#+oo l^+e +o give +his ^ proper response.

[abnegatedadherant]

what’s your issue with the grand highblood and like clowns in general? like, aren’t you half purple?

[wokainight]

Can I request Husband Yuta and Doyoung? Thank you! I also wanted to say I really enjoy your writings!

note: TT w TT thank you for appreciating my uhmmmmm…. romanticised word vomit,.,,, yeah <3

YUTA:

you’ve always wondered how you got married to someone like nakamoto yuta

he was the epitome of sunshine and moonlight at the same time with his fluctuating moods. 

and somehow, the two of you are distinctly polar opposites,,,

not bad ofc…………

but he takes good care of you,,

and takes you out on sunny days to exercise (even though you were reluctant to…) and makes you japanese food for dinner (with the help of his mama because he cooks with ‘feel’ instead of proper food science)

weekends are nice and subtle because yuta’s fairly high on his protein shakes and you just want to watch the shows you’ve missed

and this is settled by dragging you to the carpet, wrapping his arms around you and whispering things to you in japanese

(you sort of get to watch your show)

because your husband can really get it on— (the following content is 18+)

he likes to procrastinate on doing housework and it’s really getting to you. “yuu-kun, the laundry!” and he just smiles at you from the couch, hugging onto a pillow. 

in the end you have to drag him to the laundry room and he just winks at you before you exit

like

okay

calls you “anata” sometimes, which is equivalent to “jagiya” in korean. and you call him yuu-kun because n i h o n 

(and anime)

when winter comes by, the two of you are always stuck under the kotatsu (google for more info). you would just peel some mandarins and have mochi or steamed buns for days

is pro at teasing you

“i bet you can’t reach the cupboards” but then you prove him wrong and he’s like “i bet you can’t reach the door frame”

somehow very childish at the same time

the two of you would always start your morning drinking something hot (or cold, if it’s like really really hot) and just enjoying each other’s company without a word

he hogs the bathroom

like HOGS it

like H O G G G S S S S S GS  S S S it

once, you were almost late for work

makes the best egg roll in the whole wide world and he knows it. (recipe courtesy of his mother)

you often face time his sister to discuss things about yuta and challenges you faced in your relationship

since you sort of know the language (japanese), and have been studying it rather furiously ever since the two of you got married, you communicate with his family pretty easily

yuta likes to teach you new words and kanji when he has time and you’d both cuddle on your bed, looking over your workbook

“you got so much better” he turns his head towards you, pecking your cheeks

“oh my god that’s a relief.” you sighed. “i thought i wasn’t getting anywhere”

“hey hey don’t say that” he rubs your back soothingly. “you’ve come a long way from saying konnichiwa wrong”

there goes yuta…

rolling on the ground…

your dropkick level: effective

lets just say that you didn’t want to remember a particular memory consisting of mixing up your words in front of your in laws

yuta gets up from the floor and tackles you onto the bed, initiating a tickle fight

“if you don’t surrender, i’m not stopping” 

he really doesn’t give you time to surrender or anything because his arms are wrapped tightly around you and his lips are on top of yours

“how does a little yuta sound?” his eyes twinkled, somewhat mischievous. 

and you just laugh because you know exactly what he means. “just kiss me” 

“my pleasure” he whispers, when his lips are just a centimetre above yours.

DOYOUNG: 

literally your boss

just kidding,

he treats you as an equal and would often ask for you input for things

the two of you got married exactly a year after he proposed to you at the first place you two met

he left you for a bit and comes back with a bunch of balloons and suddenly, you’re wondering what kind of anniversary you missed because you remembered celebrating your dating anniversary like a month ago

“what’s that for?” you pointed at the balloons

doyoung grins at his. “open your palm for me”

and you did

because you were sure doyoung wouldn’t drop a cockroach on it or anything

and he opens his hand a bit and a small object falls from the balloon strings and onto your hand

you sort of had to double take because.....

iS THAT AN ENGAGEMENT RING--

 (if u like it u shoulda put a ring on it, o oo o 0ooh )

you sort of stare blankly at him

because u didn’t expect him to propose to you..... .... . . . . .. . . like you thought it would take another few years or something

and he sort of kneels down for you, looking up. “you know i’m not good at this... so give me some slack.” he coughs into his palm. “even though we’ve been together for a while, i can still remember the first time i saw you. you might not believe me, but i would say that it was love at first sight--” and you sort of squatted down and hugged your knees, ring tightly clenched inside your right hand.

doyoung’s a bit perplexed because his speech isn’t over and this wasn’t how it was supposed to go

you were crying for sure

“h-hey don’t cry-- do you not like it? i wasn’t sure how you’d like me to prop--”

“n- no” you choke out. trying to wipe away the waterfall-like tears. “there’s something in my eye” you posed.

but kim dongyoung knows better and he grabs a handkerchief out of his pocket (prepared for u crying most probs) and wipes away your tears

“are you that happy?” he hits jackpot. and you sort of give up acting tough and just nods at that.

“i don’t think i’ve ever been happier”

and when the two of you meet eyes, the butterflies you felt when you first got together was still there. it’s alive and you know that there’s no one else in this world that you would rather spend your life with.

the wedding theme had been an enchanted forest and everything’s as you imagined

especially the part where you walked towards him at the aisle, and sees that he’s biting down a smile

after your vows, it was time for the closure and doyoung leans in for the kiss,,

but not after he picks you up and holds your neck downwards to meet his lips.

the photos was fantastic but you still remembered how embarrassed you were at the ecstatic whistling and calls. 

doyoung’s just as you remembered when you were dating: 

he l o v e s his bed and would probably have married it instead if it was a thing (jks) (or am i)

doesn’t mean he makes you do everything like he mostly cooks and cleans when he’s not attached to the bed

the both of you don’t really like going out but if there’s somewhere you’d like to visit: it’ll be to the supermarket

“should we have grilled chicken tonight? and some salad?” and his eyes are just scanning at the produce and prices. “hey the avocado’s on sale” 

the both of you (more like you) are pretty thrifty so you would compare sale prices and you don’t know why but it gave u great joy when you managed to secure a really good deal

doyoung likes to internet shop thought and the room’s so full you have to limbo your way through

“doyoung we need to talk”

and he drops his phone and looks at you dramatically

“w-what is this about” you can tell he’s anxious

“did you order a mini fridge” 

his eyes are anxious and no matter how closely related he is to a bunny, you wouldn’t mind to dropkick his ass for spending so easily

and you spend the night chasing his sorry ass around the house

doyoung’s pulverised under you but in the end you enjoyed the mini fridge the most

lazy sunday mornings

a l w a y s

“dons... water” you rolled over towards him, and feels him stir

it was on his side and you sigh when there’s no response

so you sort of crawl on top of him to reach the bottle on the bedside table when you’re suddenly flipped and he’s now on top of you

he doesn’t say anything, but you can tell that his eyes are raking through you

“i’m thirsty” you stated,,, you haven’t drank a drop of water in like eight hours

doyoung licks his lips at this. “of course you are”

[hmhteen]

HMH Teen Teaser: WITCHTOWN, by Cory Putman Oakes!

Guess what: Witches are real, and they’re just like us! Want something a bit witchy to read on the beach this summer? Look no further than WITCHTOWN, a new YA novel coming from @hmhteen in July! WITCHTOWN has it all: a girl with a dark past she’s trying to escape, a forbidden romance, witchcraft, and of course, a heist gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Read the first two chapters of this paranormal-tinged YA below!

A MODERN WITCH’S PRIMER

Chapter 1

Havens in Historical Context

Near the beginning of this century, with occultism on the rise around the world, a whistleblower from within the pagan community exposed a secret that had long been protected by witches everywhere. The secret was that in addition to Learned witches, ordinary individuals who studied pagan practices and who could, with practice, learn to channel a small amount of power for their rituals, there were also so-called Natural witches, people who possessed a tremendous amount of inborn power and who required little or no formal training to wield it.

In response to the public outcry over this “unregulated threat to public safety,” the United States government instituted a National Witch Registry and required all Natural witches, under pain of imprisonment, to submit their name, city of residence, and place of employment to a publicly searchable database.

There was a good faith movement within the Natural witch community to comply with this registry.

Over the next few years, in what would eventually become known as the Second Inquisition, the witches who volunteered their identities were systemically ostracized from their social circles, became unable to retain jobs, and in some cases, were hunted down and abducted by private-citizen “safety brigades.” The runaway bestseller The Inquisitor’s Handbook provided these groups with instructions (mostly badly translated from a sixteenth- century copy of Malleus Maleficarum, a.k.a. The Witch’s Hammer) as to the proper method of torture and execution of witches. Law enforcement was slow to recognize these atrocities as hate crimes and generally lackadaisical in its prosecution of the perpetrators. The government’s solution was to seize small parcels of (mostly undesirable) land around the country in order to estab- lish witch-only communities known as Havens. This, it was argued, would remove the threat to public safety and the temptation for hate crimes, while allowing both Learned and Natural witches to live among their own kind, keep their traditions alive, and practice magic in safety.

The greatest of these Havens was a private township created by the late billionaire insurance magnate Reginald Harris, one of the richest and most influential men in the United States and, until his final years, an unregistered Natural witch. Unlike the small, poor, mostly rural communities that established themselves in most of the government-funded Havens, Harris’s town, deep in America’s heartland, was intended to be a pagan utopia: a model of green building, spiritual enlightenment, and, above all, magical living.

It was called Witchtown.

***

CHAPTER ONE

Witchtown looked more like a prison than a town.

For one thing, it was surrounded on all sides by a three- story wall. The massive structure was overgrown with ivy and moss, but when we got within a few hundred yards, I could see plenty of places where ugly, manmade concrete was peeking through the greenery. The walls were sloped at a steep angle, probably to prevent people from climbing them. That thought brought on unwelcome images of invaders scaling the slippery, mossy surface, armed and planning to inflict untold horror on the people — the witches — inside . . .

I chased the thought away.

Those times are over, I reminded myself. For the most part.

She pulled over right beside the sign.

burn in hell was spray-painted diagonally right across its face, in red. Below that, the phrases satan’s spawn and exodus 22:18 were carved into its surface. The usual anti- witch slurs. Not particularly original. But once I managed to squint my way through all of that, the original lettering on the sign erased any remaining doubt I might have had about our destination:

 WITCHTOWN

POPULATION 402 BLESSED BE!

I straightened up a little and looked across the front seat at my mother.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

My mother sipped her coffee and didn’t respond right away. After days of near-total silence in the car, my words felt uncomfortably loud, even to my own ears. I wasn’t sure how long our stalemate had lasted. It’s hard to define days based on rest-stop bathrooms and drive-through meals.

She took several more leisurely swallows of coffee. Then she asked, “Why would you think I was kidding?”

“You think now is a good time for this? Now? After eve- rything . . .” I cringed. Even just that little bit of talking had distracted me. Caused me to let my guard down. And the sink- hole of pain I had been keeping at bay reopened itself inside my chest. It felt bigger. Like it had grown stronger. It grabbed me now with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe.

“That’s all behind us now,” my mother said, but I barely heard her.

Too soon. Too soon for reality.

I had to shut it down. I abandoned the conversation, closed my eyes, and sank back down into the passenger seat. I felt for my weathered leather jacket, which I had been using as a blan- ket, and found it on the car floor. I picked it up and covered myself in it, trying to ignore everything but its familiar scents of sage and something else, something even earthier than sage, as I tried to lull myself back into my silent, senseless cocoon.

Oblivion. Oblivion. Take me away . . .

But a hard tug on the jacket brought me back to the here and now. To my mother, glaring down at me with disapproval.

“It’s in the past,” she insisted.

I jerked the coat out of her hand and turned my face to- ward the window.

“Not for me.”

A harder yank pulled the leather from my grip entirely. I sat up in protest. My mother gave the garment a disgusted look and tossed it down at my feet.

“Let it go,” she commanded. Then she added pointedly, “You know you’re the only one dwelling on it, don’t you?”

I bit my lip. That was true enough. But it didn’t make the hurt any less.

The thought brought on a new squeeze of pain, a new struggle to breathe. I retrieved the jacket from the floor again, settled my head against the back of the seat, and closed my eyes.

My mother sighed. “Fine. Have it your way,” she huffed, and I heard her door open. A gust of cinnamon-scented air flew up my nostrils as she exited the car.

After a moment, I opened my eyes.

The annoying thing was I knew, I knew, I was going to follow her out of the car. I could feel it now: the quiet, per- sistent, unshakable pull she had on me. Calling me after her. Forcing me to see things her way.

I burrowed my nose into the soft lining of the coat, mak- ing one last attempt to hold on to my anger. Part of me wanted to believe that every second I stayed mad at her would give me a tiny bit more power. Which was nonsense. I had never had any kind of power over my mother.

Nobody had.

I left the jacket on the seat when I went after her.

She had popped open the trunk and unzipped the top suitcase. I leaned against the bumper and watched as she rooted through a messy pile of clothes.

“Here, hold this.”

She tossed something black and strappy at me. I caught it, instantly wishing I had just let it fall into the dirt instead.

With only a quick glance at the empty road beside us, she stripped off her T-shirt and jeans. She exchanged her flip-flops for the heels, one foot at a time, gripping one of my shoulders for balance. The blue-gray moonstone she wore on a chain around her neck caught the light of the setting sun as she fumbled with the delicate straps on the shoes.

She caught me looking at her necklace, and gestured pointedly at the matching one around my neck.

“Haven’t I always protected you?” she asked. “Hasn’t it always been you and me?”

I took a breath instead of answering. Separately, those two statements were accurate. But together, they seemed to mean something more. Something that wasn’t quite true.

She slipped the dress over her tall, slim body, pulled the clip out of her hair, and shook out the ashy blond strands un- til they bounced, wavy and alive, against her shoulders. You wouldn’t have known she’d been in a car for days.

I was wearing severely rumpled jeans and a tank top. Neither of us suggested that I change. Or do anything with my own long, dirty blond hair, which was piled in a greasy knot on the top of my head. I could only imagine how I looked, next to her.

“We’re not ready for this,” I said.

She put one hand on each of my shoulders. We were the same height, but now that she was in heels, I had to crane my neck up slightly to make eye contact.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you what this place means to us,” my mother said quietly. “Look at it.”

I looked. And when I did, I saw a cluster of buildings, so carefully tucked into the shadow of the Witchtown wall that I hadn’t noticed them before. The structures looked temporary— tents, shacks, and old RVs. They gave me the creeps. Even more than the wall did.

“This is it,” my mother continued. “Everything we’ve ever wanted, ever dreamed of, is inside those walls. We are this close.”

She let go of one shoulder and grabbed my chin.

“But you have to pull yourself together. Right now. Or we haven’t got a prayer. Understand?”

I nodded, more to show her I was listening than anything else. If she chose to take that as a sign that I agreed with her, that was her problem.

She tightened her hand, squeezing my jaw to the point of pain.

“I did it for you,” she said evenly, moving her hands so they were on either side of my face. “You know that, right?”

I flinched. I was still one big, open wound. Hearing her talk like that, in that casual way of hers, was too much to bear. I glared at her. I had seen my mother’s glare many times before. It was beautiful. And terrible. It could make things,

and people (myself included), wilt under its power.

My glare was nothing like that. But I was surprised to dis- cover it had a small effect on her; she dropped her hands from my face and took a step back.

“Too soon,” she muttered to herself, and went back to the driver’s-side door.

I walked back to the passenger door, feeling like I had won a tiny victory. I had made it clear that this time, this pain, was not something she could just breeze past, the way she did with most things.

And yet, even with my small triumph, she had still man- aged to get the better of me. Here I was, getting back in the car. Without an argument. Just like she wanted.

I twirled my moonstone around my finger. Witchtown. 

***

CHAPTER TWO

 The road led us to a large gate in the northernmost part of the wall. The sun had started to set, and the harsh lights on top of the gate shone down on a half-dozen men in black fa- tigues, carrying machine guns.

Private security. Forget prison. Witchtown was a fortress. Reginald Harris had seen to that when he mapped out the place. I had heard enough stories about the guy to know he had been a nutcase about security.

One of the guards had a vicious-looking German shep- herd on a leash. I was too busy watching the dog sniff every inch of our car to hear what my mother said that caused the guards to fall back and the enormous metal gate to open.

We were soon surrounded on all sides by trees, but not before I caught a glimpse of what looked like farm fields. It was hard to tell for sure, as the sun was almost completely gone and the thick trees were blotting out most of the light.

The road changed from dirt to bumpy cobblestones as we approached what I was tempted to call the town square, except it was in the shape of a circle. The space was sur- rounded by a ring of whitewashed buildings with dark, ex- posed beams and thatched roofs. My mother pulled the car up in front of one that looked like all the others. The shin- gle hanging off the front read mayor’s office in quaint lettering.

A smaller shingle underneath said witchtown real estate.

“We’re here,” she said, unnecessarily. She turned the igni- tion off and grabbed my left hand hard so I couldn’t yank it away.

With her free hand she reached up to touch the headless, toga-clad statuette that was hanging from our rearview mirror. “Laverna, bless us,” she said to the figurine, then looked

at me expectantly.

I muttered the same words and reached up with my free hand to brush my fingers against the Goddess. She was mar- ble, but she was never cool to the touch the way marble was supposed to be. She was always kind of warm. Like skin.

I pulled my hand back from the statuette as soon as my mother dropped hers.

She opened her car door and gestured toward the almost- empty coffee cup in the holder between us. I handed her the cup. With her right hand still grasping my left hand, she poured three drops of the leftover coffee onto the ground.

“Darkness and clouds,” my mother said, and squeezed my hand once before letting it go. She unhooked the small fig- ure from the mirror and tucked Laverna carefully into the side pocket of her purse.

The Witchtown Real Estate office was still open. At the door, we were confronted by a woman with frizzy red hair, a skintight pencil skirt, and a slightly panicked expression.

“I’m sorry, but there must have been some kind of mis- take,” she said bluntly, positioning herself so that we could step just inside the door but no farther.

My mother frowned. “Oh?”

The frazzled woman held up her hand; her fingers were clenched around a cell phone.

“The guards called to say they let you in, but they must have been mistaken.” She glanced out the office window at our dusty green Volkswagen and bit her lip. “We have no openings at the moment. My apologies, but I’ll have to ask you to leave now.”

The door to an inner office opened behind her and an- other woman emerged. She was shorter than the frizzy-haired woman, but I could see she had ten times more gravity. She was wearing a tailored skirt suit and heels. Her white-blond hair, which was cut short, contrasted sharply with the deep olive color of her skin, and she had the slightly distracted ex- pression of someone thinking about too many things at once.

She took in the scene before her and raised an eyebrow at Frizz.

“Lois?” she asked.

“Handled!” Frizz assured the woman, who had to be her boss.

The blonde nodded absently.

Lois flashed us a falsely bright smile. “I’m so sorry for the mix-up. If you’d like to fill out an online application, you’ll be entered into the lottery with the other applicants and con- tacted in due course.”

She gestured behind us, obviously indicating that we should leave.

Instead, my mother braced herself against the side of the door so her right hand was at eye level, her knuckles facing the room.

“I see,” she said, smiling, as though she was not put off in the least by Lois’s rudeness. “And do you have something I might use to write down the website address? I have a terrible memory for such things.”

She drummed her fingers against the door frame. The gesture was lost on Lois, who turned to rifle through some loose papers on the desk as she presumably searched for a pen. But Lois’s boss paused at the threshold of the inner-office door, her eyes fixed on my mother’s hand.

Or, more precisely, on her silver ring.

It wasn’t a very flashy ring. It wasn’t even very attractive. It was just several strands of silver woven together into an in- tricate double knot the exact shape of two tangled-up infinity symbols. But it was enough to make the blonde in the suit stop in her tracks.

She exchanged a brief look with my mother and tossed a file on the desk, right under Lois’s nose.

Lois jumped.

“I’ve got this,” the suit told her curtly. “Take a break.” “But — but I was just —”

“Break, Lois. Now.”

Lois bowed her head and skittered backwards, toward a smaller desk on the other side of the office.

The blonde strode forward and put her hand out to my mother.

She introduced herself. “Brooke Bainbridge. Mayor of Witchtown.”

“Aubra O’Sullivan,” my mother said, taking the offered hand and shaking it. “This is my daughter, Macie.”

“Nice to meet you, Macie.” The mayor shook my hand too and then gestured to a waiting area with an uncomfort- able-looking couch and several armchairs.

I made a beeline for one of the armchairs, but my mother cleared her throat, sat down gracefully on the couch, and pat- ted the cushion next to her.

You and me, her eyes reminded me. You and me.

I gritted my teeth and sat down beside her, as the mayor took the armchair closest to my mother’s side of the couch.

“Please forgive my assistant,” the mayor said, picking up a clipboard. “She was rather hasty. I’m sure we’ll be able to accommodate you and your daughter. Let me just take you through a few lifestyle questions . . . Yes, here we are. Which pagan tradition do you practice?”

“We’re Eclectic, for the most part,” my mother answered. “Mainly Northern European traditions. Some Greek and Roman. Smattering of Egyptian.”

The mayor checked several boxes on the form.

“And how long have you identified yourself as a witch, Aubra?”

“All my life,” my mother answered patiently. She tapped her ring, which caused the mayor to give her an embarrassed smile.

“Of course. My apologies. I’m just so used to interview- ing Learned witches.”

“Oh?” my mother raised an eyebrow. “There are no other Naturals here?”

“Well, we do have one,” the mayor said, with a grimace. “But she’s quite old, I’m afraid, and not quite all there, if you know what I mean. She doesn’t practice anymore.”

“I see,” my mother said, and she was sitting close enough to me that I could actually feel her tense up and then relax.

“You’d be the only true Natural in town,” the mayor said, and then glanced over at me. “Unless Macie . . .”

She trailed off as her gaze fell to the fingers of my right hand. I tucked my naked digits self-consciously underneath my leg.

“No,” my mother cut in. “Macie is not a Natural.”

“Shame,” the mayor muttered to herself as she checked the box marked “Learned” next to where she had written my name. I did not correct her.

There was no box on the mayor’s form for what I was. If she knew the truth, we wouldn’t all be sitting around, bother- ing with paperwork.

But she didn’t know, so she continued on in a cheery kind of a way.

“How old are you, Macie dear?” “Sixteen,” I answered.

“And how long have you been a Learned witch?”

“I’ve been teaching her since birth,” my mother jumped in, before I could respond. “Macie is a very gifted herbalist.”

That, at least, was true. The herbalist part. Not the teach- ing part. My mother didn’t know a comfrey from a clover. I was entirely self-taught, and proud of it, but now didn’t seem like the best time to point that out.

“And have you previously lived in a Haven of any kind?” “Yes,” my mother replied. “Several.”

“I see. Where?”

“Here and there,” my mother smiled and then sat forward, her eyes full of secrets. “Let me be honest with you, Madame Mayor —”

“Brooke, please,” the mayor insisted.

My mother kept smiling. It looked predatory to me, but it must have seemed friendly to the mayor because she leaned in closer as my mother continued.

“My husband was killed in the Second Inquisition. Since his death, my daughter and I have found it necessary to move around quite a bit. I am unregistered, you see. I hope that isn’t a problem?”

“Oh, no,” the mayor assured her. “We don’t discriminate here.”

The mayor’s voice was calm, but her eyes were dart- ing back and forth excitedly. I could practically see her go- ing down her mental checklist, ticking off the categories my mother could fill for her.

Widow of a martyr. Devoted mother. Natural.

My mother was a gold mine for any Haven. A catch.

I, for one, was stuck back at my mother’s mention of a hus- band. That was a new one. I was fairly certain that my mother had never been married to my father. Not that we had ever dis- cussed the subject at any length. All I had been told about my father was that he left. And it had been made clear to me that asking any more questions would not be tolerated.

“Macie and I both feel that we have been on the road for long enough,” my mother went on. “We are looking for some- where to settle permanently.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” the mayor said, with a smile. “Just a few more questions. What level of formal education do you have, Aubra?”

“I have a master’s degree in accounting,” my mother re- plied. “And I’m a certified public accountant.”

Unbelievably, that was true.

The mayor raised an eyebrow.

“That will come in handy,” she said, mostly to herself. It always did. Even witches need accountants.

“Any dietary restrictions?” the mayor asked.

“Macie and I are committed raw vegans,” my mother told her, and I was barely able to hide my groan. “We believe in putting our spiritual needs above our physical ones.”

“That is very dedicated of you,” Mayor Bainbridge said admiringly, then capped her pen and turned the clipboard over in her lap. “Well, I am happy to tell you that by lucky co- incidence, we have a need for an accountant. Our previous one left us rather abruptly . . .” Her words trailed off and she made a face, but pulled herself together quickly. “I can offer you his residence. It’s a one-bedroom apartment. Will that be suffi- cient for the time being, until something bigger opens up?”

“That will be lovely,” my mother said, and I saw a flash of a triumphant grin behind her appropriately grateful smile.

A blur of signatures and forms later, the mayor walked us down the street. She whisked us through a lobby, mentioned something about an initiation ritual tomorrow, and opened the front door of our new apartment with a flourish.

“Welcome home!” she said grandly.

I managed only a weak smile in return. Because I knew that we hadn’t come to make Witchtown our home.

We had come to rob it.

                                                      ***

Cliffhanger alert! If you want to know what happens to Witchtown, pre-order it at the links below!

Amazon Barnes & Noble Books-a-MillionHudson IndieBound Powell’s