Chapter 1

One

Aluxia von Vertigern

"Eye of newt, wing of bat, turn my cunt of a cousin into a peg-legged rat," I mutter darkly, sprinkling crushed dried cranberries into an old Tupperware perched precariously on my bathroom sink, its once-bright colors now faded to a dull sheen of age and neglect.

What?

Okay, so maybe it's not exactly Eye of Newt, and perhaps my cauldron is more Rubbermaid than cast iron, and maybe I'm standing here in a mismatched pair of bras and panties, paired with a D-movie-grade cape and hood that looks like it was borrowed from a Halloween costume store's clearance rack, but it's not about the props—it's about *intention*.

*Like your intention to order two hundred Eyes of Newt from Merlin's Magical Emporium instead of the two hundred Aisles of Fruit you accidentally bought from the local grocery store's online bulk section?*

I growl at the nagging voice in my head, pitched strangely enough like an old crone in a Disney movie, a haunting reminder of my relentless magical misadventures that seem to follow me like a shadow.

That was an honest mistake. Who knew "Eye of Newt" and "Aisle of Fruit" could sound so similar when you're half-listening to a potion podcast, desperately trying to pre-self-soothe the rising anxiety of the upcoming biweekly family dinner by mindlessly scrolling through online shopping at 2 AM, the hour where all my worst decisions come to life?

Fortunately, most of my customers couldn't tell a mandrake root from oregano on a good day, and I had enough supply for the actual witches who visited my shop to last me the rest of the month, even if my stockroom looked more like a health food store than a magic emporium.

Unfortunately? I now have enough dried fruit to entice the soul of a vegan demon to question his loyalty to his overlord in favor of my storage pantry, where jars of apricots and raisins now ominously loom like a fruit-based army ready to invade.

Anyways, where was I?

Oh, yeah.

My intention is simple. To Kill Kitty.

Okay, no. It's to make absolutely sure my cousin, Kitty "I'm-so-perfect-I-poop-rainbows" Vortigern, doesn't end up as the new head of our magical family line. *Death wouldn't ensure that. Witches and all.*

Why, you may ask? Okay, I'll tell you.

Well, The Vortigerns have been at the pinnacle of the magical community since my great-times-nine grandmother, Grandma Digna, staged a dramatic coup during the Arcane Conclave—the yearly summit of all magical families where we gather to discuss the state of magical affairs—stabbing her husband in the heart and then declaring that the times of Patriarchal servitude were officially over. Apparently, it was pretty simple to convince a group of spurned witches that their value wasn't in service but in their own innate power and ambition. Since then, women have been at the helm of our family, and naturally, we made significant strides in the magical community, promoting equality and fostering magical innovation across all species, regardless of their origins.

*Ahh, the things we can achieve when it's* ***our choice*** *whether to get on our knees.*

So, I'll be damned if I give up *my* birthright to someone who once asked if the 'Glass Ceiling' could be cleaned with Windex instead of shattering it, her ignorance a blight on our family legacy.

Nope. Not today, Satan. Kitty must die.

I glare at my reflection in the mirror, my hair a wild mess of dark curls that seem to have a life of their own, each strand rebellious and defiant, as I reach for... something, anything to add to this spell, hoping to channel a surge of raw, chaotic magic that might just do the trick.

"I'll show you all that a mutant redhead with questionable morals will not upstage me," I mutter nonsensically, the memory of my mother's earlier phone call echoing in my mentally charismatic brain, a reminder of the familial pressures that weigh heavily on my shoulders like an anvil ready to drop.

The shrill ring of the phone sliced through my Mary J. Blige playlist like a knife, causing me to choke on a small mouthful of my popular healing tonic (okay, fine, it was wine), just as "Walk of Shame" played—a track I'd sworn could cure hangovers, regrettable decisions, and even mild cases of accidental transfiguration. As I spluttered and coughed, desperately trying not to spray the magical concoction all over the freshly stocked shelves of 'Hex Appeal,' my pride and joy, a thought nagged at the back of my mind. Was the universe trying to send me a message? Perhaps I should consider switching to less aggressive ringtones. Or maybe, just maybe, I ought to stop taste-testing my own products while drowning my imaginary sorrows in '90s R *"Dios dame paciencia, que la vida es corta y los días en jail son largos."*

Lord, give me patience. Life is short, and the days in jail are long. How rude. But also, 'Arcana Prison' is the stuff of nightmares, or so I've heard. My mom doesn't need another gang of loyal followers. Because I have no doubt in my mind that she would become the Supreme Witch of Cell Block W, turning hardened criminals into her personal coven and organizing underground potion rings faster than you can say 'Adobo and contraband wand.' By the time her sentence was up, she'd probably be running the whole damn prison from a throne made of smuggled spell books and shivs.

When she spoke again, her voice was forcefully calm, the momentary lapse in her perfect control almost as terrifying as her next words. Almost.

"You have until Samhain—that's Halloween, in case you've forgotten that too—to turn those 'charming instabilities' of yours into something resembling competence. Find your familiars to ground your wild tendencies, and for the love of all that's magical, secure a husband. Or else you can kiss your position in the family line goodbye. Do I make myself clear?"

My eyes widened, and I sputtered, "Pero mami, that's only three weeks?—"

"Tick tock, Aluxia. Tick. Tock. The Vortigern women make and shape history or die trying. *Somos las brujas que encienden el fuego de la historia con las cenizas del patriarcado. Somos las mujeres en los libros que los poderosos quieren borrar de la historia.* It's time to live up to the family name, grow up, and take control of your magic before you level another continent."

The call was over quicker than it began, leaving me staring at my phone in disbelief, the screen still glowing with the remnants of the conversation.

"Find a man," I spit out, slamming the Tupperware 'cauldron' down onto the sink with enough force to make the mirror rattle ominously. "Find your long-lost magical familiars," I continue, mimicking my mother's imperious tone as I yanked open a drawer, rifling through its contents with a fervor that bordered on desperation. "Shove your beautiful overactive brain into a box," I growl, slamming it shut again as if I could contain all of this chaotic energy. "As if it's that simple!"

The sheer audacity of it all. Using our family history and those so-called inspiring words to entice my inner fire, as if it were a mere flicker waiting to be stoked.

*We are the witches who ignite the fire of history with the ashes of patriarchy. We are the women in the books that the powerful want to erase from history.*

The Vortigern Axiom has been engrained deep within my soul since my conception, a constant echo that reverberates through my very being. Even more so than any of the other witches in my family. I was 'marked,' destined for greatness, as the souls of my ancestors whispered promises of power over my spirit.

Stronger than anyone in my line—both magically and in sheer wit and sarcasm—I was foretold to become the next Grandma Digna, apparently destined to stab the patriarchy right in the gonads of 'you got me fucked up.' But somewhere, lost amid the mystical whispers of prophecy, they missed a tiny little detail. My true magical gift—my attention deficit hyperactive as fuck brain.

Arguably, the combination of immense power was and still is a thing of prophecies. In fact, I would like to think that all of my accidental magical adventures were something to aspire to, even with the chaos they wrought.

Like that time I turned Aunt Prudence's prized peacocks into actual pea-sized cocks when I was sixteen, a sneeze escaping me while reading my grimoire out loud. Or when I accidentally gave Uncle Mortimer's toupee sentience at the ripe old age of four. I hear that Christmas was quite the spectacle as his toupee spilled every secret dear old Uncle Mortimer had, and well...Aunt Lucia brought in the New Year as a happy widow.

The point is, unlike the other women in my family, who could cast spells without causing catastrophes before getting their familiars and spouses, *my* magic needed grounding in order to truly thrive. Which I find thoroughly insulting. For several reasons.

A. Why should marriage unleash our magic? What in the ever-loving fuck was that about? and B. Why should Kitty—the same person who tried to turn her familiar into a dragon only to end up with a Komodo-breathing Chihuahua instead—be able to usurp me all because she was a horny, conniving witch who is going to be married to a Blackthorne? They weren't even that great of a family, despite their position in the community. Their ability to weave magic stemming from eclipses is pretty lame to me.

I look away from my potion and back to the large fish tank spanning the wall of my bedroom, where my pet piranha, Fluffy, watched me with a sharp-toothed, indignant look on his face, as if he understood every single word of my frustration.

"Exactly, Fluffy!" I nod in agreement to the angry rant I'm sure he's thinking on my behalf, vigorously stirring my cauldron of bubbling doom. "The world is built on neurodivergence! Do people think the inventor of Toaster Strudel suddenly pulled the idea of yummy pastry goodness out of his worn-down breakfast nook? Fuck that!"

Forgetting the number one rule of potion making, 'Don't deviate from your intentions,' I gesture wildly with my wand, sending droplets of potion splattering across the bathroom walls, leaving streaks of neon green in their wake. "He totally thought about it while stimming as he ate plain toast for breakfast, daydreaming about strawberries and wondering if his sad, dry bread could be more... strudel-y."

"And thus, a breakfast revolution was born, all thanks to a wandering, neurodivergent mind and the power of carb-loaded daydreams," I declare with a triumphant grin, momentarily distracted by my own cleverness.

I frown, glancing down at my now ominously glowing potion, and add, "And another thing! Since when does running a semi-successful magic shop specializing in desserts and turning any romantic situation or cluster-fuck into a pleasant experience—for the spurned, anyway—not count as 'living up to the family name?!' I provide solace to spurned witches one delicious snack and spell at a time.

I'm out here solving love lives one spell at a time!" I huff, stirring the potion a bit more aggressively than necessary, letting my frustration boil over. "So what if my methods are a little... unconventional and slightly dangerous? My 'Bittersweet Breakup Brownies' have saved more relationships than couples therapy, even with that weird diarrhea side effect. And don't even get me started on the revenge 'Oxtail, Rice and He Will Never Pea Again.' I turned a delicious meal into revenge.

Rolling my eyes, I mutter, "What does Mom want? For me to conjure up Prince Charming from a pumpkin spice latte?"

Pausing, I eye my bubbling cauldron speculatively, a mischievous idea sparking in my mind. "Actually, that's not a bad idea. Note to self: develop 'Cafecito de Cállate Co?o' ASAP."

*How about your natural talent for turning simple cleaning spells into small-scale natural disasters?* My inner voice tsks in reproach, the sarcasm palpable.

"You shut it," I seethe, waving my wand dismissively. "So what if I caused a volcanic eruption and typhoon that wiped out half a continent when I was sixteen? It's not like Dad wasn't able to undo it all. No one will ever know that Antarctica was barely an ice cube for all of three minutes."

In my annoyance, my hand knocks against a bottle of my special blend of rose and horny goat weed essential oil—totally for relaxation, not lonely nights, I swear—sending it teetering dangerously close to the edge of the cluttered shelf. I lunge to catch it, knowing that the next time I would be able to brew my late-night elixir is several months away. My elbow connects with a crystal jar of cotton balls in the process. The jar explodes into a kaleidoscope of rainbow lights, reflecting the afternoon sun breaking through my darkened windows, ruining the carefully curated ambiance of doom, and spilling my precious cotton balls, spun of the finest cotton from Amazon Essentials, all over the floor.

"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter, trying to scoop them up, yelping as I step on a piece of glass while simultaneously steadying the now wobbling, bubbling cauldron of my Kitty Killing potion. Muttering a quick spell to repair all the broken shit, I stuff the tiny trouble-making cunt of a bottle into my bra, which, by the way, only encases one boob now as I attempt to avoid dying tragically in my bathroom, only to knock down the short stack of grimoires and my copy of ‘ADHD and Magical Takeovers 101,’ which slides into the sink with a wet, ominous ‘plop.’

“CONASO! MALDITA SEA!” I yell, fishing out the now-soggy book, water dripping from its pages. “Why does everything go wrong at once?! Is this some kind of cosmic joke? Because I’m not laughing, Universe! You’re next on my list. I’ll get you, and your little galaxies too.”

I ignore the mocking laughter in my head as I blow a stray curl out of my face, surveying the chaos I’ve created in my tiny porcelain oasis. Cotton balls everywhere, a damp self-help book, and a bottle of essential oil shoved under my remaining encased boob.

“Right,” I mutter, balancing the cauldron of doom now filled with a bright yellow liquid carefully, my hands shaking slightly. “Because nothing says ‘I’m totally ready to lead a magical family’ quite like sunshine meadow-colored potions, a bathroom turned evil lair, and a half-naked witch with revenge plans for the Universe.”

I take a settling breath, glare at my reflection in the mirror, my hair a wild mess of dark curls that seem to have a life of their own, my amber eyes wild and slightly terrifying. “You Moana of Montanui, you will… wait, wrong story,” I mentally shake the Disney out of my head and redirect the fuckery. “You are a direct descendant of a stabby badass, Caldero Cauldron-wielding, honey-badger Latin grandma, Aluxia,” I tell myself firmly, “and you don’t take no shit. Sure, you’ve got a few kinks in your tangled frontal lobes of ‘What The Fuck,’ and don’t have a familiar or any romantic prospects, but who needs cocks anyway? Who wants a rooster and vaginal booster at five am every morning? Not you.

You, are powerful, Latina, and a chaotic beautiful mess of a witch. A force to be reckoned with. A... oh, shit!”

My pep talk is interrupted as my phone rings loudly, jolting me back to reality; the bottle of essential oils falls out of my bra, bouncing off the side of the sink before popping up and into my Rubbermaid cauldron of doom. The vial explodes as it hits the bubbling Kitty Killing Potion. As if in slow motion, my eyes widen as my spell of perpetual damnation and torture tactics lets off tiny fireworks, singeing everything they fall on and filling the room with smoke.

I cough and splutter, waving my hands frantically to clear the air, only to find I’ve somehow managed to turn my entire bathroom—including myself—a vibrant shade of dark red.

My mouth drops. What in the Skibbdy Ohio was in those fucking cranberries?

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I groan, staring at my now ruby visage staring back at me from the mirror. “ This is exactly why some people would believe that Kitty should be in charge. Well, fuck them. And fuck this bright ass red color, too.”

My phone rings again from where it crash-landed on the floor, knocking me out of my spiraling thoughts. I scramble to pick it up, recognizing the new ringtone. The saccharine sweet tones of “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” fill the air, and despite my current predicament, I can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.

It’s the little things that bring me the most joy, even if I have to take the source of said joy and shove it down deep within my soul, just in case my mother decides to control that too. She threatens to turn me into a puppet a bit too often for my liking. Although she did come alarmingly close once...

The phone rings again, and I cringe, glancing at the screen. Ay, three missed calls.

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering uncertainly. For a split second, I consider answering in a fake voice, pretending to be some non-existent close friend. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Aluxia’s in the bathroom right now. Can I take a message?” But who am I kidding? Other than Fluffy (who, let’s be honest, is more of a reluctant roommate than a pet), I don’t have close friends. Or friends in general, for that matter.

It’s hard being next in line to the great Vortigerns. But it’s even harder being the odd one out, with an overactive brain that never shuts up and a heart that feels too much. I sigh, shoving the deep-seated loneliness back into its usual dark corner. No time for a pity party when my boob is still flying free.

I stare at my suddenly ominously silent phone with dread. Fuck.

She is going to kill me.

I sigh, ready to call back and get it over with. But before I can tap ‘call back,’ the door crashes open, and I can feel a tug deep within my soul as my magic flares wildly, a sensation that both thrills and terrifies me.

And before you get the wrong idea, no, it’s not an angry Latin witch with a wand and a chancleta…

“A Capybara, Honey Badger, and Komodo Dragon walk into a bar…” I mutter softly, as hysterical laughter bubbles up inside of me. I may not have killed Kitty…yet… but three familiars? Oh, I can’t wait for the family dinner now.