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Tangled Roots: Witches of Willow Creek: Tangled Magic, #1
Tangled Roots: Witches of Willow Creek: Tangled Magic, #1
Tangled Roots: Witches of Willow Creek: Tangled Magic, #1
Ebook156 pages2 hoursTangled Magic

Tangled Roots: Witches of Willow Creek: Tangled Magic, #1

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A coven of witches with a tangled destiny...

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

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 14, 2019
ISBN9780998075624
Tangled Roots: Witches of Willow Creek: Tangled Magic, #1
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Author

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.

Read more from Denise D. Young

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    Tangled Roots - Denise D. Young

    Prologue

    CASSIE

    Willow Creek, Virginia, 1974

    THERE WAS WILDNESS in the air.

    I tipped my head back, breathing it in. The languid summer heat hit my bare throat.

    Mine, the magic whispered.

    Yes, my soul whispered back. Yes, all things wild and sacred, all things born of the goddess’s womb.

    Yes.

    Long blond hair fell across my face. I untied the swath of white ribbon fastened at my throat and secured it in a loose ponytail at my nape.

    My hand shook as I withdrew it, damp with moisture from the back of my neck.

    It was the summer heat, I reasoned. Nothing more.

    Not Nathan’s letter, not the memory of his harsh, accusatory voice.

    Not the dreams that followed, the fear that I’d turn a corner or open a door and see my hulking brother’s form looming over me.

    Not the words he’d written that were seared into my brain—words that others might take as a plea but I knew to be a command.

    Come home.

    The tremors raked my body again, an old fear of magic caged.

    Willow Creek was home. My coven was home. Buttercup Diner, where I waited tables and wiped greasy hands on my red apron, that was home.

    That little white house in the Georgia mountains, where I could look at the forest but never enter it? That attic bedroom where magic stalked inside my soul like a carnival’s caged lion, muscles primed but never able to pounce, aching for release?

    That was not home.

    I’d watched the Summer of Love and Woodstock come and go. I’d watched both the upheaval and freedom. But I’d been a bystander. In this world. In my life.

    I wasn’t anymore.

    Nathan would make me one again.

    My breath quickened.

    I didn’t know how my brother found me—didn’t care. I hadn’t thought he or my parents cared enough to look. But I knew Nathan was on a mission from Mama, and that meant soon enough he’d be pounding at my door.

    I smoothed my damp palm across the cotton fabric of my knee-length eyelet dress—handmade. Continuing to make my clothes by hand was one of the few remnants of home I allowed myself. The whir of the sewing machine, its rhythm a reassuring beat. The tug of needle and thread until my fingers bled.

    Good discipline, my father said.

    Keeps her mind off things, Mama always agreed.

    Just because the world’s gone to hell in a handbasket doesn’t mean you have to.

    Nathan’s words, pounding in my head. I had burnt the letter before one of my coven sisters could see it. I spoke words of release, trying to free myself from the past.

    It wasn’t enough.

    I could feel the blood that connected us, pulling me toward him—toward my past.

    And from my fear, this spell emerged.

    If I dug deep enough in my magic, I could summon the Guardian of Willow Creek, Virginia. She could block Nathan’s path.

    She could stop him from dragging me back to that place where I was barely half-alive.

    I exhaled, the sound almost sharp in the sleepy forest, the way a drop of water in a cave is magnified.

    Ginny, my high priestess, my mentor, was back at the farmhouse she called home, a scant half-mile hike across wooded hills and neatly tended rows of crops. She’d been at her sketchpad when I left her house, her blond hair in a careless braid as she drew the pattern for her next quilt.

    Her eyes locked with mine for a split second, a glint of caution in them. Be careful.

    I’d felt her gaze on me as the screen door squeaked shut behind me.

    I felt it still, the magic of the coven a thread gently tugging on my own magic.

    I pressed my palms to rich, dark soil. I knelt against the forest floor, not caring about the stains on my dress.

    Inhale. Balmy summer night, scent of sunbaked earth and Virginia pine.

    Exhale. Release the past.

    Open my eyes. Look forward.

    I struck a match, my hand’s tremble lessened now, but still there. The scent of freshly struck sulfur stung my nostrils. Upon the matchhead danced a wisp of a magical creature, its body living flame—a salamander, an elemental of fire.

    I pressed the match to the waiting black votive candle made by one of my coven sisters, Tricia, and watched as the flame took root on the wick. The salamander stretched out tiny arms, dancing—beauty, magic, fire personified.

    Bless this space, element of fire, I whispered to her.

    I took up a feather, one I found shortly after the summer solstice. Ginny had told me it was from a barred owl. The barred owl is a familiar of the Guardian, Ginny remarked. She’s got a close eye on you. Serious, those words—and her tone a little curious.

    I moved the feather up, down, diagonal, forming the shape of a pentacle in the air.

    Bless this space, element of air. I felt, not saw, the moment the sylph arrived—for air was my element, my magic. A witch could work with any elemental magic, of course, but she—or he—always had a close affinity for one. Air was mine.

    The sylph hovered behind me, the beat of her wings stirring the air, but she didn’t show herself. Caution, lovely witch. There are silver wisps of magic stirring around you this night. What you work brings deep change. Tread lightly.

    Magic tingled across my skin like falling glitter, and then I felt her retreat.

    Riddles. Elementals, when they spoke at all to mere mortals, always spoke in riddles.

    Next, I took out a small mason jar and poured the water in a slow circle around the lit candle, careful not to disturb the flame, though the salamander within had vanished back to her realm. The water was from Willow Creek, which formed the westernmost boundary of Ginny’s farm, and for which the town itself was named.

    Bless this space, element of water.

    None of the undine appeared, and I didn’t expect them to, though sometimes I heard a hint of their song drifting on the air. But only silence reached my ears this night.

    I shook away the sense of foreboding. It was only the rising magic, I reasoned, that made the temperature seem to drop. It was only my lingering concern over Nathan’s letter that made my stomach queasy.

    Without looking, I reached into the familiar wicker basket and withdrew the last item—the most important.

    Earth.

    The Guardian of Willow Creek was, at her heart, a being of earth. That much I knew, though I knew little else about her—save that she was powerful, temperamental, and did not suffer fools.

    Was I such a fool?

    Ginny’s warnings about the Guardian almost stilled my hand, but I clutched the bag of silvery-green moss harder. There was no going back. Not now, after two years of freedom. I’d run from home the night of my high school graduation, buying a bus ticket to New York City with money saved up from some sewing jobs I’d done for Mama’s friends.

    New York City, I’d figured, was as far away from that little farmhouse as I could get. It was a big enough place to vanish into the crowds. And in that anonymity, I’d reasoned, I could find freedom.

    Turned out, I found it in this small Virginia town instead. And I’d risk the Guardian’s wrath before I’d risk being dragged backward.

    I carefully encircled the black votive with the moss, pressing it against the waiting earth. Tendrils of magic snaked into the earth, in hues of amber brown and leafy green.

    Bless this space, element of earth.

    A witch in time saves nine.

    I smirked slightly at the gnome’s garbled rendition of the familiar phrase. "A stitch in time saves nine," I corrected.

    Not this time. There was a gentle rustle, and I felt the elementals, having blessed the space, all retreat.

    Inhale.

    The scent of earth was heavy now, even for the forest. Maidenhair fern’s spice. Mushroom’s pungent aroma. Damp stone’s musty scent.

    The ground underneath me seemed to tilt and sway.

    I rose on unsteady feet. An unseen force slammed me into the tree behind me. I crumpled against the thick trunk, stars dancing in my vision.

    The candle went out. I fell, though I was already lying on the forest floor. The ground gave way, and I fell.

    TORCH FLAMES DANCED. Quartz crystal points in their many forms—clear as glass, smoky gray, the yellow of citrine, the purple of amethyst, and pale pink of rose quartz—jutted from the earth below and cavernous ceiling above. Silver moss dangled. The eyes of unseen creatures peered from the shadows, hidden by swirling silvery mists.

    The mists before me parted, revealing a throne carved of dark, twisting wood, as though the tree from which it was carved were still alive, still sentient, still growing. Green crystals poked out here and there. Behind it was a wall of dark green vines speckled with red roses the size of small cabbages.

    But it was the figure who sat in that throne—and such a chair could only rightly be called a throne—who sent my jaw dropping.

    Cassandra Anne Gearhart. Full lips, a deep, plum purple, almost black, but glistening as though they’d kissed the stars, turned upward in a dark, sinister smile as they hissed my name.

    I stepped backward, but a wall of vines pressed against me, halting any retreat. Yes?

    Her eyes were silver like the mists, but bright as the coldest of winter stars. Her skin was bronze as though stained with earth, her hair a twisting mass of light brown braids filled with moss and twigs.

    She rose. I was short—a mere five-foot—so most people seemed tall to me, but she was purely a giantess. She towered over me, her robes the same near-black purple as her lips, threaded with green, amber, and teal threads. I almost reached out to caress the billowing fabric, to test its fibers under my fingers. Instead, I curled my

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