Page 2 of Love’s a Witch (The Scottish Charms #1)
CHAPTER ONE Sloane MacGregor
Welcome to Briarhaven, Scotland’s most magickal town.”
I glanced at the video playing on my sister Lyra’s phone to see a woman in a blush-pink pantsuit and perfectly coiffed blond tresses beam into the camera. Her smile fought the tight skin of her face, and her widened eyes held a slight maniacal glow.
“She seems a bit tense,” I said, returning my gaze to the road that curved through a canopy of trees with twisted branches arching overhead.
“She looks like a fembot.” Nova, the youngest of us three, leaned forward from the back seat.
“Be sure to book your tickets in advance for the VIP Briarhaven experience. If you’re lucky, you might even get upgraded to our full moon package!” Pink Pantsuit’s voice sounded as plastic as she looked.
“She’s like the people who harass you to buy time-shares anytime you book at an all-inclusive hotel,” I said.
“And remember… in Briarhaven, we believe in three things: magick, mirth, and mystery! Charm on, witches!”
“?‘Charm on, witches,’?” Nova mimicked, easing back. I snorted.
“Mirth?” Lyra turned the word over on her tongue. “When was the last time you heard someone say ‘mirth’?”
“Mirth happens,” Nova said, winking at me in the rearview mirror.
“For what it’s mirth, I think it’s an underused word.” I slowed the car as we approached a tight turn in the hills.
“Mirth you.” Lyra glowered, letting out a little huff as she settled back against the seat.
I grinned at my impossibly beautiful sister.
Lyra had the kind of looks that made men and women alike stop in their tracks, police officers fumble their words and never issue tickets, and grown men send extravagant gifts.
The most extravagant gift I’d ever received from a boyfriend was a coupon for a buy-one-get-one-free ice cream at Dairy Queen.
As if on cue, we rounded a corner to see a rustic wooden sign, covered in vines and thorns, tucked next to the road beneath the shaded bower of trees that had grown tighter and darker upon our approach.
“Briarhaven. Population 3,333.”
“Repeating threes, how original.” I could all but hear Nova rolling her eyes in the back seat.
Nova had an edgy beauty that reminded me of thorns tucked among rose petals. A budding tattoo artist who was developing a rabid following online, she’d come out of the womb far cooler than I could ever aspire to be.
“Okay, but, wait a minute… would you just look at this? Bloody hell, I think they’ve given the town an actual makeover.
” Lyra leaned forward as we left the tunnel of trees and Briarhaven spread before us.
Tucked at the base of sharply edged mountains, the village was colorful and charming, like someone had flicked a paintbrush full of color against a rich green canvas.
Golden trees with leaves just on the cusp of turning amber blanketed the hills, and a stunning loch shimmered in the distance.
Since we’d last been here, it seemed the town had quite literally been made over into a theme park–like tourist attraction.
Shocked at the transformation, we could only gape as I drove slowly past the main square, gilded sunlight spearing through puffy white clouds, sidewalks busy with tourists, some dressed in cosplay with witch hats or fake fae ears.
A breeze blew a scattering of amber leaves down the street, and a stall selling freshly picked apples was set up near the sidewalk.
A poster for an upcoming Halloween costume contest was taped to a black light pole with an old-timey lantern at the top, and I shook my head.
How would tourists ever compete with magickals when it came time to dress up?
“It’s incredible what they’ve achieved in the last eight years.
I mean, I can hardly recognize the place,” Nova said.
I nodded, my nerves kicking up as I turned down our childhood street—memory lane, so to speak.
We all went silent as I pulled to a stop in front of a run-down cottage tucked in a row of detached houses that had also experienced the same glow-up as the rest of the town. Ours stood out like a sore thumb.
“Well, this is a hot mess.”
“It’s not a hot mess, it’s just…” I trailed off as we looked out the car window at our childhood home. A two-story cottage, overgrown ivy obscuring the gray stone exterior, with one shutter slung askew, barely hanging on. Same, shutter. Same.
“A dumpster fire?” Lyra suggested. Nova nodded her agreement, and I sighed.
“A project.” Unbuckling my seat belt, I cracked the car door open, stood, and stretched. A crisp autumn breeze teased my hair, and burnt-umber leaves fluttered to my feet. Nature’s glitter, throwing a goodbye party before the plants slept for the winter.
If I looked closely enough, I could see the threads of memories wrapped around the house—snatches of arguments, broken magick misfiring, rare moments of laughter.
It was home because it was the longest the MacGregor clan had managed to stay in one spot, together, before the curse that plagued our bloodline—like a mosquito buzzing when you’re desperate for sleep—forced us to move on.
It had been years since we’d been back to Briarhaven, and I never would have returned if not for one very specific reason. The one woman I couldn’t refuse had called me home to break our family curse.
The same woman who now stood in the open doorway to our dilapidated home, her walker wrapped in silk ribbons, both her housedress and eyeglasses dripping with sparkles.
A sleek gray bob of hair framed a happy face just giving over to age, and a falcon preened its feathers at her shoulder.
Broca MacGregor, ladies and gentlemen. The legend herself.
“You look like you’re waiting on news of the mysterious passing of your rich husband,” I called.
“Husband?” Broca said in the same tone as if I’d just pointed out a cockroach. “Why marry them when they’re so much more fun when they’re courting you?”
“Says the woman with five ex-husbands.” I rounded the car and popped the trunk for our luggage while Lyra and Nova bounded out of the car to go embrace our grandmother, who had arrived to town earlier that day.
Likely being carried on a throne by several strapping males.
As matriarchal witches, Broca was plagued by the same curse as us.
She’d spent the last eight years methodically working her way through the men of Europe, each suitor more extravagant than the last.
“Which is how I know men are easily digestible as lovers, but barely tolerable as husbands.”
“Must we discuss your lovers already?” We’d only just arrived, having traveled all night, and I’d need a glass of wine before I could handle such a conversation. Reaching in the trunk, I pulled out a suitcase and put it on the ground.
A flurry of snowflakes landed beside it.
Shite.
Groaning, I straightened to see all three women glaring at the sky. Broca’s falcon—her familiar, named Iris—cried out in protest and took to the air, disappearing toward the hills.
One very brokenhearted witch, centuries ago, had cursed our ancestor with a highly inventive, if not deeply annoying spell.
The result of which had forced every MacGregor since to never be able to fully settle in one spot for very long, as natural disasters and oddball curses would descend upon any town we were in.
Even better? When we did step into our magick at the age of twenty-five, we’d often have to deal with it being unpredictable.
“Does it have to be snow?” Lyra asked, stomping the heel of her Christian Louboutin stiletto into the ground.
“It’s better than the caterpillar infestation.” Nova zipped her leather coat, squinting at the dark clouds that now clustered over us.
“Ew.” Lyra rounded on her. “I thought we’d agreed never to bring that one up again. I couldn’t sleep for months after.”
“Likely due to the caterpillars that had nested in your hair. Maybe they burrowed into your brain.”
Lyra gasped and patted her luxurious tresses. It had taken a three-day weekend at a high-end spa to ensure not a trace of caterpillar slime could be found on Lyra before she was able to move on from that particular iteration of our curse.
“Caterpillars don’t burrow. They go into their closet and come out looking fabulous.”
“It’s a chrysalis, not a closet, Lyra.”
“To-may-to, to-mah-toe.” Lyra shivered as a blast of wind tossed snow at their feet.
Grinning, their bickering an odd source of comfort for me, I reached the front door. “Broca, let’s get you inside and get the heat on.”
The house itself was a simple rectangle, with four bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs and an open living room, kitchen, and dining room on the first. Though the house had been built in a time of small rooms and closed doors, likely to keep heat in, somewhere along the line walls had been removed to create one big living space, and two brick pillars acted as the main foundational supports in the room.
I used to run circles around those pillars as a kid, my father chasing me—on a good day, that is—while my mother drank coffee in her chair by the window where sunlight spilled inside for a good portion of the morning.
Leaving the suitcase at the door, I walked slowly next to Broca as she navigated toward that same chair and helped her sit.
Lyra crossed to the kitchen to dig in the cabinets, likely looking for tea, while Nova checked if the water was running.
Looking around, I sighed. Dusty sheets covered the rest of the furniture, cobwebs clustered in corners of the windows, and more than one light bulb had long ago burned itself out.
A knock sounded at the door, and we all turned. Before I could cross to answer it, let alone fully take stock of the condition of the room, the door swung open.
“Who just opens someone else’s door?” I asked, already crossing the room, ready to do battle.
My mouth dropped open.
The sexiest man I’d ever seen in real life filled the door.
A face made for fairy tales, with muscular arms shown in their best light under a T-shirt, never mind the snow swirling outside, had me frozen to the spot.
I gaped at the gorgeous man that hulked in the doorway. Unruly dark hair, those soul-searching blue eyes, and a sharp jawline marked with dark stubble made me want to look twice. And a third time, for good measure. The man was made for fantasies, not real life.
“Oh my,” Lyra breathed from across the room, and I silently nodded in agreement.
“Ladies.” This man’s voice, like whisky-soaked sugar, made heat bloom in my chest. My magick unfurled inside me, as though stretching after a long rest, ready to greet the world.
It may be ready, but I was not. And the last thing I needed was for it to make its first appearance ten seconds into my unwanted return to Briarhaven.
Though my twenty-fifth birthday was still two days away, the knowledge that I was about to step into my power had been humming through me for years now.
For most witches, it was meant to be a celebratory day.
For me? It was like waiting for a gavel to slam down as a judge declared my sentence.
“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
With that, the man bent and picked up my suitcase, trudged out into the snow, and deposited my luggage back in the trunk of my car.
Never had my opinion of someone changed so fast. Turning, I glared at the others.
“See? I knew coming back was a mistake.”
With that, I stormed outside.