Prologue: Bonelle MacGregor PROLOGUE Bonelle MacGregor
A day for celebration should never end with a curse, but one cannot always see the future.

No matter how much magick they have.

Mabon heralded the arrival of autumn, honoring the balance of light and dark, and for one magickal town nestled in the hills of Scotland, the long-awaited return of their prince. Briarhaven, a home to witches, fae, and humans alike, bustled with excitement over the arrival of their dearly beloved—and notably single—prince.

It was said this year he would choose a wife.

More than one woman had awoken with a smile on her lips and hope in her heart. Maybe, just maybe, this day would end with a crown upon their head.

There was one budding witch, however, for whom the prince’s return was of little interest.

At the age of four and twenty, Bonelle MacGregor cared little for the whims of love or arranging for a husband. Instead, she eagerly awaited the bloom of her magick in the coming year. She could already feel the first tendrils unfurling in her, hinting at what was to come. Bonelle welcomed, no, ached, for its arrival, as she had written books upon books of spells she was dying to try. She sensed she could do great good for her people, once her magick flowered.

Unlike her best friend, Vaila, who cared little for using her magick to help others when there was a prince to be wed. Vaila was so focused on the prince’s return that she’d cried twice that morning about which dress to wear for the bonfire dance. After the third time switching the ribbons in Vaila’s hair, Bonelle had begged off so she could go investigate a rumor she’d heard.

A mysterious traveler had arrived.

Hopeful for new books, particularly if they carried exotic spells from faraway lands, Bonelle slipped away from where fading wildflowers festooned a field outside the village, the beat of the drums matching the thumping of her heart. A wagon was tucked in a shadowy grove of trees, a man, broad-shouldered and lean from travel, arranging his goods.

“Good day, sir.” She bobbed her head lightly. The wagon, though appearing to be of humble nature from afar, glittered and glimmered once close.

“Good day, miss. May I interest you in my wares?” The man was dirty in the way of men who have been on the road for ages, his face covered in dust, his nails caked with mud. Yet she couldn’t look away from his enchanting azure eyes. A thousand truths swirled there, magick and mystery and might, and her words were lost to the ether.

“Perhaps a shiny bauble for a bonnie lass?” The man shifted, lifting a swath of velvet fabric to reveal a tray of gold jewelry. At that, she wrinkled her nose, her captivation broken.

“I’ve not one for baubles, no.” Bonelle pursed her lips, deliberately trying to avoid looking at him lest she did something stupid like ask him for the secrets of the universe. “But I do love books. Do you have stories from strange lands, sir? I’d love to expand my library. Books hold infinite worlds and many new companions.”

“I feel much the same, witchling.” The soft burr of his voice rippled across her skin, awareness tugging her closer. “You may enjoy these.”

The traveler handed her three books, bound in leather, dyed in the same beautiful blue as his wagon.

“I certainly can’t afford these,” Bonelle said, surprised at the quality of the bindings.

“A gift.”

“Ah, I’m not so green to the ways of the world as to accept a gift from a strange traveler.” She laughed up at him. He must be fae, always up to tricks. “I do have coin.”

Digging in her pocket, she laid three silver coins in his hand, and jolted when a spark of energy shot up her arm.

“If you insist.” The man closed his hand over the coins, and when he opened it again, they had disappeared.

Before she could ask him about his travels in strange lands, voices of approaching customers sounded at her back, and Bonelle turned blindly, running home to store the books in a safe spot in her cottage. Though she ached to dive into every story found in those delicate pages, she reluctantly tucked them away and returned to the festivities, having promised Vaila she would dance around the bonfire with her.

“There you are.” Vaila grabbed her arm, hurrying her toward where dancers circled a merrily crackling bonfire. “Don’t look, but the prince is here! I’m told he’s going to invite one of us maidens to sit by his side at the head table tonight.”

“And that’s a good thing?” Bonelle asked, in all seriousness, but Vaila just rolled her eyes and dragged Bonelle forward.

The drums struck up, the piper stepping close, and Bonelle lifted her head as an icy breeze danced across her cheeks, the promise of winter swirling in its depths. Gilded leaves fluttered in the wind, and the dancers fell into motion. Awareness prickled, needling her in the shoulders, and she slanted a glance over her shoulder to see the traveler standing, arms crossed, his head bent in conversation with another man.

The prince.

He wore a simple gold circlet in his hair and a rich red tunic, honey-blond tresses rippling in the breeze. His icy-blue eyes stayed on the dancers, even though he bent his ear to the traveler.

Before she could ponder more deeply how the traveler knew the prince, the dance came to an end when the prince stepped forward, clapping his hands. Bonelle fell silent, the fire crackling and spitting at her back.

“This is it,” Vaila hissed at her ear.

“Why did he stop the dance before we were finished?” She glared, annoyed. This was a time-honored tradition.

“Because he was so taken with my beauty that he’s going to choose me as his maiden for dinner tonight—maybe even his wife.” Vaila’s nails dug into Bonelle’s arm, and she winced and forced herself to paste a polite smile on her face.

“My lovely gentlewomen…” The prince swooped his hands out in front of him, a smile on his lips. “I must apologize for interrupting your beautiful dance, but I was so overcome with admiration for one of you fair ladies that I quite simply had to claim her as my companion for the evening.”

Bonelle’s shoulders tightened at his words. Her magick rippled, the high levels of emotion threading the air bringing it to the surface.

The prince strode forward until he stood in front of them, and Vaila gasped, tossing her head back, chin held high.

“My enchanting mistress, will you join me this evening?” The prince’s hand reached forward.

“Why, of course—”

Vaila’s words dropped away as the prince’s hand stopped just below Bonelle’s breastbone, waiting for her to take it. Bonelle stared down at the hand, where a thick gold ring with an intricate insignia was nestled at the base of his index finger. She struggled for a breath as Vaila gasped beside her.

“No.” It was soft, a simple word ripped away on the wind, but she caught it, her heart twisting at Vaila’s distress. Once more, her magick heated beneath her skin, as though imploring to be released, yet it was bound by the rules. Unlike Vaila, who’d stepped into her magick a year prior, Bonelle was forbidden to free her magick until the age of five and twenty.

Time slowed.

Lifting her head, Bonelle ignored royal protocol and turned toward her best friend. Already, the words were at Vaila’s lips, her face twisted in rage, dark magick seeping from her skin.

“By thorn and thistle, by curse and bane,

Your magick’s strength shall wax and wane,

Misfortune shall haunt each town you claim,

Bringing ruin, grief, and endless blame.”

The curse fell upon Bonelle, as though she’d walked into a sticky cobweb, and she floundered backward, her hands raised as though she could stop the blood magick that poured from Vaila’s broken heart.

Shadows fell, the murky clouds having turned murderous, and a shriek split the sky.

Bonelle’s blood ran cold.

Her foot caught on a root as she turned to run. She stumbled, but an arm looped through hers and dragged her into the shadow of the trees, where she was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. She went to her knees, her fingers clutching the damp moss that coated the forest floor. Tears welled, and she blinked them back, her thoughts whirling as she gasped for air.

“The emberwolves approach. You must go.”

At that, Bonelle sprang to her feet, fear rippling through her.

“She called an emberwolf?” Bonelle gasped. Her heart skipped a beat when her eyes finally landed on the man who’d dragged her to the forest. Not just a guard, oh no, but the traveler himself.

“Her curse did. Harm will befall any town in which you stay.”

Bonelle gaped up at him before turning to look out at the festival grounds, where the people had scattered, fallen leaves strewn across the grass in their wake. The shadow of an emberwolf drifted across the field, and her stomach twisted.

“Who are you?” It was an inane question at an impossible time, but still Bonelle had to know the name of the man who was banning her to exile.

“Eoin Douglas. First Knight of the Iron Thistle Order, protector of Briarhaven.”

“Protect me. Please,” Bonelle begged.

He stilled, his eyes darting between Bonelle and the field, but when another shriek rattled the branches canopying above them, he decided.

Bonelle knew before he spoke.

“Run, MacGregor. Take your curse with you and run.”

Chapter One: Sloane MacGregor CHAPTER ONE Sloane MacGregor
Welcome to Briarhaven, Scotland’s most magickal town.”

I glanced at the video playing on my sister Lyra’s phone to see a woman in a blush-pink pantsuit and perfectly coiffed blond tresses beam into the camera. Her smile fought the tight skin of her face, and her widened eyes held a slight maniacal glow.

“She seems a bit tense,” I said, returning my gaze to the road that curved through a canopy of trees with twisted branches arching overhead.

“She looks like a fembot.” Nova, the youngest of us three, leaned forward from the back seat.

“Be sure to book your tickets in advance for the VIP Briarhaven experience. If you’re lucky, you might even get upgraded to our full moon package!” Pink Pantsuit’s voice sounded as plastic as she looked.

“She’s like the people who harass you to buy time-shares anytime you book at an all-inclusive hotel,” I said.

“And remember… in Briarhaven, we believe in three things: magick, mirth, and mystery! Charm on, witches!”

“?‘Charm on, witches,’?” Nova mimicked, easing back. I snorted.

“Mirth?” Lyra turned the word over on her tongue. “When was the last time you heard someone say ‘mirth’?”

“Mirth happens,” Nova said, winking at me in the rearview mirror.

“For what it’s mirth, I think it’s an underused word.” I slowed the car as we approached a tight turn in the hills.

“Mirth you.” Lyra glowered, letting out a little huff as she settled back against the seat.

I grinned at my impossibly beautiful sister.

Lyra had the kind of looks that made men and women alike stop in their tracks, police officers fumble their words and never issue tickets, and grown men send extravagant gifts. The most extravagant gift I’d ever received from a boyfriend was a coupon for a buy-one-get-one-free ice cream at Dairy Queen.

As if on cue, we rounded a corner to see a rustic wooden sign, covered in vines and thorns, tucked next to the road beneath the shaded bower of trees that had grown tighter and darker upon our approach.

“Briarhaven. Population 3,333.”

“Repeating threes, how original.” I could all but hear Nova rolling her eyes in the back seat.

Nova had an edgy beauty that reminded me of thorns tucked among rose petals. A budding tattoo artist who was developing a rabid following online, she’d come out of the womb far cooler than I could ever aspire to be.

“Okay, but, wait a minute… would you just look at this? Bloody hell, I think they’ve given the town an actual makeover.” Lyra leaned forward as we left the tunnel of trees and Briarhaven spread before us. Tucked at the base of sharply edged mountains, the village was colorful and charming, like someone had flicked a paintbrush full of color against a rich green canvas. Golden trees with leaves just on the cusp of turning amber blanketed the hills, and a stunning loch shimmered in the distance. Since we’d last been here, it seemed the town had quite literally been made over into a theme park–like tourist attraction.

Shocked at the transformation, we could only gape as I drove slowly past the main square, gilded sunlight spearing through puffy white clouds, sidewalks busy with tourists, some dressed in cosplay with witch hats or fake fae ears. A breeze blew a scattering of amber leaves down the street, and a stall selling freshly picked apples was set up near the sidewalk. A poster for an upcoming Halloween costume contest was taped to a black light pole with an old-timey lantern at the top, and I shook my head. How would tourists ever compete with magickals when it came time to dress up?

“It’s incredible what they’ve achieved in the last eight years. I mean, I can hardly recognize the place,” Nova said. I nodded, my nerves kicking up as I turned down our childhood street—memory lane, so to speak. We all went silent as I pulled to a stop in front of a run-down cottage tucked in a row of detached houses that had also experienced the same glow-up as the rest of the town. Ours stood out like a sore thumb.

“Well, this is a hot mess.”

“It’s not a hot mess, it’s just…” I trailed off as we looked out the car window at our childhood home. A two-story cottage, overgrown ivy obscuring the gray stone exterior, with one shutter slung askew, barely hanging on. Same, shutter. Same.

“A dumpster fire?” Lyra suggested. Nova nodded her agreement, and I sighed.

“A project.” Unbuckling my seat belt, I cracked the car door open, stood, and stretched. A crisp autumn breeze teased my hair, and burnt-umber leaves fluttered to my feet. Nature’s glitter, throwing a goodbye party before the plants slept for the winter.

If I looked closely enough, I could see the threads of memories wrapped around the house—snatches of arguments, broken magick misfiring, rare moments of laughter. It was home because it was the longest the MacGregor clan had managed to stay in one spot, together, before the curse that plagued our bloodline—like a mosquito buzzing when you’re desperate for sleep—forced us to move on.

It had been years since we’d been back to Briarhaven, and I never would have returned if not for one very specific reason. The one woman I couldn’t refuse had called me home to break our family curse.

The same woman who now stood in the open doorway to our dilapidated home, her walker wrapped in silk ribbons, both her housedress and eyeglasses dripping with sparkles. A sleek gray bob of hair framed a happy face just giving over to age, and a falcon preened its feathers at her shoulder. Broca MacGregor, ladies and gentlemen. The legend herself.

“You look like you’re waiting on news of the mysterious passing of your rich husband,” I called.

“Husband?” Broca said in the same tone as if I’d just pointed out a cockroach. “Why marry them when they’re so much more fun when they’re courting you?”

“Says the woman with five ex-husbands.” I rounded the car and popped the trunk for our luggage while Lyra and Nova bounded out of the car to go embrace our grandmother, who had arrived to town earlier that day. Likely being carried on a throne by several strapping males. As matriarchal witches, Broca was plagued by the same curse as us. She’d spent the last eight years methodically working her way through the men of Europe, each suitor more extravagant than the last.

“Which is how I know men are easily digestible as lovers, but barely tolerable as husbands.”

“Must we discuss your lovers already?” We’d only just arrived, having traveled all night, and I’d need a glass of wine before I could handle such a conversation. Reaching in the trunk, I pulled out a suitcase and put it on the ground.

A flurry of snowflakes landed beside it.

Shite.

Groaning, I straightened to see all three women glaring at the sky. Broca’s falcon—her familiar, named Iris—cried out in protest and took to the air, disappearing toward the hills.

One very brokenhearted witch, centuries ago, had cursed our ancestor with a highly inventive, if not deeply annoying spell. The result of which had forced every MacGregor since to never be able to fully settle in one spot for very long, as natural disasters and oddball curses would descend upon any town we were in. Even better? When we did step into our magick at the age of twenty-five, we’d often have to deal with it being unpredictable.

“Does it have to be snow?” Lyra asked, stomping the heel of her Christian Louboutin stiletto into the ground.

“It’s better than the caterpillar infestation.” Nova zipped her leather coat, squinting at the dark clouds that now clustered over us.

“Ew.” Lyra rounded on her. “I thought we’d agreed never to bring that one up again. I couldn’t sleep for months after.”

“Likely due to the caterpillars that had nested in your hair. Maybe they burrowed into your brain.”

Lyra gasped and patted her luxurious tresses. It had taken a three-day weekend at a high-end spa to ensure not a trace of caterpillar slime could be found on Lyra before she was able to move on from that particular iteration of our curse.

“Caterpillars don’t burrow. They go into their closet and come out looking fabulous.”

“It’s a chrysalis, not a closet, Lyra.”

“To-may-to, to-mah-toe.” Lyra shivered as a blast of wind tossed snow at their feet.

Grinning, their bickering an odd source of comfort for me, I reached the front door. “Broca, let’s get you inside and get the heat on.”

The house itself was a simple rectangle, with four bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs and an open living room, kitchen, and dining room on the first. Though the house had been built in a time of small rooms and closed doors, likely to keep heat in, somewhere along the line walls had been removed to create one big living space, and two brick pillars acted as the main foundational supports in the room. I used to run circles around those pillars as a kid, my father chasing me—on a good day, that is—while my mother drank coffee in her chair by the window where sunlight spilled inside for a good portion of the morning.

Leaving the suitcase at the door, I walked slowly next to Broca as she navigated toward that same chair and helped her sit. Lyra crossed to the kitchen to dig in the cabinets, likely looking for tea, while Nova checked if the water was running. Looking around, I sighed. Dusty sheets covered the rest of the furniture, cobwebs clustered in corners of the windows, and more than one light bulb had long ago burned itself out.

A knock sounded at the door, and we all turned. Before I could cross to answer it, let alone fully take stock of the condition of the room, the door swung open.

“Who just opens someone else’s door?” I asked, already crossing the room, ready to do battle.

My mouth dropped open.

The sexiest man I’d ever seen in real life filled the door.

A face made for fairy tales, with muscular arms shown in their best light under a T-shirt, never mind the snow swirling outside, had me frozen to the spot.

I gaped at the gorgeous man that hulked in the doorway. Unruly dark hair, those soul-searching blue eyes, and a sharp jawline marked with dark stubble made me want to look twice. And a third time, for good measure. The man was made for fantasies, not real life.

“Oh my,” Lyra breathed from across the room, and I silently nodded in agreement.

“Ladies.” This man’s voice, like whisky-soaked sugar, made heat bloom in my chest. My magick unfurled inside me, as though stretching after a long rest, ready to greet the world. It may be ready, but I was not. And the last thing I needed was for it to make its first appearance ten seconds into my unwanted return to Briarhaven. Though my twenty-fifth birthday was still two days away, the knowledge that I was about to step into my power had been humming through me for years now. For most witches, it was meant to be a celebratory day. For me? It was like waiting for a gavel to slam down as a judge declared my sentence.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

With that, the man bent and picked up my suitcase, trudged out into the snow, and deposited my luggage back in the trunk of my car.

Never had my opinion of someone changed so fast. Turning, I glared at the others.

“See? I knew coming back was a mistake.”

With that, I stormed outside.