Tangled Roots (Witches of Willow Creek: Tangled Magic #1)
I showed up on his doorstep. At midnight. Missing 45 years’ worth of time.
I’m Cassie Gearhart, and the last thing I remember, I cast a spell in 1974. Then, I woke up on a rainy July night to find it was 2019. And the entire Willow Creek Coven—my coven—was gone.
Well, there is one witch left in Willow Creek, Virginia: Nick Felson, the grandson of my high priestess, a brooding farm boy with magic in his blood and a chip on his shoulder.
Every time we get too close, love—the most powerful of magicks—draws us together. The passion? It threatens to be our undoing.
There’s a whole host of other problems, though. For one, Nick wants nothing to do with magic—and therefore, with me, a witch lost in time.
For another, the sinister magic that took the coven? It’s not finished with us.
It’s barely getting started.
Don’t miss the first book in the Tangled Magic Series, perfect for fans of the witchy magic of Charmed and for anyone seeking paranormal romance with a small-town setting!
PRAISE FOR TANGLED ROOTS:
“Witches. Spells. Love. A magical modern-day Sleeping Beauty story if Aurora was part of a witch’s coven.”—Nurse Bookie Book Blog
“A well-written, enthralling story that I thoroughly enjoyed escaping into.”—Splashes Into Books
“I’m seriously in love with this book.”—Ana’s Column
A bit of context: This is from Nick’s point of view. Cassie has just newly awoken from a spell that caused her to sleep for forty-five years, only to awaken in the present day. She goes to what she thinks is her high priestess’s home—except her high priestess’s hot (and rather grumpy) grandson is the current occupant. Cue confusion—on both their parts.
Magic. She stunk of it. My throat vibrated with a near-silent growl.
Gods damn it all.
Not sure who she thought she was, knocking on my door at midnight, silvery-blue air magic swirling in her aura.
I yanked a quilt from the chest in the living room and unfurled one of my grandmother’s creations to wrap around my shivering houseguest. This one was a log cabin design in simple red and cream. The scent of cedar and lavender sachets drifted up from the worn cotton. Hell, my guest was covered in dirt, as though she’d slept in the woods, but that would wash off. Gran always said her quilts weren’t meant for show; they were meant for real life.
Apparently, this was it.
I stomped back into the kitchen, worn hardwood meeting the heavy footfalls of my bare feet. My head felt full of cotton, a sign of an oncoming panic attack.
I held out the quilt, trying not to notice the startled way my guest gawked at me, her mouth agape as she perched on the edge of a chair, like she wasn’t sure whether or where to bolt.
I swallowed. “Tea?” The word came out a strange croak. I cleared my throat. “Tea. Do you want some?”
She smiled. “Yes.” I busied my shaking hand filling the kettle.
“We don’t filter,” I rambled, wincing at the posthumous “we.” “I have the well water tested yearly, and the taste is better than anything you’ll find bottled in the grocery store.”
She laughed, a little high, as if taut with nerves, but also with a hint of merriment. “What?”
I waited for the pilot light on the propane stove to click, then set the kettle on the burner. I watched the steady blue flame beneath the blue kettle, not wanting to turn to my impromptu houseguest, hating the warring emotions.
I tried not to hear, to feel other witches’ magic—on the rare occasions I encountered them. But this woman’s. I sighed. The air hummed with it. She was the promise of the summer stars, the crackle of bonfire, the brush of a feather against bare skin, the scent wafting from a field of lavender.
No. No. A thousand times no.
I spun and placed my palms against the kitchen island, keeping distance. Mostly for myself, but she also seemed startled, shocked, and beyond confused. No need to loom over her with that “brooding farm boy thing” that Evan always told me to play up. “Girls like that.”
Maybe for a fling—which, thankfully, was all I ever offered.
I caught her studying me, a quizzical expression on her face. “Folks by water in stores around here now?”
She sucked in her lips and shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s been the longest night of my life in…many ways.” Her tone was careful and clipped, almost forced cheer, but I heard sorrow.
And then I understood.
“You knew my grandmother?”
She nodded. She wrapped the quilt tighter around her body and peered out the bay window into the darkness. “She was my mentor.”
“She never mentioned having a student outside the coven.” I shifted. Gran often kept her opinions to herself, and she didn’t share coven business outside the coven. She respected people’s privacy. I’d barely even heard her gossip—and everyone in Willow Creek gossiped. Even the men. “I’m Nick, by the way. Ginny’s grandson.”
She laughed, the sound bordering on hysterical. “I’m sorry. Maeve is just a child.”
I shook my head. This woman was out of her mind. “No. Mom is—was—the local midwife.”
She stared at me like I was a ghost—in my own home. “What year is it?”
“Umm…” Gods, but she’d worked one wild spell out in those woods if she was this confused. “2019.”
Her legs wobbled, and I barely caught her before helping her into one of the kitchen chairs. “And you’re Nick. Maeve’s son. Ginny’s grandson.”
“That’s me. Nick Felson.” I exhaled. It was a relief, somehow, the first time in forever I’d met someone who didn’t know who I was, who didn’t have their own version of what happened by the banks of Willow Creek on Saunders Family Farm.
Although whether she was sane? That had yet to be determined.
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About the Series:
Welcome to Willow Creek, Virginia:
A small town that’s home to a coven of witches–and a mystical nexus known as the Crossroads of Magic.
One year ago, a sinister curse destroyed the coven. Now, it’s up to the surviving members–including a time traveling witch from the 1970s, a fox shifter, and the local librarian–to save their coven, their town, and the Crossroads of Magic itself.
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About Denise D. Young
Equal parts bookworm, flower child, and eclectic witch, Denise D. Young writes fantasy and paranormal romance featuring witches, magic, faeries, and the occasional shifter.
Whatever the flavor of the magic, it’s always served with a brisk cup of tea–and the promise of romance varying from sweet to sensual.
She lives with her husband and their animals in the mountains of Virginia, where small towns and tall trees inspire her stories. She reads tarot cards, collects crystals, gazes at stars, and believes magic is the answer (no matter what the question was).
If you’ve ever hoped to find a book of spells in a dusty attic, if you suspect every misty forest contains a hidden portal to another realm, or if you don’t mind a little darkness before your happily-ever-after, her books might be just the thing you’ve been waiting for.
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