Moon Bite (Hexverse #1)

Chapter 1

Morgan

I’ve never been a good witch.

Morally speaking, I am good, of course. Or I try to be most of the time. But no amount of goodness has ever been able to change the fact that despite being a Foxglove, I’m a bad witch.

Not good. Not wicked.

Just bad.

It’s a fact that my grandmother never let me forget.

She raised me from age nine to eighteen, and there wasn’t a single day out of the 3,285 when I was with her (yes, I kept count) where she didn’t remind me I was a failure.

Bad at magic. Nothing but an omega in a long line of alpha witches blessed by the goddess herself.

Except that blessing skipped right over me, she used to say.

Which is why as the priestess holds a torch to the pyre where the alpha, beloved coven leader, daughter of the House of Hecate, legendary and beloved witch, Maeve Alexandria Foxglove, rests—I don’t shed a single tear.

The flames flash a brilliant hue of violet as they consume her body, ravaging flesh, bone, and the linen strips that bind her.

Flecks of burning ash dance toward the stars, the trees around the lake bowing as a gust of wind swoops low.

A low, deep sound thrums in my throat as the ritual song lifts, joining the three hundred other witches gathered for her funeral.

They flew in from all parts of the world (not by broomstick, mind you, as airplanes are so much faster) to lay Maeve to rest in the small, peaceful mountain town of Hex Ridge.

As every Foxglove woman before me, her body burns so her ashes can return to the earth in gratitude for her lengthy life.

For generations, Foxgloves had lived here.

Until me.

The moment this funeral is over, I’m collecting my inheritance and getting the fuck out.

I want to be back in Boston where not a single witch, werewolf, or daimon cares about who I am.

I’m going to use the money from selling the Foxglove Manor to buy myself a nice townhouse where I’ll live out the rest of my days, and that will be it.

Maybe I’ll even settle down with a nice beta whose pheromones don’t drive me crazy, and we can live the double-income-no-kids life.

The Foxglove bloodline ends with me. Omega, failed coven leader, reject of the House of Hecate, and ultimately the one who gets the last witchy, cackling laugh all the way to the bank.

The coven leader’s iridescent gown shimmers as she steps forward.

She wears a smooth, expressionless mask made of moonstone.

I can’t see her eyes, but I can feel the hatred in her gaze as she hands me the torch.

She’s one of the countless witches in this crowd who think less of me, or maybe she’s someone I’ve offended in the past. I really don’t care either way.

I knew someone would take Maeve’s position, but I didn’t pay attention to who.

Tonight, I’m wearing my own mask—the one that helps me not feel the sting of everyone’s loathing.

Magic surges the moment my fingers close around the torch. Fuck. It’s too strong for me. Acidity bursts on my tongue and every hair stands up. My veins sing with its power, but my muscles ache from the burden of holding it up.

“Can you handle it?” she mumbles.

Oh. Of course. I knew that catty voice anywhere. “Of course I can, Cassandra.”

She sneers under her unreadable mask as I step forward. It takes every ounce of strength to keep myself from immediately collapsing to the dirt in front of the goddess and everyone. I take three more steps, all eyes on me as I kneel.

Fucking hell, my thighs and arms burn. This damn torch has to weigh a thousand pounds.

Sweat sprouts on my brow as I look up at the moon.

The legends say it’s the glowing eye of Selene looking down upon her children, but if that were true, there’d be no moon out tonight. She’s never given me a second glance.

With a huff, I drive the end of the torch into the earth, burrowing it down until it stands on its own. Heat radiates from it, the flames blinking different colors. I bow my head, close my eyes, and wait for the answer.

It’s a stupid ritual. A passing of the torch in the most literal sense.

Supposedly, Maeve’s soul will give me one final gift before she departs our world.

If the flame turns pink, love is in my future (in theory.) If it turns green, prosperity and fortune will land on my doorstep (again, supposedly.) If it turns blue, I will find peace (whatever that means.) And if it turns red—

A series of gasps ripple behind me. That’s a bad sign.

My eyes fly open and a single curse parts my lips.

“Well, fuck.”

“Morgan,” Cassandra The Good and Almighty Coven Leader hisses behind me.

Right. Cursing at a funeral is looked down upon. You know what else is looked down upon?

Cursing your only granddaughter.

I jump to my feet, which earns more gasps. Cursed. She’s cursed. Maybe this is the Foxglove curse. Their whispers are all around me, and my ears are ringing with their accusations. Everyone already thinks I’m a failure, so I may as well add being a bitch to the list too, right?

I’m so over this. I want to run away. The family curse they’re yammering about isn’t real, and I resent anyone who thinks it is.

The real problem is that it’s used as an excuse.

Instead of facing reality, the curse is a scapegoat.

Surely it was the curse that caused my parents’ death almost twenty years ago, and not just bad luck. (News flash: it was bad luck.)

The ritual isn’t done and not completing it is a sure way to offend Selene, if you believe in her. Still, I stand defiantly. The torch continues to burn scarlet, bathing me in an ominous red glow.

Coming here was a mistake.

Because of course, even in death, Maeve would find a fucking way to spite me.

“You have to finish it,” Cassandra says. “Finish the ritual.”

I point at the flame. “I’m not accepting that.”

More murmurs ripple through the crowd. She’s a disgrace. She dishonors the Foxglove name. Her grandmother must know she’s terrible. The curse will end her. Not even the House of Hecate recognizes her anymore. She’s rejected.

The hair on the back of my neck stands again. A shiver trails down my spine. Someone is giving me a stare down worthy of the middle finger.

My head snaps to the left as I search for whoever is glaring. Cassandra puts her hand on my shoulder, but I ignore her.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stands against a tree a few feet away. Even in the shadows, his eyes burn like two crescent moons. And he’s smirking.

What kind of an asshole smirks at a funeral?

I glare right back at him. He tilts his head in challenge, and damn it. I want to fight. I want to scream. I want everyone to leave.

“Morgan,” Cassandra growls under her breath. “Finish the ritual. Now.”

Her magic surges like a tidal wave. My knees turn to jelly and I hit the dirt again, blinking back bitter tears as I face the red flame.

Pressure bears down on me. I hate magic. I hate the goddess. I hate it all. But Cassandra is the new alpha coven leader, and it’s hardwired into me to obey her command. If I truly want to resist her, I can. But what I really want is for this to be over.

“May Selene, our kind and all-knowing goddess, carry your spirit and may the fire release your soul,” I grind out. “May the wheel turn again and your body return to the earth. May your ashes spread new beginnings and your legend live in our memories ‘til we meet our end.”

The flame snuffs out, but no wind blows. The trees are still. The forest around Hex Ridge is silent.

It’s over.

There’s no rupture of applause. No tears shed.

No singing. It’s silent except for the crackling of the flames and leaves crunching underfoot.

I stay on my knees as every witch, werewolf, and daimon go—as is our custom.

I still hear their mutters, though. I don’t need heightened senses to catch their stray sneers and laughs and wild theories.

I’ve heard it all my life. Whispers that I’m not really a Foxglove, wild ideas that the curse has been following me since birth.

Maybe I’m the reason my parents died. Maybe I was born to ruin everything.

They’ll go back to their homes and they’ll talk shit about me and how the Foxglove line is now gone.

How our world has lost a good witch. Some of them will even celebrate, like Cassandra and her father, Fionn.

They’ve been after the seats of power in this territory for so long, and now that she’s the leader of the coven, they have their grasp on everything they’ve wanted.

It’s not my business. My life is simple, just like my magic.

I should probably feel sad about my grandmother being dead, but this place holds all of my worst memories.

It’s not just her body burning away beneath the moon, it’s all of the times she told me I was nothing.

It’s all the moments she hit me or locked me in my room or used a spell to keep me quiet for a week.

It's crying myself to sleep at night, teaching myself how to cook, finding ways to escape the giant manor at the end of Hemlock Lane.

All I feel is relief.

“You’re a disgrace,” Cassandra snarls once we are alone. “What the hell were you thinking, behaving like this at Maeve’s funeral? The House of Hecate will remember this slight.”

I snort and pin her with my nicest smile. “How does it feel wearing that mask and knowing you have always been the second choice after me?”

She rips it off. Her expression reminds me of a rabid animal.

Cassandra and I go way back. Way, way back.

We used to play together in the summers as children, and I think we would have called each other best friends once.

At least, until our magic started to show.

Then my parents died, it became clear my magic was useless, and her father didn’t want her around a bad witch.

So her hate doesn’t bother me. It’s nothing new. If anything, it’s funny I can still get a rise out of her after all these years.

“It feels a lot better than being the most hated witch alive, Foxglove. You bring shame to your entire family’s name,” she snarls.

“Oh my goddess, Cassandra. Go away.”

“Don’t come running to me when your family curse comes for you. I’ve heard Maeve speak about it. The darkness will come for you, Morgan, and you won’t be able to stop it.”

Goosebumps prickle over my skin, but I ignore them, forcing my gaze back to the burning body and the smooth, glass-like lake behind the pyre. “The curse isn’t real. And believe me, you’re the last person I’d ever ask for help.”

I sit back on my bare heels as Cassandra fits the mask over her slender face. She’s unreasonably loud as she stomps away, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. We’re almost thirty, but she still acts like a girl who has to get her way or else the world will fall apart.

Whatever. If the torch hadn’t completely drained me, I’d use my pointless magic to make her stub her toe on a root.

That’s the thing about my magic. I can’t sing a wind into a hurricane or tame a wildfire or turn a living creature into my puppet—but I can be a nuisance.

Like knotting someone’s shoe laces together, or causing their favorite sweater to fray.

It’s the most useless form of magic, but aside from causing a tiny ruckus here and there, I still try to find small joys in it.

Such as my morning coffee. It’s perfect every single morning because of the magic I use to make it.

The perfect temperature, the perfect flavor, the perfect mug.

No, I’ll never be a legendary Foxglove. But I came to terms with that years ago.

And maybe, after years of serving the world and being at the center of almost every major historical event, it’s fated that the only Foxglove omega born into our bloodline would end up with the most selfish, pointless form of magic. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.

My shoulders dip with an exhale. I blink away the tears, smoothing my hands over my thighs. The back of my neck prickles again and I turn back to that tree, expecting to see the smirking stranger again.

But he’s not there.

A shiver rolls up my spine.

Whomever he is, I don’t like him. Or the way he looked at me.

I’m alone now and feel the weight of reality come crashing back down.

The Foxglove curse. Is that why Maeve chose red? Some sort of warning about something I know doesn’t exist?

According to the bedtime stories read to me as a child, every Foxglove pays a price for their power.

Maeve is one of the only witches to live a long life in our family.

My parents met an early end. My grandfather died long ago.

My great-grandparents were killed in a battle between covens.

My great-great-grandparents were assassinated in some sort of political plot between a wolf pack and coven seeking power during their time in this territory.

To be a Foxglove witch is to live a life that burns hot and fast, and then to be snuffed out by the darkness.

But, the thing is, I don’t have power.

Therefore the family curse doesn’t apply to me.

The pyre crackles with embers, and it’s my job for the rest of the night to make sure they don’t catch and burn down the entire forest or the small town nearby.

I kind of want to leave anyway.

But, I will be gone soon enough. In three days, I’ll meet with Mr. Byrne, sign the paperwork to accept my inheritance, and then that will be it. I’ll finally leave Hex Ridge and this curse behind.

The funeral is a fresh start for me.