person would be overwhelmed by the task, he was—
“Feeling giddy?”
He jumped, even though he should be used to Nikki seemingly popping up out of nowhere. Although at the moment, Nikki was hardly popping. He was sprawled out on the old leather Chesterfield sofa, blackish-blue hair sticking up in every direction and bright green eyes puffy from sleep.
Max sighed. “Another nap? When we have so much to do?”
Nikki stretched luxuriously, yawned, and then sat up and stretched some more. “I did some sleuthing around earlier. And I packed two whole boxes, for your information.”
“Wow. Two whole boxes? Only one hundred ninety-eight thousand, or so, left to go. As to me feeling giddy, why yes, actually. I can’t wait to get out of here.”
Max frowned. What was he going to do about Nikki?
Max had come to Willow Root, a tiny little town with an even tinier witch population, under direct orders from Morgaine Gerard, High Priestess of the Concilium. The high priestess was not an elected position. Whoever had the most power and could attract the most magic ascended to the so-called throne. And for the last couple of centuries, it had nearly always been a Gerard. Max had no choice but to do Morgaine’s bidding, which included keeping an eye on the silly Merriweather women next door.
Nobody had told him he’d have to deal with Nikki, too.
“We’ve got to figure out a way to disentangle ourselves before I leave.”
“You make it sound like we’re celebrities negotiating a divorce.”
Max laughed. “If only it were that easy.”
Along with the house and his uncle’s antique shop, Max had inherited Nikki, Uncle Hartwell’s familiar.
Few witches had familiars in modern times. But Nikki’s attachment to the Halifax family was the result of a centuries-old curse. The key to unlocking it had been lost, and well… Here they were. A man and his imp. Whether they liked it or not.
Like most imps, Nikki typically took the traditional form of a black cat. But Uncle Hartwell had been dreadfully allergic to cats, so he’d cast a spell that would allow Nikki to assume a human form inside the manor and the antique shop. It was technically illegal, but Uncle Hartwell hadn’t been known for following rules.
Nikki pouted and gazed around the room with longing. “Why do you have to sell the manor?”
“Why on earth would I want to keep it? The Concilium says I can do whatever I want with it—”
“Unless the Blue Witch uses magic to break the hex before her thirtieth birthday.”
Max snorted. “That’s in eight days. If she hasn’t done it by now, she’s not going to. I mean, there’s a blue moon tonight. If she’s truly a blue witch, Cordelia is at the height of her power. And didn’t you tell me she was over there helping her grandmother make soup? Call me reckless, but I’m not worried.”
“I’m quite a bit older than you, Max. The fates are nothing if not hilarious. And they love a good twist.”
“Screw the fates.”
Nikki smirked as if maybe he had, indeed, screwed the fates. “You shouldn’t underestimate Delia.”
“Lots of people are born during a blue moon. So what?”
“But only one Merriweather. And she has the birthmark.”
The Merriweathers were quite properly and soundly hexed. Max had once seen the actual spell, painstakingly preserved and held under lock and key, deep within the historical vault at Shadowlark.
He shivered. There was a rumor that the book—a collection of Halifax Hexes from the year 1800 to 1899—had been made of human skin. And the spell itself had called for a blood sacrifice.
“And lots of people have birthmarks. Believe me. There is nothing special about Cordelia Merriweather. If she’s a blue witch capable of breaking the hex, then I’m Sabrina the Teenage Witch.”
“But—”
“She has to break the hex in order to gain any magic, and she has no magic with which to break the hex.” He smirked. It was brilliant.
“Except that blue witches under the age of thirty are never entirely magicless—”
“Hush, Nikki.”
Nikki crossed his arms over his chest in a huff, and Max remembered (again) that Nikki had no choice but to comply with a direct order from him, and he’d just told him to hush.
“Sorry,” he said. “You may speak, of course.”
Nikki recovered quickly, although his cheeks were slightly pink. For that matter, Max’s felt warm. The situation was awkward.
Nikki cleared his throat. “As I was saying, blue witches are never completely powerless. The hex was meant to stifle witch magic, but not—”
“Don’t you dare tell me you believe in fairies.”
Nikki shut his mouth and raised an eyebrow.
Max sighed in frustration. “Sorry. Feel free to say you believe in fairies. Although surely you can’t do it with a straight face.”
“Of course I believe in fairies,” Nikki quipped. “You do realize that most people don’t even believe in imps?”
That was probably true, but—
“Magical beings are in hiding for their own protection, because witches have made sure they’re practically powerless—”
“That’s not true. Magic is regulated outside of Shadowlark in order to protect magical beings. It’s necessary. You know that.”
Shadowlark was a hidden city run almost entirely on magic. It was considered the Cradle of the Craft, because its libraries and vaults held the oldest and vastest collections of historical documents, genealogical charts, magical antiquities, and, of course, literal tomes of spells, potions, and hexes. Everyone who lived there, including Max and his family, were descendants of the Logos line of witches.
Nikki rolled his eyes as if they were just going to have to agree to disagree over something that was not open to interpretation. “Anyway, just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
“But fairies, Nikki? Come on.”
“Right. There’s no such thing as fairies. That’s why your uncle was set up here in this house for nearly thirty years, spying on the Merriweathers. Because there’s no such thing as fairies and no such thing as blue witches.”
“Folklore,” Max said.
Fairies were the playful tricksters of the magical world. Max believed they “existed” so people could blame things on them. Missing something? A fairy took it. Spilled something? A fairy did it. That sort of thing. And if a witch child was born during a blue moon and happened to have a blueish birthmark (a fairy’s kiss), then they were supposedly gifted with wild and unpredictable fairy magic. This bit of “blue” magic was seen as a gift from the fae, and it only lasted for thirty years.
“It’s all based on folklore,” Max repeated. “You know how witches are—”
“Oh, I definitely do. You’re about to say they’re old-fashioned and illusory and egotistical—”
“I was going to say that they cling to their traditional customs, but go on.”
In response, Nikki took a gigantic breath, as if he were, indeed, about to go on, because of course, he was. Max had told him to.
Max held up a hand. “Never mind. I didn’t mean that.”
“Really? Because I could.” Nikki’s lips curled up just a tad on the left side, while his right eyebrow rose the exact same amount, and that was where the term impish grin came from.
“Really.”
The grin disappeared. “You’re no fun. And that’s another thing about witches, by the way.”
Despite himself, Max stifled a chuckle.
It was his prerogative whether to continue letting Nikki walk around on two legs. But thus far, he hadn’t been tempted to undo the spell. It was kind of nice having someone to banter back and forth with.
“So tell me,” Nikki said suddenly. “Why did the Concilium order them hexed?”
Max walked to the window and gazed at the Merriweathers’ eyesore of a house. Conveniently, they shared a backyard fence. “It was over two hundred years ago.” He shrugged, hoping Nikki would take the hint that it wasn’t a topic worth pursuing.
“I bet you don’t even know why, do you? You witches are so petty, which is another one for the list, by the way.”
Hint not taken.
“Illegal love spells,” Max said.
“Ah. They’re supposedly Cor witches, so that makes sense.”
It was a bit unnerving how much Nikki knew about the witching world. But completely understandable, considering how much time he’d spent within it. And he was right. The Merriweathers descended from the Cor line of witches, which made them practitioners of heart magic.
“They once tried to control the witching world by controlling the hearts of men,” Max said. “My ancestor, Wilmot Halifax, was . . .
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