Chapter 1

Kate

Bloody hearts fill a cast-iron pot on my kitchen countertop.

“What are these for again?” I ask, avoiding Marlowe Waverley’s dark-eyed stare. It’s hard to look at him. Something happened between us in the backyard this morning that’s much more intense than a simple sex ritual in the woods. Than your basic, run-of-the-mill hate-fuck. Than an understandable case of mistaken identity in the bedroom.

Romance.

We had a romantic moment.

“ We’re both terrified of being left.” I cannot believe I just said that. To Marlowe. My attacker. The reason I got dragged into this mess in the first place. The grumpy gargoyle. The total ass.

“Protection spell,” Brooks answers, putting a hand on the top of my head. More casual touching. And I like it. He has a big, warm bossy palm. “We’re burying them in the yard.”

“We’re burying deer hearts in my yard. Okay then. Are we fucking on top of the burial spots?” My voice hitches strangely at the end there. It’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes out like an invitation. My gaze shifts from the stack of dripping heart muscles to Brooks’ poison-green eyes.

Gram would be concerned by this point, I think. Her good cast-iron is filled with a sacrificial offering.

“Fucking?” Brooks purrs the word like he didn’t turn me down in the foyer of our employer’s house. Look at that stupid, smug face—that confident face. Shadow antlers stretch across the ceiling above his bloodred hair. My fingers itch to reach up and brush back that streak of black in his bangs.

We’re not there yet.

“Yes, fucking. I’d like to be informed before my pants are pulled down.” I reach up and push Brooks’ hand off my head as Marlowe snorts, leaning back in a chair at the table with a weary sigh. My cat is hovering on the counter behind him, trying to sniff his black hair. Lo stirs and the light catches it, throwing a pearlescent shine over the surface.

Definitely not the hair of your average human.

Witch.

“You wouldn’t like the type of sex we’d have to have.” Brooks smiles mirthlessly at me, and my entire body goes cold. Then hot. Up in flames. How does he know that, unless he asks? “Protection spells need something violent to happen in order to work. I supplemented the spell with items from the Witchwoods—the last of my supply. This one only requires blood, spit, and cum. The chalice isn’t needed.”

Right. The chalice. Meaning me.

I narrow my eyes, and he narrows the ones on his hat back at me.

“I really don’t like you sometimes, you know that?” I turn to Tanner instead, leaning casually in the doorjamb and studying me with a knowing look. He’s half-lidded and smirky and very, very pretty. Very pretty? Christ, he’s a metaphor. He’s … a force of nature, something wild. A sweet-talker, but feral down to his bones.

“We had to learn to cast this spell with an incomplete coven.” Tanner grins at me, a flash of white teeth in a bloodstained face. Red dripping from the tips of his gold-and-black hair and hitting the floor near my feet. A drop of crimson lands on my leg, sliding down and over the yellow banana slug tattoo on my ankle. That’s how close he’s standing to me. “The Hag Wytch will need to dig up and eat all four hearts before she can approach the house. Buys enough time for alternative plans.”

“So … I bury a heart in the north and then you guys jerk off over the hole? That’s dark.” I’m not sure why I keep bringing up sex and masturbation after this morning’s fiasco. How did I not recognize that Tanner and Marlowe had switched places behind me?

Avoiding Lo’s stare isn’t too difficult. He seems to be as embarrassed about breaking my hand as I am about confusing their dicks. Tanner’s blue-gray gaze is a different story. He’s staring me down like he wants something from me. Not sure what that is, but I at least try to put up some resistance.

We’re locked in silent conquest, but I give in because I just watched him shoot four deer in the woods in less than two hours with a bow and arrow. Without using magic. Without magic .

I look down at our feet. His bloody boots. My bare toes.

“Oh, what’s this all about? Like you’re shy.” Tanner stands up straight, swiping his hands down the front of his pants like he’s trying to clean his palms off. A fruitless exercise.

He’s covered in blood, from gutting the deer in our backyard.

I’m sure none of the neighbors will notice or film that.

We’re so screwed.

“I’m not shy. You’re just a very efficient killer. Maybe I didn’t feel like challenging you while you’re still dripping?” My eyes stray to the red boot prints on the floor before lifting back to Tanner’s face.

Not only did he get us four hearts for this protection spell against the Hag Wytch, he also processed all of the venison, stored the meat in the old shed using both his magic and Marlowe’s to keep it cold, and prepared the hides for tanning.

All of that.

“I’m not the only one that’s dripping, eh Kate?” he asks, raising his fancy brow (the one with the scar through it) at me before exiting the kitchen in favor of a shower.

I hope he takes a nice long one. He deserves it. We all do.

After working eight hard hours painting the Pink Lady, the men and I hunted deer in the woods behind my house and prepped for this spell. I don’t even know what time it is now, well past dark that’s for sure.

This morning, I saw the Hag’s reflection in my knife. I heard her wings.

We found a single feather on the back lawn. But even Tanner—who knows birds as well as he knows deer—said that she wasn’t around. She isn’t physically here just yet, and somehow we’re still being hunted. Taunted by the ghost of the Hag Wytch.

It’s as if she’s coming for us, specifically.

Because we’re a full coven? Because we escaped the Witchwoods? I turn to Brooks as he hefts one of the bloodied hearts in his hand, letting spatters of crimson hit the butcher-block countertop. Might stain it. Again, Gram would not stand for that. Somehow, I don’t think Brooks will either.

“Did the Hag hunt you this purposefully in the woods?” I ask, dreading his response.

“No.” It’s Marlowe, rather than Brooks, that answers.

Lo’s standing right behind me like he teleported there. I tense and wait for him to drop a rude quip on me, some vicious thrust to my heart that we both play off as a joke.

He surprises me—in a good way.

“She tracked us. Memorized our routines.” Marlowe shrugs. “But she didn’t spend all her time chasing us around. I’m still shocked that she left her nest during the day when we were at the Pit.” I glance back at him, and his mouth twitches, dark eyes squinting suspiciously down at me. “Maybe it’s you that she can’t resist, Kate. You taste extra good or something?”

My skin tingles as he reaches past me, hefts a heart into his hand and heads outside.

“Grab one and let’s get this done.” Brooks turns, the eyes of his hat straining to keep looking at me as he walks away. I reach a hand up to touch the brim of my own hat, wondering when or if I’ll get one with some special feature.

“Come on, kitten. Let’s get this done.” Tanner reappears in a fresh shirt, face pinkish at the edges from where he scrubbed the blood off. He adjusts his hat, one wolf ear swiveling to listen for sounds from outside, the other turning in my direction.

“You don’t want to shower first?” I ask, giving him the side-eye. We need to head into the front yard to bury the southernmost heart. A blood-soaked mountain man is not something that needs to be caught on camera. The foreboding spell seems to be working on my house, but what about drones? What about my neighbors? Seems like they can still access their own homes despite the spell.

Trending Witchwood Boys equals trouble for everyone. There are life-and-death consequences that come with this popularity. We don’t need anyone else accessing the Witch’s Tree while the gate is wide open. Stupid thirst trap witch men.

“No point until I’m done digging holes and playing with hearts.” Tanner picks up one of the two remaining organs and winks at me. “Although I was always good at that, playing with hearts.”

I roll my eyes.

“How deep?” I ask, and then immediately regret the question when he offers me a naughty smile in response. “The hole, I mean.” Shit. “How far down do I have to dig for the protection spell?”

There. No innuendo in that.

Tanner’s wolf ears flatten against the brim of his hat, charms swaying on the cone as he cocks his head to one side.

“Six feet deep, baby. Grab a shovel and let’s go.” He pauses near the back door, snagging one of the shovels that he dug out of the shed-turned-meat-locker. It’s rusty, something that I haven’t touched since my grandma died. It’s nice to see the guys bringing all her old things to life. “Unless …” His focus slides up my body in a way that makes me squirm. “You want to try out your magic?”

Using earth magic to clear a six-foot hole is enough to drain the life out of me. In goes the deer heart. On top goes the dirt. The dudes are forced to bury their south, east, and west hearts with shovels.

Back inside. Hands on cocks. Three eruptions into that same cast-iron pot. Poor Grandma Annie is probably rolling in her grave at this point.

I keep my eyes averted until they’re finished. It’s just … well, it’s weird with all three men right now. Marlowe adds some water. Tanner adds some herbs. Brooks boils it. We each add a few drops of our own blood and finish it off with spit (because, you know, witchcraft loves bodily fluids).

We haul the pot out together and pour the strange brew over each burial plot.

Protection spell against the Hag Wytch complete.

I collapse in bed after, and the next thing I know, Brooks is pulling the curtains open and it’s time for work again. What even happened to yesterday?

Running my own business. Hunting. Spellcasting.

No wonder I was exhausted. Am. Am exhausted.

I get dressed and yawn my way downstairs to French toast and coffee, trying not to like having Brooks around to do these sorts of things for me. He’s kind of an awesome twenty-six-year-old boomer. Heh.

“Good morning.” I’m all smiles as I take my seat, Marlowe on my right. Tanner on my left. Brooks sits at the table across from me. “Are we marked safe from Hag Wytch sightings this morning?” I’m peering into my spoon, turning it this way and that way.

“Oh, no. She’s fucking everywhere.” Brooks pours syrup over his French toast as I squint into the silverware, searching for an ancient person-eating forest god. “I saw her in the bedroom window when I first got up. In the bathroom mirror. Just now, in the glass behind you.”

I stand up and whirl around, black and orange braid flying. It smacks me in the chest as I stare at the glass, but there’s nothing there. Then I look down at my spoon and there she is, looking back.

Big baby blue eyes. Long dark lashes. Blunt teeth behind human lips. Beak nose. Brown feathers with black, gold, and white runes. She hisses at me, but there’s no sound, just two tongues flapping in her double mouths. I’m not sure which one is creepier, the thin bird-like tongue or the fat, pink human one.

My skin crawls, like it’s covered in the maggots from the Hag Wytch’s pit of corpses.

“Relax, kitten. We’ve got the protection spell. She won’t be able to sneak up on us here.” Tanner sounds optimistic. That’s a good thing, right? If the men aren’t panicking, then there’s no reason for me to panic. They know more about this stuff than I do.

I turn around, grabbing the back of my chair and noticing that Marlowe’s hat is covered in daffodils. My eyes drop to his, and we get stuck on each other. He was in the process of buttering his French toast, but his hand is now frozen on the knife. A square of butter slides off and plops onto his lap only to be promptly stolen away by the cat.

He looks down like he’s confused, and I do my best to hold back a chuckle as I take a seat.

Yesterday was so busy that Marlowe and I … Well, he said he was going to take care of me. If I think about it, he was almost completely insult free (almost). He brought cold bottled water up the scaffolding for me and all that.

Nothing else happened between us.

Nothing sexual. Nothing romantic. Nothing deep.

We’re skirting around each other a little it seems.

“If the Hag Wytch comes through the Witch’s Tree, what do you think she’ll do? Eat the world? Put everyone to sleep?” Marlowe scoffs as he collects another pat of butter on his knife, pausing to stare into the silver. Pretty sure he sees the Hag in his cutlery, too.

“I have no idea.” Brooks sounds lofty enough, despite the fact that he’s admitting to not knowing something. That’s rare for him. He yawns, and the eyes on his hat close in time with the ones on his face. I’m not sure he slept much last night. I woke up to use the bathroom and caught sight of him on the living room couch, poring over a grimoire that he brought from the woods. “But we’re not going to let that happen. We’ll never know, and that’s okay.”

We’ll never know, and that’s okay.

I had that same thought about the men yesterday.

If we hadn’t made vows to one another, if we weren’t a part of a coven, what would happen? I don’t know. They don’t know. It’s starting to matter less and less with each passing day.

I surreptitiously observe my cryptic companions and their breakfast habits. Brooks with a stack of naked French toast and a cup of black coffee. Marlowe smearing butter over everything before mixing strawberry and blackberry jam together for his own three-slice stack.

And Tanner … drenching his food in maple syrup and then licking his fingers clean with his eyes on mine. His smile is as slow and viscous as that syrup, almost too sweet. He grabs his fork, but if the Hag is looking back at him, you’d never know it. He wolfs down his food with a half-smile on his lips, his face clean-shaven and smooth, a rare treat.

Is it weird that I like the way he eats? Mouth closed. Jaw working. Strong tendons in his neck. An appreciation for the food in front of him, like he knows what it means to starve. My pulse flutters. I can’t believe I confused his dick and Marlowe’s.

Total and complete humiliation.

“Want to work venison into whatever new spells you’re writing? That, or we’re going to have to eat all of that meat. We eat—or spell with—what we kill.” Tanner slips a small leather bag from his jeans pocket, opening it and pulling out a bit of yesterday’s deer meat to feed Flick. “Good boy.”

Ebon chirps, hopping across the top of the fridge. Tanner flips her a piece of meat, too. My cat, Stix, is too preoccupied with her stolen butter pat.

“I’ll do my best.” Brooks turns to me as I take a bite of my breakfast and cross my ankles, squeezing them together in an effort not to squeal. This food is good. Imagine if Brooks really did move in here permanently. Live with me permanently. Cook for me permanently.

I can handle his bossiness if he keeps making food like this. Is he staring at me?

“What?” I stop eating to look up, catching a rare smile on the face of our Southwoods.

North, South, East, and West.

A full coven.

Marlowe and Tanner both pause to look at Brooks, like they’re as curious as I am as to why he’s smiling like that.

“The other night, I came across a spell I thought you’d like.” He reaches into his pocket and draws out a small cloth sack, reaching across the table to set it in front of my plate. “I borrowed some dried tea leaves from your cabinet. A bit of cannabis from the kitchen drawer. Some mushrooms from the woods out back. Enjoy.”

“What is this?” I pick up the bag with a thoughtful frown on my face. My eyes lift to his. Brooks is easier to deal with right now than either Marlowe or Tanner. There’s a lot to unpack with the other two.

“ I’ll fuck you when I’m good and ready.”

Ugh. He said that, didn’t he? Never mind.

I maintain my original position: I hate all three of them.

“A spell to animate the paintbrushes and the rollers. I shouldn’t have wasted the energy on it.” Brooks sighs and picks up his coffee, sipping it as he stares across the table at me.

I very carefully take the bag and set it in my lap. Is this a peace offering? When did he make this? Why did he make this? I should tell him that we can’t use this spell unless we also use a spell to hide the whole mess from prying eyes.

The Witchwood Boys are already trending. Magic paintbrushes won’t help our case.

“Thank you.” That’s what I say instead, leaving the bag in my lap and picking up my fork. This time, I ignore the Hag’s face in the silver tines.

Brooks pauses with his coffee mug halfway to his lips, like he’s as confused as I am. Funny that, considering he’s the one that gave me the gift. What were his intentions?

“You’re welcome.” Just that. Nothing else.

Tanner and Marlowe exchange a rare look—that is, one free from animosity.

Oh yeah. Tanner. Marlowe. Brooks. They’re all equally problematic. Equally complicated.

They’re all equally coven.

Hah. I was going to let them stay for a night or two? It’s been a week since I met them, five days of that spent here.

I finish my food quickly, take a sip of my coffee, and then look over at Brooks again.

“Done. When you’re good and ready , let’s go. I don’t want to be late for work.” I let a teasing smile take over my lips, unsure if Brooks will pick up on the joke.

He stops mid-sip of his coffee, all six red eyes on his hat blinking curiously at me.

“I’ll get our dog,” Tanner says, standing up and whistling for Flick. Not that he needs to. That mangy mutt is glued to his side like the unloyal orange and white ball of fluff that he is.

“I’ll get our truck started.” Marlowe practically lunges out of his chair to get away from me, disappearing into the foyer and then cursing loudly when he realizes that the truck keys are no longer on the hook.

I dig into my pocket and hold them up with two fingers, swinging them in Brooks’ direction. He just shakes his head and rewards me with this gruff, sexy laugh that I swear I’ve never heard before.

“Like I said.” Brooks sets his mug down and stands up, putting both palms on the tabletop as he leans down toward me. His green eyes sparkle in challenge. “Such a brat. Come on, North. You’re right: we can’t be late. Nobody wants to hire a bunch of lazy do-nothings who can’t be bothered to show up on time.”

“Sure thing, old man.” I stand up and move to scoot past him, only to find long fingers wrapped around my wrist. Oh. There’s fire and intent in that touch, just like there was in the foyer at Robin Madsen’s house. With his free hand, Brooks plucks the truck keys away from me, taking advantage of me while I’m still stunned by the heat of his touch.

Sparks and embers. That’s what he smells like.

“I’m good and ready to drive this morning. How about that?” He turns away from me before I can figure out something clever to say.

I’m kicking them out after this Hag Wytch shit is done with.

Not true.

They’re my coven, and I owe it to myself to try.