Page 1 of Curses and Cauldrons

1

ROMAN

“Idon’t have time for this.” I scowl down at my watch before turning my glare on my brother.

Bram and I are standing on the balcony overlooking the lobby of the Grand Mystic Hotel and Resort.

“None of us have time for this bullshit, but your mother can’t get ahold of you, so she keeps calling me. Put me out of my misery and call her back so I don’t have to hear her voice again.”

Guests pack the lobby. The hotel’s small cafe has a line of people spilling out of it, backing up all the way to the fountain in the middle of the main entry. Mystic Hollows has been inundated with tourists and every distant cousin with a connection to the town. The annual founders parties are this weekend. They’re an absurd hold-out on tradition that should have died a century ago. The founding families find it amusing to require every witch in town to attend.

Those of us who are members of a founding family must provide a drop of blood at each party. It’s used in a spell to fortify town protections and shield Mystic Hollows from outsidethreats. Not to mention keeping the humans in town oblivious to the magic that goes on here.

The city of Mystic Hollows was founded nearly four hundred years ago by a group of witches trying to escape persecution. There are small pockets of magic and supernatural towns just like ours all over the world. Not everyone in Mystic Hollows is magic, or is even aware that witches exist. These spells keep anyone who shouldn’t know about magic in the dark.

Could this be accomplished without having to attend six parties? Absolutely.

The fact that all these people have poured into Mystic Hollows is equally idiotic. If you aren’t a member of one of the six founding families or have an invite in your possession, you aren’t getting into a party.

I’d give them mine in a second if I could get away with it.

A lack of an invitation doesn’t stop people from arriving in droves to our small corner of Michigan’s upper peninsula just in case they might be lucky enough to get their hands on one. The tourists also flock to town because local businesses play up the event as a perfect weekend getaway. There’s a parade, wine tasting tours, and strolls around the lake, just to name a few events. The hotel is always fully booked this weekend.

The Grand Mystic Hotel and Resort is a sprawling development that includes twelve villas, fifteen cabins, and the main lodge, which has an additional fifty rooms. Along with a golf course, the property boasts multiple pools, tennis courts, a spa, a restaurant, and a cafe. There’s also a lake that guests can use for swimming or paddle boating in the summer and ice fishing in the winter.

The main lodge blends rustic design with elegant decadence. There’s a massive stone fireplace on one wall, currently crackling with a cozy fire. Couches and armchairs have been strategicallyset up in small groupings to encourage guests to lounge in the lobby and relax with a cocktail or coffee.

The hotel is part of the Blackthorn family legacy, which is why my brother Bram and I run the place. Our offices sit on the second floor, allowing us to avoid people as much as possible. The hospitality industry isn’t something either of us would have picked for a career if we’d had the choice.

That’s not how things work in Mystic Hollows.

“I’ll see my mother tonight. Nothing she has to say is so important that it can’t wait.” I ignore the irritated glare Bram directs my way. As one of the six founding families, the Blackthorns will be hosting one of the parties tonight. The Delvaux, Roth, Draven, Beaumont, and Vandenberg families will also be holding founding events. It’s an exhausting weekend that I’ve come to loathe.

I don’t see why we need to have parties at all. At the very least, we could whittle them down to two instead of six since there are only two covens in town. We could never hold just one founders event. That would mean that the Lumen and Tenebris covens have to work together. Mother, help us all. The horror of light witches socializing with dark witches would be far too shocking.

“Don’t tell me, tell her,” Bram sneers down at his phone, his fingers flying over the screen as he types out a text.

Despite the two of us having different mothers, one glance and it’s obvious we’re related. Bram is only six months younger than me, and we were often mistaken as twins growing up. I never minded, but it enraged my mother. I’ll never admit it to Bram, but he’s slightly taller than my six-two. While my hair is dark brown, his is nearly black. The two of us inherited the stormy gray color of our father’s eyes, along with the sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw that both draw people to us and intimidate them.

My father’s infidelity is the elephant in the room that is never discussed. I suppose that’s what happens when you marry to enhance powerful magical lines instead of for love. My mother might despise Bram because he’s living proof of that adultery, but I love my brother. He’s the only one in my family that I truly care about.

Despite our similar looks, our curses are entirely different.

Every firstborn child of a family with substantial power in Mystic Hollows has a curse. It’s almost like a crown that passes down through a royal line, but much shittier. Since Bram is my younger brother, he should have dodged that bullet. But, because his mother also came from a powerful witching family and he was her firstborn, he’s just as fucked as me. I’m not sure which one of us has it worse on the curse front.

All because some bitter witches decided to punish our town over three centuries ago.

A figure weaving through the densely packed lobby catches my attention. Hair dark as a raven’s wing is pulled up in a high ponytail, but strands have escaped and cling to her neck. The woman moves with careful steps through the crowd, a huge bag slung over her shoulder. She shies away from people who get too close as if she’s afraid of getting jostled. She’s young, but eighty-year-olds are blowing past her. Her painfully slow shuffle reminds me of an unprepared runner’s last steps in a marathon.

Her shoulders shrink in as a man practically barrels into her. She swings her bag around so the man hits that instead of her. He holds his hands up, but I can’t tell if he’s apologizing or yelling at the woman. Her shoulders hunch, but she lifts her head and snaps back at him. That’s when I see her face.

“What is Josephine Delvaux doing here?” I murmur, my eyes narrowing on the light witch.

Bram lifts his eyes from his phone, where he’s still furiously texting. “Why does she look like she’s been punched in the kidneys a dozen times?”

“Maybe being on the property of dark witches has her soul burning.” I offer with a shrug.

The Delvaux family is part of the Lumen coven. So-called light witches who love to preach about all the good they do while spitting on the Tenebris coven as though we’re less than the dirt on the bottom of their polished shoes. There’s a reason why this town has deep divides, and the responsibility lies in the hands of those sanctimonious assholes. Personally, I’ve never seen much difference between the two covens besides the fact that they worship the Maiden and we revere the Mother. Other than that, we both have three founding families that sit on each of our councils, and a lot of self-inflated egos that take up the other seats.

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