Page 1 of Witches of Honeysuckle House
Chapter One
Florence, Now
A witch’s house is a living, breathing thing. When magic is as much a part of a person as air or water or blood, it refuses to stay in narrow, well-drawn lines. It infuses board and beam. It winks in windows and mirrors. It seeps out with every candle burned and every card turned, until, given enough time, it takes on a life of its own.
For Florence Caldwell, that place was Ink & Pages, a cozy, unassuming bookstore beneath her apartment in the heart of Burdock Creek. Florence had used her inheritance to buy it when it was on the brink of going out of business, setting up shop with her best friend. The first time she walked through the doors after that, the building had come to life.
The brick storefront beckoned customers, calling them off the street and through its thick wooden doors. One look at the window display and they’d find the exact novel they’d mentioned to their friend the day before, or the cookbook their brother had wanted for his birthday, or the memoir they’d seen online that afternoon. All it took was one step inside to feel like the shop went on forever. A work of clever architecture and proper shelf placement, or so Florence claimed to anyone who asked. The locals, of course, knew better. Florence was a Caldwell witch, and the Caldwells had a reputation in their little east Tennessee town.
The southern humidity had finally released its hold on Burdock Creek, and when Florence stepped out on the apartment landing above the store, her breath fogged in the morning air, steaming up the lenses of her thick, wide-rimmed glasses. A little thrill ran through her as the wind whipped her hair with the threat of rain. As much as she loved the sounds of summer, here the cicadas’ songs lasted well into September and the thick heat right along with them. It wasn’t until days after the old maple outside her window traded in its green for a full coat of yellow that the temperature made up its mind to match.
Florence wore a button-up blouse beneath a soft brown sweater, both of which she tucked into a long floral skirt. She’d traded her sandals for pointed green boots and calf-length socks that showed a flash of fair skin with each swish of fabric. As the apartment door closed behind her of its own volition, she pulled her sweater over her hands and started down the steps.
The town was already bustling, Burdock Creek’s fall tourism season in full swing despite the dark clouds. Even now guests spilled out of the coffee shop across the street, owned by her best friend Angela Rider’s parents. The fall chill called for pumpkin spice, but with the line as it was, Florence would have to wait for a midmorning break. October was the town’s busiest time of year thanks to the festival Florence’s younger sister Evie hosted at their childhood-home-turned-bed-and-breakfast, a point of contention between the sisters. For years, Florence had avoided the whole affair, but holding it this fall was more than tasteless.
It was dangerous.
This wasn’t any normal October. This was a thirteenth year.
For the Caldwells, thirteen wasn’t just an unlucky number. It was a curse. Thirteen years ago, Florence’s mother died. Thirteen years before that, her father. Thirteen years before him, her grandmother. And back and back all the way to her great-grandparents. Every one of them on October thirteenth and every one of them in the Queen Anne Victorian at the edge of town. The place Florence’s sister called home: Honeysuckle House.
If history had any say in the matter, in four short days, someone dear to the Caldwell witches would die on its grounds.
As Florence reached the sidewalk, her fingers itched to dip and burn a protection candle, but Florence hadn’t used her magic since her mother’s death. No longer did she set flame to wick and pull her desires into the world like the threads of tangible things. If her tarot reading thirteen years ago was to be believed, giving up her magic was the only way for Florence to stop the deaths that had plagued her family for almost a century. Not that her younger sister understood that.
Florence caught sight of Angela making her way across the road, two lattes in hand. Fresh twists fell down Angela’s back, and her dark brown skin glowed in the morning sun. Her jeans were belted high, with an oversized sweater tucked in at the waist. Though her lace-up boots gave her a couple of extra inches, they still left her well below Florence’s five-foot-ten.
“It’s finally fall in Burdock Creek!” Angela said as she skipped the last few steps and held out one of the cups to Florence. At Florence’s answering frown, Angela said, “I know it’s a curse year, but we have to at least celebrate the change in the weather.”
That, Florence couldn’t argue with. She shoved her keys into her pocket, accepted the drink—the hot paper sleeve a welcome feeling against her chilled hands—and took a long, satisfied sip, awash in the smell of leaves and fog and fireplaces.
“Owen was at the coffee shop,” Angela said with a grin as she held up a bag of pastries.
Florence rolled her eyes and reached for them, but Angela pulled them back.
“He’s coming in for his tarot lesson this morning,” Angela said. While Florence might not practice anymore, tarot wasn’t something that belonged only to the Caldwells. Angela had been reading the cards all her life, and Florence saw no need to ask her to stop on Florence’s account. Angela wasn’t a Caldwell, so there was no danger in it.
“He asked about you,” Angela said.
Florence’s stomach fluttered. She pressed a hand to it, willing the sensation away. The last thing Florence could do right nowwas fall for someone. She’d kept the number of people she cared about to a minimum—her sister, her niece, and Angela—for their protection as much as her own. “Was he looking for a book recommendation?”
“Or a bookseller.” Angela’s laughter came out bright and loud and so much bigger than anyone would’ve expected by looking at her.
“Not an option,” Florence said.
“And if we all make it past October thirteenth unscathed?” A touch of hope tinged Angela’s words.
Florence hadn’t thought that far. For the last thirteen years, every moment of anxiety, every nightmare, every fear ended four days from now, on her thirty-ninth birthday. She shrugged and held out a hand for the pastries.
“That’s not a no,” Angela said.
“Owen will be gone after the thirteenth, so it doesn’t matter what it is.”
Unlike her sister, the town, at least, had the sense to recognize the threat of a curse year. While the local businesses would still take part in their own way, those who lived in Burdock Creek had refused to staff the events at Honeysuckle House. The curse might only claim those close to the Caldwells, but the town still feared becoming collateral damage. That left Florence’s sister to hire outside help, including Owen Grey, whom Evie had brought on to manage the honey harvest. He’d been in town for a few weeks already, staying at Honeysuckle House and getting to know Evie’s bees. Florence wondered how much work he was actually doing, as he’d been in the shop almost daily taking tarot lessons.
Angela leaned her head against Florence’s arm. “I just want you to be happy.”
“Then give me that bag,” Florence said.
