Page 8 of Love's a Witch
“Listen, Knox. We’ve been in Briarhaven for about three seconds. In that time frame, I’ve barely been able to hug my grandmother, let alone figure out how or when to break the curse. So, may I kindly suggest you back the hell off and give us a moment to breathe? Legally, you have no right to evict us, and if you’re going to insist on being a nuisance, I’ll call the police.”
At that, Knox grinned, a dimple forming on one side, and I sighed, banging my head lightly against the doorframe.
“Please don’t tell me you are also the police?”
“There’s not much call for a police force here, Sloane.”
Ugh, there it was again: my name on his lips. Why did it just sound so good?
“Please, just leave. I’m begging you. We’ve been traveling for ages. I’ll update you on the curse-breaking as soon as possible. But you know what won’t help break the curse?”
“What’s that?” Knox crossed his arms over his chest.
“You. Being here. Interrupting us.” With that, I closed the door, and when silence followed, I let out a shaky breath. A dull ache pounded at my forehead, and I realized I wanted nothing more than to go face-first into a pillow for ten straight hours.
“I’m going up to bed. I’d politely request everyone leave me the hell alone.”
I stomped up the stairs, automatically following the way to my childhood bedroom, Nova’s voice trailing after me.
“Don’t mind Sloane, Broca. She’s in one of her moods. And, in fairness, she has been driving for hours. She’ll be better after a good sleep.”
“I suspect that’s not what has her in a mood.”
CHAPTER THREESloane
I woke up fast, moving quickly from sleep to alert, as was my habit after years on the road. I blinked at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling over my head and took a moment to recalibrate and figure out my surroundings.
Briarhaven.
And in my childhood bed, which was surprisingly comfortable given how long it had been since I’d slept here. Breakfast smells teased my nose, the chatter of voices reaching through my bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, and for a moment I let my mind drift to memories of childhood mornings.
On the good mornings, disco music would be playing, and Broca would be singing, and likely dancing along with the radio, shimmying her hips in whatever colorful or sparkly outfit she wore. She was a horrific cook, but a delightful grandmother, and my love of music and unrefined cuisine came directly from her. When most people thought of their favorite childhood breakfast meal it was likely something like pancakes or waffles. Mine was cheese in a tube—Primula was the best, naturally—on top of Ritz crackers with one tiny piece of bacon on top. Paired with a steaming cup of tea, that was my breakfast sorted.
Broca wasn’t one for paying attention to details like recipes and basic housework. Why would she be when there were more fun things to do like dance and teach magick?
On the bad mornings, my mother would be shouting at my father, or vice versa, and at least one dish would always break. My mother did have a flair for the dramatic, and sometimes I wondered if she enjoyed having a fight just for the sole reason to smash a dish. Her magick cleaned it up, so there wasn’t really any repercussion to her shattering plates other than a seriously mismatched dinner set. That and scaring her daughters, but some people broke things just to watch them shatter.
Spotting my bag at the foot of the bed, I sighed in relief. Nova, likely, had braved the snow and lugged my bag up the stairs. Stretching, I took the blanket with me as I went to stand by the window and looked out at Briarhaven in the daylight. Snow drifted down, lighter than the night before, and an old man shoveling his front walk saw me in the window. Straightening, he held two fingers up—not the peace sign, mind you—and glared from beneath bushy brows.
I smiled brightly, waving enthusiastically at him, deliberately misinterpreting his rude gesture.
The snow had easily accumulated to at least a few inches, deeper in some places, where the wind had pushed it into drifts, and the gritters were out tossing salt on the streets. Sir Plows a Lot drove by, and I huffed out a laugh, remembering Scotland’s penchant for naming their gritters fun names. A particular favorite of mine was Blizzard of Oz, though Lyra preferred Gritney Spears. Nova favored Melter Skelter and Spready Mercury, and I couldn’t blame her. Both of those names were strong contenders for top gritter names. Salt spread across the freshly cleared street, and the snow intensified, as though annoyed that anyone had tried to clear a path.
I sighed. Living with a cursed bloodline was something I’d grown used to, but that didn’t mean I particularly cared for it. I couldn’t blame Broca for ordering us home to try to break the damn thingand live a life free of rules placed on us by one very angry and heartbroken witch centuries ago. Moving frequently was getting old, and that was only one part of the curse that shrouded our family name.
Pretty cool, right? Not.
I tightened the blanket around me, apprehension kicking low in my core, as I thought about the next part of the curse, which, from all accounts, was going to land at my feet in a day.
My twenty-fifth birthday. When all witches came into their power.
From my vantage point, Briarhaven spread out in a twisty-turny way, with winding streets creating a maze of sorts beneath the castle that jutted from the hill overshadowing the town. In the daylight, with snow-covered roofs, smoke piping from chimneys, and sun peeking through heavy clouds, the town looked quaint and cozy. A sanctuary for magickals—witches, fae, pixies, and more—with humans none the wiser, and the only place the MacGregors had ever managed to live for longer than a year. Now, a part of me itched to settle in, as much as depressing childhood memories made me want to leave, largely because I was just so tired of hitting the road all the time.
Maybe Broca was right. Perhaps her vision about the three sisters breaking the curse was meant to come to fruition. It wouldn’t be the first thing she was right about, though I tried my hardest to never let her know that. A bit of a diva, she was.
My eyes strayed to the castle. Was Knox standing in his window? Looking out over his domain and silently hating us from afar? I’d dreamt of him. Much to my irritation.
He pinned me against the car, icy snow melting against heated skin, his mouth a sin against my throat.
