Wicked sorceress Cora must ruin someone's life before her eighteenth birthday or lose her magic forever, a task made tricky when she falls for her chosen victim.
***
Cora Emerson is a magical misfortune who just can't get the hang of being a wicked...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Her mother's speech didn't end until they'd pulled up in front of their two-story house. Cora got out of the car without a word, pulled open the gate, and stomped across their small yard, where fallen pink leaves from the dogwood tree withered.
The leaves crunched under her heels, as she went up the front steps and into the house. The sudden smell of her grandmother's bumble berry pie and burning oil floated from the kitchen. She'd forgotten her growling tummy.
It roared when the aroma settled beneath her nose.
"Stella, is that you?" her grandmother asked. "I'm afraid, Willow has ruined another batch of the marshmallow root."
"Really, Mom, it was an accident," Willow said.
"No, it's me," said Cora, tugging off her coat and boots at the door. She hung her coat up in the small hall closet and wandered into the kitchen. Although they were sorceresses, neither their kitchen nor the rest of their house resembled what someone would think a sorceress's house should.
The non-magical humans might have conjured up images of spell books and potions strewn all over the place—a black cauldron bubbling green liquid in a corner. Those were only stories. The truth wasn't so convoluted. Well, mostly. Cora wouldn't have minded a cottage in the woods.
The house belonged to her great-grandmother and therefore suited her tastes; exceptionally clean and white. Except for the mess of pots and pans, bottles of fragrances, jars of different cosmetic butters, ranging from the deepest orange to ivory, on the counters and breakfast table. Other than being sorceresses, the Emersons were also kitchen beauticians. After all, it was how they managed to blend in for so long.
Cora's nose took her past her grandmother and sister, both in stained matching red and white aprons, to the oven. She bent down to get a good look at the pie. Simmering right beside it was another one of her favorite meals, truffled macaroni and cheese.
"Mom said your boyfriend took you to the hospital." Willow crossed her arms. She said it in a matter-of-fact way, with a slight squint to her eyes, waiting for her to deny it. At twelve, Willow's bull-crap meter was perfunctory, much like the rest of her. Small and succinct, she liked things a certain way, including her hair, which was curly and bobbed. And her clothing, a striped black and white dress, nylon tights, and patent black Mary Janes.
So maybe, after all, she was like Stella.
Cora rolled her eyes and traipsed to the fridge. "You know he isn't my boyfriend." She reached for the box of cereal at the top. Once she had it, she shoved her hand in and brought a fist full of its crunchy sweetness to her mouth.
"Use a bowl," Agatha said. "Other people eat from that too."
Cora went over to her and pressed her sticky lips against her grandmother's warm, blushing cheek, earning her a swat on the shoulder. For someone her age, Agatha had brown skin as soft as a babe's. That youthful air around her was another reward for being a sorceress.
