Page 7

It was almost midday by the time I finally reached the outskirts of Headless Hollow.

The bus had only taken me so far, dropping me off in the nearest mortal town, leaving me with a two-hour trek through the forest to reach the monster-only village. By the time I stumbled onto the familiar winding lane, my feet ached, my stomach grumbled, and my tea was long gone.

I held my breath as I neared the weathered mailbox at the end of the drive, exhaling only when I saw the name Cadmus still painted—though flaking and barely legible—on the side. They were still here. Not that either of them would be particularly thrilled to see me. But that was a problem for later.

Because a few more steps down the path, and there it was. My home.

Still waiting for me.

The moment my eyes landed on it, my throat tightened, and before I could stop myself, I burst into tears. I ran toward it, tears streaking down my face as it threw its shutters open in excitement at the sight of me.

And then, just as suddenly, everything slammed shut.

The entire house seemed to bristle, its excitement snuffed out in an instant, as if it had just remembered it was furious with me for leaving. The porch light flickered, as if to say, Oh. It’s you.

I wiped at my tear-streaked face, sighing. Yeah. This was going to take some smoothing over.

The houses of the Briar Coven were each imbued with powerful magic, every one possessing a unique personality, distinct from its neighbors.

And while they were technically sentient, they had their limitations.

They could feel emotions, form deep bonds with those who lived in them, but at their core, the magic was innocent, uncomplicated. .. trusting.

It didn’t always recognize when it was being manipulated.

It didn’t always understand when someone was dangerous.

Which was exactly what I was banking on.

I prayed to all the Gods and Goddesses I could think of that the house hadn’t connected the dots that night, that it hadn’t realized that my parents crashing the car was connected to me tampering with the brakes just moments before.

Guilt crashed over me like a wave. It didn’t deserve to have their murderer standing on its porch, trying to sweet-talk her way back inside, just because she had nowhere else to go.

I stepped onto the creaking porch, and the house shuddered beneath my feet in warning.

I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back,” I said softly, running my fingers over the bramble carvings that twisted up the wooden pillars. “You must have been so lonely here on your own.”

Something moved behind the small, frosted window in the front door.

BooDini .

When I was seven years old, I thought it would be hilarious to cut eye holes into a bedsheet and ask the house to animate it so I could play a prank on my parents. The house enjoyed the prank so much, it had embodied the sheet ever since.

“I would have come back sooner if I could,” I murmured, placing my hand on the door handle. I twisted, but the front door didn’t budge. I tried again, rattling the handle. “Please let me in?” I pleaded.

The window shutters flung open dramatically, before slamming shut again with absolute finality.

“Oh, c’mon, BooDini! Please?” My voice wavered as I rattled the doorknob violently, but it still didn’t budge. I braced a foot on the plinth, gripping the handle with both hands, and pulled with everything I had, but the house held firm, stubborn in its refusal to let me in.

Fine. Change of tactics.

I exhaled and softened my tone. “Please?” I tried again, pressing my palm against the wooden door. “I don’t want to stay anywhere else. You’re the prettiest, most comfortable house for miles, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

It wasn’t a lie.

The house seemed to hesitate, the shutters stilling for the briefest moment. Then, one swung open.

BooDini floated into view, its sheeted form rippling, its hollow, black eyes fixed on me.

A sharp crack sounded from the door, and a sign materialized out of nowhere, the words NO VACANCIES painted on it. I glared at BooDini, who narrowed its cutout eyes at me and pointed its little sheet arm toward the sign.

“Seriously? You’re not going to let me in?” I jabbed a finger at the useless CCTV camera above the door. “You once let three burglars in because they said you looked cozy! And you can’t deny it—we saw it all on CCTV!”

Dad had insisted on installing security cameras after the house started magicking itself out of the coven’s boundaries.

One night, after returning from a family outing in Headless Hollow, the house had practically dragged us upstairs to my room—now the only one with a TV—to proudly show us the footage of how it had welcomed three burly burglars with open arms. The burglars had quickly run from the house when they caught sight of BooDini.

Unfortunately, before they fled, the house had helpfully loaded our new 60-inch family TV into the back of their truck.

Mom and Dad had been furious.

BooDini had sulked for days, hiding the CCTV hard drive in shame, just in case it ever accidentally welcomed another set of ill-intentioned guests.

Tears pricked my eyes. I wished the house had never hidden that damn hard drive.

I should still be rotting in jail for what I’d done.

But with no recording of me lifting the hood of my parents’ car and tampering with the brakes, and the fact that—while I never denied doing it—I couldn’t give them a motive, my court-appointed lawyer had argued that, since I didn’t even have a driver’s license, I couldn’t fully understand the mechanics of a car or the consequences of what I’d done.

Criminal negligence.

That was the sentence I was convicted of. But it should have been murder.

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks as I pathetically tried the door one last time, my fingers trembling on the handle.

Nothing.

A shaky breath stuttered in my throat as I finally gave up, my legs giving out beneath me. I sank to the porch floor, wrapping my arms around my knees, burying my face as I muffled my sobs against them.

The porch creaked awkwardly, like the house was unsure what to do with me.

But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t hold back the grief, the guilt, the weight of everything I had done.

A moment later, a soft fluttering sound stirred beside me. BooDini had settled itself on the floor next to me, its sheeted head resting gently on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.

The house let out a long, heavy sigh in response. And then, with a slow, aching creak, the front door eased open.

Warmth rushed out to meet me, wrapping around me like an embrace.

But the moment I crossed the threshold, something foreign laced the familiar heat of the house.

A feeling strong enough to rouse my dormant succubus from Lobato’s magic, just enough to crack an eye open in acknowledgment.

Just as quickly as it had come, the sensation faded into nothing, my succubus slinking back into her deep slumber once more.

***

Having issued its forgiveness, the house spent the next hour smothering me with affection. It immediately unpacked my bag, boiled the kettle for tea three separate times, and prepared what could only be described as the bubbliest bubble bath ever.

When the kettle shrieked for the fourth time, I politely excused myself for bed.

Having just got me back, the house wasn’t pleased. BooDini glided over to the clock on the mantel, which rattled dramatically as if to remind me that it was only two in the afternoon.

I yawned, stretched, and mumbled something about a long journey. BooDini drooped its shoulders begrudgingly and escorted me up the stairs.

My room was exactly how I’d left it. Though BooDini had cleared away the teenage mess of cups, plates, and discarded outfits.

The deep forest-green bedspread, adorned with golden moons, suns, and twinkling stars, was stretched neatly across the mattress.

The wood-paneled walls were just as I remembered—one still covered floor-to-ceiling in old band posters, a relic of my emo phase, while another held shelves upon shelves of books, their spines a timeline of who I had been at every stage of my life.

My heart swelled with nostalgia as I scanned the titles, smiling when I spotted some of my favorites.

Goosebumps. The Mediator. Twilight !

When not on vacation, my parents used to run the local bookshop in our coven, which had stocked every book a witch could ever want, and as a result, my personal collection had been stacked full.

I reached a shelf purposefully cluttered with teenage debris. The shelf held a very specific selection of books, which my friends and I had passed between ourselves in secrecy.

My forbidden shelf.

My parents were progressive, sure—with my dad being an incubus demon and my mom part succubus, they were probably more open-minded than most—but they really didn’t need to know that their teenage daughter had been reading stories featuring the word knot in the title since she was sixteen.

A soft thud echoed through the room, and I turned toward my desk. Glowing skull fairy lights pulsed merrily from their place draped across the mirror, casting their light upon the tattered notebook beneath them.

I practically squealed, lunging for it and clutching it to my chest as I fell back onto the bed.

Since I was a teen, I’d known there was only one job I ever wanted—to be an author.

I had spent years writing stories for my friends, never thinking much of it, never imagining it would be anything more than a bit of fun.

But that last summer, before everything fell apart, I had finally started taking it seriously.

Fueled by my forbidden bookshelf, I had tried my hand at writing a spicy romance novel of my own.

And honestly?

It had gone pretty well.

The plot was solid, it had all my favorite tropes—enemies to lovers. One bed. He falls first and hard.

Swoon.

My FMC was a petite, curvy, dark-haired witch, loosely based on myself.

My MMC was tall, broad, and gruff, an absolute Hemsworth-level heartthrob. I had thought about making him an incubus, but the market was more open to wolf shifters, so I had pivoted.

Everything had been going smoothly, except for one tiny problem.

The sex scenes.

I’d tried my best, but despite having read dozens of spicy books, it was hard for my eighteen-year-old virgin self to imagine the logistics of a good, detailed sex scene. I had half hoped that when I summoned my mate, he’d be able to provide some inspiration on that front.

I sighed, flipping open the notebook to the first page.

When I finally got my magic back, I would have to face the coven. And when they inevitably exiled me, I might have to rely on writing as a way to support myself in the real world.

I was now twenty-seven years old. Still a virgin. Still unable to write a decent sex scene. And still one year away from being able to summon my mate to help me out.

Not that you want to summon him at all, remember? Not that you think you deserve happiness.

I took a deep breath, willing my inner voice to quiet down.

You need to forgive yourself at some point, Jen , Lobato’s voice echoed.

I could still fix this. I could get my life back on track. I would spend however long it took to regain my magic. I would return to my coven and accept whatever punishment they deemed necessary. And then, I would finish my book.

And by this time next year, I would be a new witch. One ready to summon and support her fated mate.

Maybe, by then, I would have finally found the strength to forgive myself for what I had done.