Still, I can’t shake the tickle in my nose.
Not the kind caused by too much glitter magic—no, no, this is the twitch.
The special, no nonsense, uber magical senses twitch.
The one that happens whenever someone new, someone truly special, signs up for my app.
I pause mid-sip of my hot cocoa (extra marshmallows, of course) and glance toward my enchanted tablet. It glows bright gold before flashing the words: New User Registration: Ebenezer Rogers, Honey Badger Shifter.
“Well, well, well,” I murmur, stroking my goatee. “It’s about time.”
The East Coast Cete of Honey Badger Shifters has ignored every invitation I’ve ever sent—too busy digging burrows and scowling at anyone who dares use the word festive.
But perhaps this is the start of something new.
A slow smile spreads across my face.
“How perfectly fitting,” I chuckle. “An Ebenezer in need of a little Christmas cheer. What a delicious irony. Oh, liebling, I think the Fates are having a bit of fun with this one.”
I lift my cocoa in a toast to no one in particular—well, no one except my darling departed Betty, love of my life, who visits from beyond the veil now and then.
“To holiday magic, new beginnings, and one very grumpy Badger who’s about to meet his honey.”
The twinkle lights flicker in agreement.
And just like that, I feel it—the spark, the connection, the unmistakable pull of destiny at work.
I don’t know who she is yet, but this match? Well, I can already tell, will be one for the books.
Until my next update, friends!
With magic, tinsel, and buckets of holiday cheer,
Uncle Uzzi
Chapter 1
Marigold
Christmas carols drift through the air, blending with the cheerful chaos outside as the city hums with holiday energy.
It’s one of those crisp December mornings where everything feels alive—twinkling lights, bundled-up shoppers, and the scent of cinnamon and snow.
Inside my bakery, the ovens are warm, the trays are full, and the smells?
Pure heaven.
Sugar, spice, and maybe a dash of magic.
My whole life, I’ve been a little different.
Enough that my late Abuela used to call me her little bruja, but not enough to get a one-way ticket to one of those reeducation camps that a lot of parents are rightfully being dragged for on TikTok now.
Suffice it to say—I’ve got certain gifts.
The second sight is what most people would call it.
No, I don’t read palms or tarot cards or charge twenty bucks a minute on some 1-800 psychic hotline.
