Page 1 of Bewitched By the Voodoo King (The Bewitching Hour #7)

My hands were sticky with dough as I stole glances through the kitchen window.

Outside, the witches sat around the cauldron campfire, their laughter mingling with the hum of magic in the air.

The full moon always did that to them. Even I, a null, could feel the pulse of energy weaving through the night.

But tonight, like every full moon, I was inside. Baking. Kneading the dough harder than necessary, I tried not to dwell on the feast they’d share—the one I couldn’t contribute to. No magic, no seat at the table. The thought was a pang in my chest as I kneaded into the dough.

The blueberry muffins were in the oven, their sweet scent filling the air, and the bread was set for its second rise. My notepad was already out, planning next month’s breakfast: donuts, a Dutch baby, croissants. Another list of things to keep me busy, while everyone else did something meaningful.

I slapped the dough into a pan, my eyes straying to the window again. Laughter rose from the coven. The gaping pit in my chest threatened to swallow me whole, but I wouldn’t cry. Not tonight.

Every full moon the coven would gather supplies for a big feast and then they would each put their magic into the ingredients they would add to the pot.

Then as a family, they would each partake from the cauldron’s magic feast. There was nothing magical for me to add to the meal so I was never invited.

I stayed inside, in the kitchen, my happy place until everyone stumbled inside the next morning looking for breakfast. I didn’t know if my love for baking came from something inside of me or the mere determination to fit in some way.

All I wanted to do was to be able to provide for my coven and be accepted.

Somehow I found that in the kitchen. I wasn’t much of a cook but I loved to bake.

It was my specialty. Every time I created something, I imagined it was the magic that never came to me.

It made me feel whole where there was a gaping pit of nothing.

I’d never been mistreated for my lack of magic but watching them all add to the cauldron did something to my heart.

It made that gaping pit inside of me monstrous and some months I wondered if it would eat me whole.

With the sadness that came with the full moon, I forgot about the dough on the stove. I groaned as a geyser of dough burst from the pan, splattering the counter. Even baking hated me tonight.

Gina would be up soon to take over the breakfast shift.

All I wanted to do was bake and do it well but tonight it didn’t seem like that was the case.

Gina wasn’t a null but she loved to serve around the coven when she could.

She was well into her seventies but didn’t look a day over 25.

That’s what the magic and full moon did to you.

I wondered if I would age and die before the rest of my coven.

I was the first null, so no one was really sure.

I hung my apron on the backside of the door that led to the stairs that would take me to my room.

My parents didn’t want me to feel left out, but they didn’t know how to raise someone that didn’t have magic.

Therefore, my room was on the opposite end of the house, separate from all the others.

I was allowed to participate but I was fragile, almost like a human, so I was required to keep my distance.

I knew everything there was to know about the different types of magic around me.

I threw myself into my studies as a child before I found my love for baking.

The green witches specialized in herbalism, botany, oils, balms, tinctures, and plant magic.

I knew as much as I could about them and kept a grimoire under my bed for anything and everything green magic.

Sea witches stayed near the water on the opposite end of our coven.

They specialized in bodies of water, weather magic, and anything that dealt with marine life.

Divination witches were a bit more rare.

We only had two whereas the other types had entire families.

They mastered tarot, tea reading, runes, bone throwing, and candle reading.

They were mysterious and usually kept to themselves.

I didn’t blame them, I didn’t think I could handle knowing someone’s future at any given moment.

The death witches weren’t something we were heavily familiar with as we’d only had one born to our coven many, many years ago.

They did spirit and ancestor work but other than that, I knew nothing about them.

They were not taught about in my studies.

Sometimes when I felt really alone, I would pull out one of the grimoires on each type of witch and pretend that I was one of them.

Tonight was not that kind of night. Tonight was the kind of night that I let the tears fall silently as I showered and pretended I was actually a human.

Which was silly considering both of my parents were eclectic witches and were the most powerful in our coven.

Where I came from, we still weren’t sure.

My grandmother was the only death witch our coven had ever seen and we didn’t speak about my father’s parents.

They’d left the coven and apparently stopped using magic altogether.

I hardly remembered them, but I did remember that it happened soon after my magic-claiming ceremony when my magic should have manifested and it didn’t.

I was nine years old and all I can recall from that time was the crushing disappointment that I would never know what it was like to be a witch.

That I would never know the life I so desperately wanted.

I was too focused on my own problems that I hardly noticed they were gone.

Eventually, I’d asked around but it was difficult to find answers that weren’t written down. That was how I learned everything there was to know about witches and their divinities. The coven tried to include me but I didn’t fit.

The water sputtered before blasting ice-cold against my skin. Great. Another freezing shower to remind me how far I was from the rest of the house—and the rest of the coven.

Shivering, I scrubbed my hair quickly, trying to ignore the distant sound of laughter filtering through the walls. This was how I fit into the coven: on the fringes, rinsing off flour and sweat while everyone else basked in the magic of the full moon.

Tomorrow, I’d bake more, clean up, and watch everyone enjoy the feast I wasn’t part of. Before I got into bed, I pulled an oversized worn-out t-shirt over my head and combed my wet hair out before I lathered product onto the curls that usually stood up on my head.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pang in my chest.