Page 1 of Head Witch in Charge (The Sherwood Witches #2)

Leona Sherwood…

A year ago…

Ever wake up and realize from the moment you open your eyes that this is the day when everything is going to go wrong?

You know what I’m talking about, right?

It’s the kind of day when you get shampoo in your eye, nick your shin with the razor, and trip over your sister’s rooster (literally) when you’re walking out of the shower.

The next thing you know, you are buck naked on your belly and all but kissing the hardwood floorboards because you went ass over teakettle.

Sure, a quickly whispered gentle-fall spell saves you from face-planting completely and breaking your nose in the process, but your triumph only lasts a moment because that’s when the stupid rooster decides to stand right on your big, round, naked ass.

Just let that sit with you for a minute.

Four toes that each go in a different direction—three of which are tipped with little claws and one with a gnarly and sharp upturned spur—on your bare flesh. Creepy, gross, weirdly human-skin-feeling rooster feet on your butt.

I’m telling you, some days are just like this. The thing is, for me, I can’t ever let anyone know I have those days because everyone—including my family, who I love dearly—has to believe that I’m calm, cool, and collected at all times.

Why? Because I’m Leona Sherwood, the witch who will someday lead the most powerful magical family in all of Witchingdom, the Sherwoods. Yep. That’s right. I’ll be the head witch in charge—whether I want to be or not.

As such, there are certain expectations about how I should act, how I must speak, and how I have to breathe—at least that’s how it feels sometimes.

Also, being the Sherwood heir means I have responsibilities and expectations. I have to get it right the first time, and I have to set the example for all my sisters—which is why I can’t give in to the urge right now to let my forehead thump against the floor repeatedly because of this cursed day.

As Mother always says, a Sherwood never admits defeat. A Sherwood keeps their chin pointing upward, their icy gaze unflinching, and their intimidation factor setting on one billion—all while making it look easy, because we never let them see us sweat.

It’s not exactly a family mantra, but it has been drilled into my head since I was three and cast my first spell. So there is no way my sister Bea’s rooster familiar and his nasty feet are going to beat me.

“Barkley,” I say, making my voice as intimidating as possible, which I admit is about a tenth as scary as my mom’s. “Get off my ass or I’m going to magic you into fried chicken.”

The miserable rooster crows a complaining cock-a-doodle-doo but hops off my butt.

“I’d ask,” my mom says from the direction of my door, which I swear I’d closed, “but I’m afraid the explanation is more than I would want to process.”

I look up, and there’s my mom in all her regal perfection without a single thread of her reddish-tinged blond hair out of place.

She narrows her blue eyes. They’re the same Caribbean Sea shade as my right eye, while my left is the same mossy green color as my dad’s.

She is—as always—assessing the situation and sussing out the advantages.

Her shoulders are back, her spine unbending, and her serene smile unbothered.

As the head of the Sherwood family, she is one of the most powerful witches in all of Witchingdom. She unnerves everyone—including (to a lesser extent) me and my four sisters. And it’s her size six-and-a-half shoes I will be filling when I take over as the family matriarch.

Mom whispers a few words in Latin and waves her fingers.

The peanut butter scent of her magic fills the room a half second before her spell lifts me and twirls me around.

A robe appears out of nowhere and wraps itself around me.

Then I’m carried through the air and deposited on the overstuffed chair by my bedroom’s bay window.

“Now, that’s much better,” Mom says as she gracefully walks into my room. “We need to discuss your options.”

“For lunch?” I ask hopefully, knowing full well that is very much not what she meant.

She frowns and sits down on the chair across from me, doing a little hand wave and making a small table appear that is covered in all the fixings for a high tea.

There are scones and clotted cream, little crustless sandwiches, square bite-sized cakes, and my favorite strawberry preserves.

I like strawberries because I love tart and sweet tastes together at the same time—it’s my jam.

Ha! You get it?

Okay, fine, I’m not the funny Sherwood sister.

That’s my older sister, Effie. She has the snark on lockdown and has all the benefits of being the eldest Sherwood daughter without the responsibilities of being the heir.

The woman lucked out when the magic didn’t choose her to be the next Sherwood matriarch.

Nope. I had to be the one who came out of the womb sparkling like I’d been glitter bombed in utero.

Why did the magic choose me instead of the firstborn, per usual?

If anyone knows the answer to that, they aren’t sharing it with me.

It’s not like it matters anyway. I am what I am: the Sherwood sister most likely to end up with a rooster on her ass, regardless of whether anyone ever gets to see the bad luck chaos queen under the mostly uncrackable veneer of the Sherwood heir.

Under my mom’s watchful eye, I slather my scone with clotted cream and strawberry preserves.

She gets that ah-exactly-what-I-wanted look of superiority when I do it.

I know what she’s about, but I keep it to myself.

I’d rather eat than argue again. You see, most of the really powerful magic in Witchingdom takes place in the kitchen.

The whole family forms a circle around the cauldron, we chant the spell, and voilà: magic.

The preserves I’m eating came out of one of these kitchen witchery spells.

Strawberries aid in love, fertility, romance, luck, and success—all things the Sherwood heir must have in abundance—hence why my matchmaking-minded momma is thrilled I’m eating it.

I’m still in tastebud heaven when my mom clears her throat, drawing my attention. The look on her face can succinctly be described as “on a mission.”

“Leona, darling, we have important things to discuss,” Mom says as she pours us each a cup of elderberry tea. “As the heir, you have very specific responsibilities. Our entire family from your great-grandmother to your second cousin’s newborn baby is depending on you.”

“I know, Mom,” I say before stuffing the last bite of scone into my mouth.

The expression on her face softens and she covers my hand with hers and squeezes.

“I know it’s hard, but I know you can do it.

” She sits back and puts her business face back on as she does a little finger wave and the images of three men appear in midair.

“You need to pick one of these eligible bachelors. Each will help the family grow stronger so we can better fight the Council’s efforts to turn Witchingdom into an authoritarian state. ”

What’s the Council? Well, it’s pretty much the witches’ version of the boogeyman, only worse. Just what the world needs, right?

Made up of an unknown number of witches from other families who feel they’ve lost their hold on the power they used to wield, they want to use their political influence to remake Witchingdom into a rigid world where everyone fits into their designated boxes (as determined by them), adheres to the status quo (as determined by them), and gives them one hundred percent support (as determined by them).

Basically, these people are the absolute worst kind of assholes you can imagine times eleven billion.

If they are able to make that happen, there sure wouldn’t be any witches like my sister Tilda, whose power doesn’t work like anyone else’s. Nope. Those witches who don’t weave spells the same way everyone else does would be banished, or worse.

And for as much as Barkley is the bane of my existence, there’s no way those assholes in the Council would ever allow my sister Bea’s witch’s familiar to be anything but a green-eyed black cat.

The rooster would literally be dinner. (And he’d taste horrible.

There’s no way that much unhinged animal energy would make for a decent Sunday roast.)

As for me? Well, if the Council had their way, I would be the oldest Sherwood sister, because the firstborn always had to be the heir, the one through whom the family magic flowed.

Effie would have had to be hidden away from birth, never to be publicly acknowledged, or abandoned in the woods like the non-heir firstborns from centuries ago.

Those are the stakes if the Council wins, and that awful future wouldn’t be just for my family. The shifters would be considered second-class citizens, the magical misfits would be banished from society, and the other creatures of the realm would be locked into subservient castes.

For too long, the most powerful families in Witchingdom laughed the Council off as some kind of wannabe boogeyman organization not to be taken seriously—after all, there couldn’t possibly be that many people who agreed with their bullshit ideas.

That was a mistake, to put it mildly, but Juniper is always saying that deep down, witches are better than I give them credit for. All I can say to that is that witches are usually worse. (Cynical witch? Me? Abso-fucking-lutely yes.)

Don’t bother telling me I’m just too jaded. My sister Bea already has, and it hasn’t worked because I’m a realist. That’s why I know that what’s coming next will be beyond bad if the Council finds its members elected to Witchingdom’s High Coven.

Still, I really wish there was a way I could help other than be part of a politically expedient wedding. Witchingdom as we know it could end, and my part in stopping that from happening is to get married? What is this, the Middle Ages?