Shortbread and Shadows E-Book

Amy Lane

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Hedge Witches Lonely Hearts Club: Book One When a coven of hedge witches casts a spell for their hearts' desires, the world turns upside down. Bartholomew Baker is afraid to hope for his heart's true desire—the gregarious woodworker who sells his wares next to Bartholomew at the local craft fairs—so he writes the spell for his baking business to thrive and allow him to quit his office job. He'd rather pour his energy into emotionally gratifying pastry! But the magic won't allow him to lie, even to himself, and the spellcasting has unexpected consequences. For two years Lachlan has been flirting with Bartholomew, but the shy baker with the beautiful gray eyes runs away whenever their conversation turns personal. He's about to give up hope… and then Bartholomew rushes into a convention in the midst of a spellcasting disaster of epic proportions. Suddenly everybody wants a taste of Bartholomew's baked goods—and Bartholomew himself. Lachlan gladly jumps on for the ride, enduring rioting crowds and supernatural birds for a chance with Bartholomew. Can Bartholomew overcome the shyness that has kept him from giving his heart to Lachlan?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Blurb

Sneak Peak

Dedication

Shortbread and Shadows

Heart of Living Wood

What Price Shortbread?

Help Me If You Can

Letting In

Awakenings

Random Ingredients

Making Magic

Looking Glass Spells

Commit to the Recipe

Dreams of Lovers Lost

Crows of Another Sort

The Remains of the Day

Bonus Story—

Meeting the Folks

Now Available

Warm Heart

About the Author | By Amy Lane

Visit Dreamspinner Press

Copyright

Shortbread and Shadows

By Amy Lane

Hedge Witches Lonely Hearts Club: Book One

When a coven of hedge witches casts a spell for their hearts’ desires, the world turns upside down.

Bartholomew Baker is afraid to hope for his heart’s true desire—the gregarious woodworker who sells his wares next to Bartholomew at the local craft fairs—so he writes the spell for his baking business to thrive and allow him to quit his office job. He’d rather pour his energy into emotionally gratifying pastry! But the magic won’t allow him to lie, even to himself, and the spellcasting has unexpected consequences.

For two years Lachlan has been flirting with Bartholomew, but the shy baker with the beautiful gray eyes runs away whenever their conversation turns personal. He’s about to give up hope… and then Bartholomew rushes into a convention in the midst of a spellcasting disaster of epic proportions.

Suddenly everybody wants a taste of Bartholomew’s baked goods—and Bartholomew himself. Lachlan gladly jumps on for the ride, enduring rioting crowds and supernatural birds for a chance with Bartholomew. Can Bartholomew overcome the shyness that has kept him from giving his heart to Lachlan?

Lachlan tilted his head. That’s all. Just tilted his head, and Bartholomew felt the pull to confess everything to him—from what he’d said he’d wish for to what he’d actually wished for, to the weird way his friends were acting, to the starlings and the squirrels and oh my God the homicidal cats!

Mary—always. Sue—thank you for the story talk, and the kickass editing, and putting up with my shit. Elizabeth—still holding your hand, honey, we’ll find that rainbow. Damon—faith in you is never misplaced. Mate—because.

Shortbread and Shadows

BARTHOLOMEW and his two best friends moved about his giant refurbished kitchen seamlessly, even though their minds were racing. The thing they’d just done had seemed so harmless—their coven cast spells all the time, right? Small spells, big spells, and yeah, they’d seen one backfire, but that had been a special case, right? The guy had asked them, and then he’d intervened, and it turned out he’d been asking for a super-vindictive reason, and it hadn’t been the coven’s fault the guy’s theater had been mobbed by crapping turkeys that had ruined his roof and driven him out of town.

But most of the time, the magic was good—helped them find jobs, helped them find their glasses, helped them not make stupid decisions about their love lives, and generally helped them.

Until this time, when it had knocked the entire seven-person coven on their asses, and the carefully constructed spells everybody had been planning to recite had burned to ash as they watched, and each member of the coven had blurted the one desire they’d tried to hide the hardest.

Bartholomew had no idea what his friends had blurted—although they all seemed to know and be embarrassed—but he knew what he’d shouted into their magic cone of power and it was….

Oh God, so embarrassing.

Six foot, three inches of auburn-haired, luminous hazel-eyed, broad-chested, joke-cracking, gregarious, kind, clever embarrassment, and Bartholomew was too embarrassed to even finish a conversation.

He swallowed against his want for Lachlan Stephens and tried to concentrate on his business, but Jordan, their default leader and the friend who’d brought them all together, was at his elbow.

“Don’t worry too much about it, Barty,” he said softly. “We all screwed up the spell.”

Bartholomew just shook his head, unable to even voice what he was thinking to Jordan, not now, not in the heat of the moment.

“Barty,” Alex murmured, walking into the kitchen with flour from the storage shelves in the garage, “you’ve got to snap out of it, man. This product list is huge. We’re going to be up until God knows when!”

“On it,” Bartholomew said smartly, but Jordan stopped him.

“Barty, I know it’s not easy for you to talk to people—I mean, besides us. But… but what would it hurt? Just to say hi to him? Ask him to coffee?” Jordan grimaced. “I mean, if nothing else, the magic was trying to tell us something about lying to ourselves.”

“You know me,” Bartholomew said briskly. “The only lie I tell myself is that Lachlan Stephens could be so much as interested. But Alex is right. I know the others are still cleaning up the mess, but we need to get a move on.”

Jordan sighed. “Magic isn’t the only thing that solves things for us, Barty. Sometimes it’s just stepping up a little.”

“I’ll step up after we’re done baking,” Bartholomew said, forcing a smile. “Sometime around 3:00 a.m.”

Jordan gave a groan, and the others from the coven got there, filling Alex and Bartholomew’s house with willing helpers—none of whom wanted to talk about the spell gone wrong.

Which was fine with Bartholomew. He could spend his time mooning over Lachlan Stephens, knowing he was out of reach.

The truth was, Lachlan Stephens was a giant broad-shouldered unrequited ache in Bartholomew’s heart, and in spite of the spectacular moment of failed spellcasting, Bartholomew didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do about it.

He would just have to keep this burning need to talk to Lachlan, see his smile, hear his deep voice, stroke those beautiful wooden creations of his, sanded to a sheen…

Brush Lachlan’s hand with his own.

Get close enough to smell the combination of cedar and sweat and kindness.

Oh God. All of that. He was going to have to keep all of that in his heart, and not bother the rest of the world with it at all.

As Bartholomew broke out his recipes and his supplies and directed everybody to a different section of the kitchen and gave them their own duties, he managed to keep them all in his heart.

But as he was moving from station to station, adding a hint of vanilla here, a dash of cinnamon there, some chocolate, some white chocolate, some brown sugar everywhere, that yearning, that desire for Lachlan to love him wept from his fingers in every recipe.

It must have.

That was the only way to explain what happened next.

Heart of Living Wood

“MORTY?” Lachlan stage-whispered. “Are you sure you put him in the right place?”

Morty Chambers, Lachlan’s second cousin, looked up from his computer at the registration desk of the Sacramento Convention Center and rolled his eyes. “You say that like we haven’t done this dance for over a year and a half,” Morty said dryly. “Yes—see? Here’s the floor plan.”

“But he’s not here yet!” Lachlan was starting to get worried. Everybody else on the vendors’ floor was already set up.

“Look, Lock—same as I always do, at your request. His booth is right next to you, where he will continue to ignore you because he isn’t that excited about you, no matter what you think.”

Lachlan let out a grunt. “No, no, that’s not it.”

“Face it, Lachlan. He’s just not that into you or he would have said more than boo to a mouse over the last two years!”

Lachlan let out a sigh of frustration. Morty did have a point, but then, Morty wasn’t on the receiving end of a big pair of gray eyes and a mouth full enough to promise all the delights of Sodom.

Or maybe shortbread, since that was the guy’s specialty.

“No,” Lachlan said, confidence in his voice that he was far from feeling. “I really don’t think that’s it.” Lachlan didn’t elicit that response from people, dammit. He… he was cute! He knew it! He was smart, he was funny—he’d worked hard at that! Taken improv classes, taken drama, done college standup. He’d been shy as a kid. Who wasn’t? But people liked Lachlan. He could usually walk into a place and gauge which girl or guy, as in this case, would be his for the taking.

He’d gotten that vibe from Bartholomew Baker; dammit, he knew he had. But a year and a half of dedicated pursuit, and nada.

“Then what?” Morty demanded. “This kid—I’ve seen him. You talk to him, and he gets all cow-eyed and quiet. You think that means he likes you?”

“Well, yeah,” Lachlan said. “He’s shy.” It had been a while, but Lachlan recognized the signs. Bartholomew Baker, who didn’t even laugh at the pun that was his last name, was perhaps the quietest man Lachlan had ever met. But Lachlan, who actually worked on his funny stories with his sister at home, had seen Bartholomew cast sly glances and small smiles his way when Lachlan had been engaged with his own customers, and whenever they were both quiet, he’d seen, and appreciated, Bartholomew’s wide-eyed silences as Lachlan tried to entertain him.

He’d also seen Bartholomew get into the conversation, grow somewhat animated, and then stop himself, as though hearing an unkind voice.

Those were the times he bolted for the bathroom, leaving Lachlan in charge of his bakery booth, as Lachlan was obviously not to be trusted with his words.

Whatever voice Bartholomew heard that made him do that weird bathroom thing, Lachlan would like to give it a good talking-to. For a while he’d been able to do his own thing, date around, sleep with the occasional offer, but rarely twice. Lately, though, there’d been nobody. Lately, he’d been dreaming about that kid—big gray eyes, sand-colored eyebrows arching expressively. At first glance Bartholomew appeared pale with just the slightest tan on his face and wrists, with perfect skin.

A little closer and Lachlan could make out freckles on his nose and a teeny brown mole in the corner of his mouth.

And his smile was crooked—almost physically so, because he bit his lower lip on the right side every time he let his lips quirk up too far.

Lachlan pulled his attention back to Morty with an actual groan of frustration. “Morty, I swear by all that’s holy and unholy, Bartholomew Baker is crushing on me as bad as I’m crushing on him. He’s just too shy to so much as have a conversation.”

Morty scraped back his thinning hair from his shiny scalp and blinked at Lachlan through little teeny rodent eyes. Lachlan wasn’t sure which branch of the family Morty was really from, but his mother had always told Lachlan to be nice to Cousin Morty because he was blood.

Lachlan had sometimes suspected she meant “He gave blood,” but that was immaterial.

“Well, that’s a laugh riot in a relationship,” Morty muttered. “The actual hell, Lock! How are you supposed to have a good time with someone who looks panicked and bolts every time you say ‘Good morning’!”

Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Meditation. And Morty might live to set Lachlan’s schedule for yet another week.

“Haven’t you ever looked out across a calm lake? It’s beautiful at first. Everything’s reflected in the surface—the sky, the mountains, the trees.” Like Bartholomew’s eyes, he mooned, but he wasn’t going to say that to Morty. “But underneath that pretty surface, there are some really awesome things going on. Fish are fighting the good fight, downed airplanes, hidden treasures, and the pureness of water itself. Don’t you want to dive right in?”

“To where some mutant fish just swam out of a skeleton to nibble on my toes? No!”

“Oh my God, you’re missing the point!” No wonder the guy had two ex-wives.

“Yeah, probably,” Morty admitted, rolling his eyes. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the floor is open in fifteen minutes, and you need to finish setting up, and Mr. Wonderful still isn’t here!”

Lachlan had to check the vendors’ floor again to be sure, because Bartholomew was always at least half an hour early. He had to be. He had too much to do, including set up luscious draperies in teal green and turquoise blue with his logo in the center that he used as tablecloths, and a wooden rack that was somewhat substandard in workmanship but very clever in design in that it showcased row upon row of tidy loaves of different kinds of sweet bread without ever once allowing the soft little bricks to squash each other. He also had a rack—again, the workmanship was substandard, but the purpose was perfect—for row upon row of large wrapped cookies and blocks of shortbread, all with a sticker showcasing his business logo and a website and phone number for Shortbread and Shadows baked goods and catering.

And that alone would be a complex setup, but Bartholomew wasn’t a one-man show.

He had a smaller rack that advertised soaps and essential oils that his friends made—Jordan’s Oils and Kate’s Boudoir—and another rack that sold bright pot holders and hanging kitchen towels made by another friend—Pincushion Products. And of course, he needed to bring in his back stock, because nobody could bake like Bartholomew, and it didn’t matter how shy he was, those tiny loaves sold big.

In one of his rare moments of volubility, Bartholomew had professed that he’d thought of selling those giant jelly jars with the dry ingredients of a recipe mixed inside and the list of wet ingredients that needed to be added on the lid.

“Why don’t you?” Lachlan had asked, enchanted. When he did speak, Bartholomew’s gray eyes grew wide and luminous, and his cheeks got this excited little crescent of pink along the cheekbone.

And his voice was so much deeper than anyone expected, every single time he talked.

“Because I don’t know if it will turn out the same,” he confessed, his face going blotchy and scarlet. “When I bake, it feels like magic, right? And sometimes I throw in ingredients that I never would have thought of and call it my Magic Cookie or Magic Loaf for the day, and make that part of my recipe. I wouldn’t really have a chance to… you know, touch my work, if I didn’t see it through to the end.”

“It’s a calling,” Lachlan replied, looking at his own shelves full of cunningly made little toys, plant racks, walking sticks, bookends, and wall plaques. “It’s like, when you’re doing your thing, that craft understands you. Your fingers, your hands, your heart—they all take you to the right place.”

“Yeah,” Bartholomew had said, and Lachlan realized they were gazing stupidly into each other’s eyes. At that exact moment he’d thought, Yes! Bartholomew is going to kiss me! Or ask me out! Or say “Marry me and let’s adopt!” and Bartholomew had leaned forward on his little stool and his eyes had fluttered, and Lachlan had leaned forward in return and….

Bartholomew zoomed up from his chair and bolted for the booth’s exit in the back, calling, “’Scuse me, I’ve gotta pee!”

Lachlan had almost cried.

And he didn’t feel so great right now, looking at the empty booth where Bartholomew was supposed to be.

Fretting, he started to put the finishing touches on his own booth, with his bold, plain logo in black and white. Since it was an alternative-universe fiction con of some sort, he made sure his wooden swords with the intricately carved handles as well as the magic wands with their intricately carved handles were all prominently on display. He also made sure his cashbox and Square were exactly where they were supposed to be, and his business cards—designed by his sister, so they looked better than his tablecloth—were easy to spot.

He saw the first few customers wander onto the floor and had a shock. What convention was this again? He pulled out his program and raised his eyebrows.

Para-Fantasma-Con.

Oh. So paranormal, science fiction, urban fantasy, and probably epic fantasy as well. That would explain what the cosplayers in Lord of the Rings regalia were doing side by side with the entire complement of Voltron.

And trailing behind them was practically all of Hogwarts.

Wow. Just… wow.

That was some eclectic fanbase. He summoned a grin, because he really did love seeing everybody all dressed up and in character, and then his eyes drifted to Bartholomew’s booth and the grin fell away a little.

He should have been there by now.

All of a sudden there was a kerfuffle by the entrance, and Lachlan looked up in time to see Bartholomew and four other people Lachlan vaguely recognized, loaded with boxes and hauling ass through the beginning throngs.

“Bartholomew?” Lachlan asked, surprised.

“Sorry,” Bartholomew muttered, dodging around half of Hogwarts. “So sorry.” He smiled greenly at Lance from Voltron, his gaze so faraway he didn’t even notice the guy was decked, hot, and appreciative of Bartholomew’s gray-eyed beauty. “So sorry.” He hustled to the booth and looked around with a little moan.

“Oh, guys. I… I’m seriously… I don’t know where to….”

“Here,” said the wide-shouldered, no-necked guy that Lachlan recognized as Josh Hernandez. “Kate’ll stay here and help you set up, and we’ll go get the rest of your stock, deal?”

Bartholomew nodded, eyes losing some of their glaze. “Yeah. Thanks, Josh. Guys. I don’t even know….”

Alex Kennedy was a compact person with rusty hair and the scalpel-sharp gaze of an analyst. Any kind of analyst—Lachlan wasn’t picky.

And today he looked like he got dressed in a hurricane.

“None of us could have anticipated….” Alex threw his hands in the air.

“God,” Kate said. “Seriously. None of us.” She was a voluptuous girl with brown-blond hair, green eyes, and the most adorably pointed chin Lachlan had ever seen.

But she wasn’t looking adorable now—she was looking scared, as all of Bartholomew’s friends shuddered at Alex’s words, including Jordan Bryne, who even Lachlan had to admit was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Taller than the others, with striking cheekbones and shock-blond hair, he looked like Alexander Skarsgård’s younger brother.

“One thing at a time,” Jordan said. “We’ll go back and get the rest of the stock. Barty, you and Kate start setting up. Kate, maybe make sure you use the smoky quartz, brown jasper, and amethyst weights to hold down the drape. You brought them, right?”

“So on it,” Kate said, nodding. “And I’ve got the sage and lavender in the diffuser.” She grimaced. “You, uh, wouldn’t want to run a protection circle, would you?”

Jordan shook his head. “All I brought were the gold and orange for success. I didn’t bring black, brown, or white. Sorry.”

Kate shrugged. “No, no. We were all….” They shared a look and let out a breath.

“Okay. Let’s get moving.”

Jordan, Josh, and Alex took off, and Bartholomew and Kate started the sort of ritual dance they’d practiced often to set up. Bartholomew’s friends didn’t always stay for the whole event, but Lachlan had to admit they were great at setup and takedown.

Except in this case they both kept stopping and looking around, seeming to breathe a sigh of relief whenever things appeared perfectly normal.

“Can I help?” Lachlan asked after a moment when their shaky hands were making him twitchy.

“Sure,” Kate said at the same time Bartholomew said, “That’s kind, but we’ve got it.”

Kate leveled a killing look at Bartholomew. “Isn’t that how we all ended up in this mess in the first place?” she demanded.

Bartholomew looked at her unhappily and swallowed, then looked at Lachlan and smiled shyly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you, Lachlan. That would be nice.”

Lachlan had to refrain from holding his hand up to his heart, because it fluttered badly. “What do you need me to do?”

“If you could shake the tablecloth out and set up the racks,” Kate said quickly. “I’ll set the stones up in formation.” She sighed. “I wish we had some damned thread.”

“I can get you some yarn,” Lachlan offered. “Here, let me set up the racks and I’ll go ask Ellen. She does spinning and weaving demonstrations. I’m sure I can get the colors you need.”

He took the tablecloth from the plastic bin Bartholomew kept for setup without needing to be shown. He’d watched Bartholomew countless times, Bartholomew so completely immersed in his task, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth while muttering to himself, that Lachlan could have set the booth up in his sleep.

Which reminded him…. “You guys know, I’ve seen your booth setup a thousand times. I’ve never seen the stones or the string. What are you using them for?” Particularly when everybody seemed so stressed and out of time.

“Nothing,” Bartholomew said at the same time Kate said, “Protection.”

Lachlan’s hands stilled as he settled the tablecloth, the pentagram with the cookie in the center logo facing out toward the gathering crowd.

“Protection?” he asked. “From what?”

Bartholomew licked his lips and gave Kate a pleading look. “Kate, do we really have to—”

“Barty, there was a flock of starlings. And I know the damned things are always spinning around in the fall, but they were flying upside down.”

Bartholomew’s face—already sort of pale and hard to tan—went downright mashed-potato pasty. “But here… there’s no magic here,” he practically wailed. And then his eyes, gray and shiny and luminous, met Lachlan’s. “Almost no magic here,” he whispered apologetically.

Lachlan grinned, both trying to get him to snap out of whatever funk he seemed to be spiraling into and charmed.

Almost no magic. Like Lachlan was magic. Lachlan’s instincts had been right on point. Bartholomew was that into him!

“We don’t know that for certain,” Kate snapped. “And after those starlings….”

They both shuddered, and even Lachlan, who knew nothing about magic or omens, could tell that a giant flock of birds flying upside down was bad on both points.

“What makes you think it’s you guys?” he asked.

“We cast a spell,” Bartholomew said, surprising him. In spite of the rather whimsical name of the booth, Shortbread and Shadows, Lachlan never would have expected someone as… well, grounded, to be mixed up in something like witchcraft. Dress up for the conventions, yes. Bartholomew had a rather handsome set of bardic leathers, done in green, that he wore sometimes when he knew for certain the theme was Renaissance or sword and sorcery. But actually casting a spell?

Lachlan shifted uneasily. “Who’s you?”

“Never mind,” Bartholomew whispered. “Here, give me the racks—”

“No, no. I’ll set up the racks. You stock them.”

Lachlan got to work on the wooden racks, attempting to find some purchase. “I just never knew real witches before,” he said, smiling like it wasn’t a bad thing. “My grandmother used to leave out beer for brownies, though.”

Bartholomew and Kate met eyes. “I’ll tell Jordan,” she said, like they’d actually said something. “He’ll probably try it.”

“Try what?” Lachlan worked very hard not to break the wooden rack he was fiddling with. “And please don’t take this the wrong way, but this thing is a cheap piece of shit, and I’d love to make you another one that might actually set up without threatening to snap into kindling.”

“I….” Bartholomew cleared his throat. “Your work’s too good,” he said. “I’m afraid to even price them out with someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“Our friend Dante made these,” Kate said. “During his woodworking phase. He, uh, didn’t stick with it long.”

“For you, I’d do it at cost,” Lachlan said, only because “free” would sound too much like a come-on, and for heaven’s sake, he had Bartholomew talking! The surest way to shut him up would be to make him feel like there was something more at stake than shelves.

Bartholomew looked at the shelves and then looked at Lachlan. “Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Sure you could,” Lachlan said, deciding that wasn’t a no. “I’ll bring you the first one next week. There’s nothing wrong with the design here. It’s just the craftsmanship is a little—” He searched for a word. “—inexperienced.” To his amusement, Bartholomew’s cheeks went bright red.

“Not everyone is… uh… experienced,” he said weakly, and a thick silence fell, interrupted only by the clicking sounds of the shelving.

“There,” Lachlan said, organizing the shelves where they usually went, in an even, three-point presentation across the table, with a gap on either side for taking money. “Kate, is this fine for where you want your stones?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She shot a glare at Bartholomew. “Barty, do you want to help him round up the yarn? I’ll set up the stock.”

Bartholomew sent Lachlan a hunted look. “Sure,” he said. Then he seemed to pull fortitude from his feet. “Lachlan, I can go talk to Ellen. You have your own booth to look to.”

Lachlan looked behind him and almost groaned. A troop of four high-school-aged attendees were gathered around the wands, each one of them wearing a scarf of one of the four schools of Hogwarts that had obviously been knitted by hand—possibly by one of the wearers.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Bartholomew, you keep stocking. I want to talk to you.”

He wasn’t sure if he imagined Bartholomew’s “meep” or if he’d actually made the sound, but either way, he appreciated the sentiment. Lachlan finally had an excuse to butt into Bartholomew Baker’s life, and he wasn’t going to waste a second of it.

What Price Shortbread?

“WHAT are you doing?” Bartholomew stage-whispered at Kate as Lachlan turned to his customers. He watched a young wizard turn a birch rod in his fingers and thought wistfully that he’d been looking for a wand to treat with witch hazel and essential oils and let age in the sun, and he’d been trying to work up the courage to let Lachlan help him strip the branch and sand it smooth.

But first he’d have to tell Lachlan about the cul-de-sac coven, and then he’d have to explain that he was a very modest hedge witch, and then he’d have to run away and hide under his mattress as the beautiful, kind man currently charming the shit out of a bunch of high school kids laughed his ass off.

Except Kate had mentioned the omen of the birds that had rattled them all so badly, and Lachlan hadn’t even blinked.

Or, well, he’d blinked, but he hadn’t cracked a smile.

If only the birds had been the one single thing about that morning that had set them all on edge.

“I’m trying to get you two in the same place together so you can talk to him. Do you mind?” Kate asked, forehead rumpled in worry. “The starlings were scary enough—we didn’t even tell him about the squirrels!”

Bartholomew shuddered. The squirrels had been… well, single file. They’d been chattering single file across the front yards of the houses in the cul-de-sac, their little feet making an unnerving scuffling sound through the piles of dry autumn leaves. Jordan and Alex had needed to put boxes on the sides of the driveway to block their little parade route so they could even get the bakery van out. And boy, had they been late.

It hadn’t been until they’d been awakened that morning—by the shrill cries of the upside-down birds and not by the alarms Bartholomew, Kate, and Dante had all set for an hour earlier—that Jordan had groaned and said, “Did we really? Did we really cast the damned spell on the evening of the autumn equinox?”

“What does that mean?” Dante Vianelli asked unhappily from the couch, Cully Cromwell curled up on his lap. As they awoke, the two roommates gave each other startled glances, and then Cully scuttled back, as skittish as a crab.

“If nothing else, it means the intensity of our fucked-up spell was upped,” Alex muttered, pulling up to his feet from… the hallway floor? That was really strange, because the others might have been crashing in the living room because of the late night, but Alex and Bartholomew had beds.

Bartholomew had fallen asleep behind the love seat, where Kate and Josh were currently stretching and yawning—and since they were saving money to get married, it was only logical they’d slept mushed together, but they lived in another house in the cul-de-sac, just like Dante and Cully did! And Jordan, who lived next door to Alex and Bartholomew in the abandoned witch’s cottage, had slept in the recliner.

“You guys,” Bartholomew said fuzzily, “does anybody remember going to bed last night?”