Chapter One
Willows Haven
November 17, 2017
Margaret Carroll watched the red taillights of Stanford Morgan’s Subaru Forester disappear into the foggy night. Seven times over the last year, she’d tried to lure him into a relationship. Once as a blonde, once as a redhead, twice as a brunette, and three times as someone similar to Daphne Lowe.
Each of those rendezvous had been a nonstarter.
Thanks to several drops of incubus blood, she’d come very close to success tonight. They’d shared a kiss. Then had come the call about an accident on eastbound I-40. His look of relief had ignited her temper.
Oh, he’d promised to call. But the lure spell would end at midnight.
Failure. Again.
She closed the townhouse’s front door and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Her fist convulsively opened and closed around the half-empty bottle of incubus blood. Stanford’s heart belonged to Daphne. Even the demon’s lust couldn’t overcome his devotion to her.
So be it.
She paused before the floor-length mirror. The reflection was that of an old crone—mirrors always showed the viewer their true self, no matter how a spell altered one’s appearance. Dark spots dotted her face, outnumbering the wrinkles around her eyes, and her nose stuck out prominently. Her wavy hair frizzled in shades of white to dark red from her crown to her shoulders.
For nearly 135 years, she’d stolen the life energy of young women to enact her revenge. It was even better when she could augment her power with their gifts. At this time, true witches didn’t know their powers, and many others wanted to become part of a coven.
It made hunting for victims easy.
Like the college student whose mien Margaret appropriated as her bait tonight. Too bad the wannabe witch had to die. She had such a bubbly spirit.
“Why are you doing this?” the woman whispered.
“Because all wishes do come true.” Margaret smiled. “You wanted to participate in a ritual. Now you can. As the sacrifice.”
The girl struggled against her restraints. “Not what I meant.”
Margaret intoned the incantation to light the beeswax candles spread around the small room. Two on the toilet, six on the sink, and one on the floor in the center of the nine concentric circles. She pulled a vial of crushed yellow herbs from her pocket. Rubbing the silky mix between her fingers, she dumped the contents onto her captive.
“You should have paid more attention to the original fairy tales. Magic is worth so much more than simple pixie dust. It can cost you your life.”
As the wizards who’d imprisoned her mother and Margaret had discovered. She couldn’t save her mother, but the father and son wizards had paid for their arrogant belief that they could bind her witch powers and use them for their benefit.
Once she’d destroyed the wizard family, she’d ransacked their library and memorized those spells too dangerous to leave for others to find. The fire took care of the spell books. And the bodies.
Margaret had dedicated her life to seeking revenge against the witch family who’d denied her mother the sanctuary she’d needed to survive. Left out in the world, her mother had become easy prey for the wizard who’d captured her.
Her mother’s powers had been fueled by the broken bonds of marriage. If she hadn’t renewed her powers once a month, she might as well have been human. The wizard had used her seductive powers to entrap many influential men. Turned her into his “Witchy Whore.”
The wizard’s voice had imprinted upon her memory as he chased her mother into the bedroom. Many a night, Margaret had listened to her mother’s pleas and cries.
She’d sworn vengeance against all those who’d wronged her mother.