Bad Things Come in 3s (The Fiends of Felcove #1)

Chapter 1

Hudson

They say bad things come in threes. Any time something terrible went down, Grams would remind me to get out the salt, place a bay leaf under my pillow, and keep the family crest somewhere on my person at all times. Had to be prepared for bad things number two and three, after all.

For Mom, my sperm donor was number one. Don’t even know his name. Don’t care. Whenever I asked, Grams just said he was gone and never coming back.

She probably had something to do with that. Possibly everything.

I must’ve been dear Mom’s second bad thing, because I don’t even remember the woman’s face.

Grams said she was around during my first Winter Solstice.

There might have been a picture somewhere in that old Victorian, buried between an ancient copy of The Spiral Dance and scrawlings out of the Lesser Key of Solomon.

And Mom’s third bad thing… that would be the news Grams got, delivered in person by Sheriff Dammond at two in the morning when I was still an infant. Initially suspected to be foul play. Written off as someone who needed help with their mental state and refused it.

Grams never talked about her. Probably because I didn’t like hearing it. Honestly, I had everything I needed growing up. Never felt like I was missing out because the one who raised me—well, she was the best thing that ever happened to me.

So, you can imagine how much sitting there in the back pew of a stuffy little chapel that stank of disintegrating vinyl carpet and hypocrisy felt, watching people who never really knew her stand and tell stories about what a good Christian woman she was.

I’d intentionally pushed for a late evening service just to make the townies stick their noses up at the idea, hoping it would thin the self-righteous Sunday-best crowd.

But despite my family’s reclusive tendencies, we were still one of the oldest names in Felcove.

It would be improper of folks not to show, even if the idea of a rumored witch being put to rest under cover of night, during a full moon, likely made them clutch their hypothetical pearls.

If I went up to that pulpit, those people would’ve run screaming, probably flicking holy water at me on the way out.

The Garlands didn’t do Christian. We were the Cursekeepers. We were the reason people like them could live out their happy, oblivious lives and go to their final rest clutching to adult bedtime stories of eternity.

At least… we were. Of all the Garland witches, I was the last one alive.

Yeah. Hudson’s bad thing number one—Grams was gone.

Right then, I wanted to be gone too. From that musty church. Not life. I think.

I might’ve been a little pissed with Grams. She’d go on and on about how witches live very, very long lives. Hell, I actually had no idea how old she really was. Her license said sixty-three. Her face said ten years younger than that, easily.

It made no sense. She was supposed to be there.

A basic bitch heart attack should not have been enough to kill Helena fucking Garland.

Shouldn’t have been enough to take her away from me and leave me to deal with…

everything… anything that might come crawling out of the dark now that I was the sole heir to my family’s magic.

I had no idea how much time I had until that happened in totality.

I’d been capable of simple magicks my whole life.

Cuts and scrapes would heal with a wave of my hand.

A flick of my finger or a light breeze from my lips could light a candle.

Sometimes, I was pretty sure my cat—Sir Hissalot, Knight Protector of the Empty Dish—could understand every word I said.

I could tell an outrageous lie, and anyone with a lesser intellect would believe me.

Then there were all those basics Grams had drilled into me from the moment I was old enough to understand.

Sage to cleanse. Salt to purify. Iron to bind that beyond your control.

Walk barefoot through the grass to ground yourself, and draw a card every morning to prepare for what the day might bring. At times, it felt as if we witches could do anything.

Until you find the things we can’t touch, say… mending a broken heart.

Learned the hard way, there’s no magic for that. Unless you’re a blood witch maybe. From what I’d read, they were capable of working wonders. A bit of blood, a single thought, and miracles were theirs for the taking.

Of course, the power they’d been born with had cost them and so many others their lives. Not sure it was worth it, being hunted down by your fellow witches and murdered. They were long gone now, so not a Hudson problem.

Just your boring future family Sovereign magic for me.

The Garland Matriarch had been gone less than a week, and already I knew my power was growing. It was like this strange burn in my blood, urging me, begging me to use it. But for what, I hadn’t a clue.

Gripping my necklace through my shirt, a silver bar on a chain Grams had given me when I was fourteen, I braved a glance around the room. Wishing whatever magic it supposedly held would let me talk to her. Would undo this whole mess and let me wake up back in Bay City.

I rolled my eyes as yet another citizen of Felcove—my hometown on the coast of Lake Superior I hadn’t been back to in four years—stood to blather on about how deeply saddened they were by the passing of a woman they had no true appreciation for.

Other than the old preacher, Father Tomlin, and a very gray Sheriff Dammond, I didn’t recognize a soul.

Which, if I’m being honest, I was grateful for. There were several people in Felcove I absolutely did not want to run into. It was nothing short of a miracle no one had called attention to me already.

A bit more muscle had been added to my scrawny frame since leaving right after high school graduation, but I liked my look and never felt the need to change it up.

Platinum blond hair with the roots grown out had always been my thing.

People thought I wore mascara, but in truth, my eyes were just very bright green, and my lashes were thick as fuck.

I picked up the black nail polish in middle school just to give the jocks more of a reason to tease me with the very true, but always inaccurate, rumors of my ancestry.

That had worked a little too well. Drew them to me like moths to the flame. And the biggest, most gorgeous moth of them all had always been—

“Hudson?” a soft, gravelly voice that lived in my every self-destructive fever dream came from the aisle beside me.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. That happened to me a lot, too. Wasn’t sure if it was a witch thing or a me thing. I’d just be thinking of something or someone, and poof.

And, case in point, it wasn’t always a good thing.

I took a slow breath to steady myself and turned. “Hey, Tyler.”

Tyler-carved-by-the-Olympian-gods-Hargraves, with his chocolate brown hair styled to perfection and a tailored black suit skin tight on those chiseled pecs, simply dumbstruck as he stared down at me.

He might’ve been dumbstruck. The guy was hot as lava, but just as thick. Could’ve forgotten his own name and had no idea I was talking to him.

Ty’s lips parted. Soft embers of light glittered in his eyes, tinted like whiskey over ice. My insides fluttered, right before memories of the last time he looked at me like that flooded my mind and turned my blood cold.

Rocks cutting into my knees. Distant chatter beyond the brushing of leaves. A dark clearing, just the two of us. Just me and Tyler. His hard cock down my throat. My heart full and my jeans stretched to their limit.

The worst day of my entire fucking life.

“Y-You’re here,” Tyler finally managed.

I looked down at my lap, lazily waving both of my hands and gesturing to myself. “As evidenced by my general being here, yes.”

That seemed to snap him out of whatever spell he was under. With a swallow, he shook his head, then cast a look toward the front of the church. “How-How long are you—”

“Leaving as soon as I sign some papers with the realtor.” It was a lie. There was so much work to do. But I was not entertaining Tyler while I was in town.

In any sense of the word.

“Tyler!” Someone hissed from the front pew. I glanced through the bangs hanging in my face to see yet another person I wanted zero contact with while in Felcove, staring daggers at me just for existing.

The upstanding, barrel-chested Baron of Bigotry himself—William Hargraves—Tyler’s father. William was everything I wasn’t. Successful by the standards of that dead American dream, and constantly shoving his weight around to demand the respect of anyone in his space.

And we couldn’t have the heir to his precious legacy tainted by the mere presence of a deviant queer like yours truly, could we? If only Daddy Hargraves knew the sounds I’d coaxed out of his golden boy. The faces I’d gotten him to make with my lips wrapped around him. The way I’d tasted him.

“Better run, Ty,” I droned, rolling my eyes.

Tyler gritted his teeth, then looked back at me in a rare moment of defiance. “I’ll call you.”

“Not giving you my number.”

“Then I’ll come over,” he said hurriedly, backing away from me down the aisle.

“Won’t be home.”

“Tyler!” William spat, hushed and dangerous. “Now!”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Tyler growled in his throat, turning on his heel. The moment he sat down, his father launched into a whispered tirade. I caught Ty glancing my way for an instant, only for William to get right in his face, looking murderous.

My gut coiled, watching the way he had Tyler on his fucking leash. I always wondered if things would’ve been different for us without William in the picture, forcing him into that mold. Wondered if that night might’ve ended differently.

If Tyler might’ve said something else. Something that didn’t shatter me into tiny little pieces and send me running across the state.

As their argument subsided, I caught a flash of deep red hair from the corner of my eye. While I’d been distracted, someone had occupied the other end of the pew I was sitting in, and I knew exactly who it was.

I’d been expecting him.

Sorry, Grams.

With a flick of my fingers, the overhead lights burst one by one.

Glass scattered over the occupants of the church, causing screams. As I stood, I held my hand ahead of my lips and blew a breath toward the altar.

The candles surrounding the portrait of my grandmother wafted out in an instant, plunging the chapel into darkness.

And I was out the double doors behind me before anyone could make sense of my show, practically running to my beat-up little black Ford Ranger.

I’d been waiting for that man to show his face from the moment I crossed the border back into Felcove. Showing up at Grams’ memorial service was kind of a dick move on his part, though.

Not that he didn’t deserve the chance to say goodbye, too.

Practically throwing myself into the driver’s seat, I didn’t even bother fumbling for my keys.

I snapped my fingers, and the engine blazed to life.

The tires squealed as I peeled out of the lot.

Looking back in the rear view mirror, I glimpsed not only the pissed off man that had sat next to me, glowering and baring his teeth as he ran to his own ancient Chevy Impala, but Tyler, running to his Porsche.

“Oh, come on, boys, I am so not in the mood.” Pulling onto the main road out of town, I slammed the gas to the floor.

The light at the intersection ahead was red—until I waved my hand.

I did the same to the next, changing them right back from green to red, knowing that would only stop one of the two people on my ass.

Ty wasn’t a problem. Not an immediate problem, at least. Certainly not one that potentially posed mortal danger like the wild card that I once called my best friend, flashing his headlights at me as he blazed through the first red light.

I’d made Emery a promise months before I left Felcove. A promise I had fully intended to deliver on. Hell, I had delivered, but I didn’t want him finding that out. Not with what I’d learned.

Because in order for Emery to get what he wanted, well… magic often had a price, and I’d really be getting the short end of the stick.

Switching off my lights, I whipped onto a dirt road, speeding through a densely wooded area. Kind of a dumb move, considering the guy following me could see better in the dark. I could match him with a little help, though.

Closing my eyes for an instant, the dark trees surrounding me became clear as day when I opened them again. My destination was on the other side of the woods. Somewhere I could get lost in a crowd.

As much of a crowd as you could find outside middle of nowhere Felcove, at least. It was Friday night, so the only gay bar in the area would be hopping. I’m sure Emery knew that was exactly where I was headed. We’d gone together a few times on eighteen-and-over nights.

I may have only been seventeen at the time, but, you know, magic.

No one in Felcove would’ve given a shit if I’d been backed into a corner. One snarl from Emery and they would’ve gone running. Honestly, they were kind of a soft lot for living in what was once one of the most paranormal locations in the region.

The Hole in the Wall would still suit my needs. I just needed witnesses.

My pocket vibrated, scaring the hell out of me. No one called me anymore, other than bill collectors. Certainly not after dark.

I whipped out my phone, an unavailable number lighting the screen. Putting on a sultry voice, I hit answer. “Felcove Township Animal Control. You bark, I’ll bite.”

“Get fucked, Hudson,” Emery growled.

“Gotta catch me first, big guy,” I sang before ending the call and tossing my phone into the passenger seat. The screen lit up again immediately. I rolled my eyes as I turned onto another main road, finally coming out of the foliage.

Pissing him off further probably wasn’t the smartest idea. It was fun, though.

When he finally caught me, I’d have to ask how he got my number. I’d changed it twice since leaving home. Mostly to avoid both him and Tyler, so, kind of rude of him not to take the hint.

Glancing around in my mirrors for any sign of Emery, I quickly pulled into the parking of The Hole in the Wall.

Or The Hole, as most regulars called it.

The smell of stale beer hit me in the face as I leapt out of my car.

I spun around, considering an attempt at glamouring my car to look like one of the others in the lot, but that would’ve taken too much time.

That, and Emery would’ve picked up my scent from the main road anyway.

Maybe I’d resigned myself to my fate. Maybe I just needed a drink or two before having a conversation I’d been running from for four years. Who could say?

That was drunk Hudson’s problem now.