Chapter 1
Piper
If Snowglobe Hollow had a town motto, it would be…We Wish You a Merry Christmas, Whether You Like It or Not.
The evidence?
Mariah Carey is already screaming through my bedroom window, and it’s barely sunrise.
I groan and shove the blankets off my body, peeling myself from the warm nest I’d built overnight. My curls—thick, dark, and forever plotting my downfall—spill around me as I sit up. They’re frizzed into a halo of chaotic energy, sparking faintly at the ends in a way that says the curse is awake before I am.
Great. Just what I needed.
The floor is freezing when my feet hit it, and I bite out a curse under my breath. My entire apartment smells like cold air and a hint of cinnamon from the candle I forgot to snuff out. I tug my tank top straight over my chest—big boobs and gravity have been in a long-term feud—then pad into the kitchen, thighs brushing pleasantly with every step.
The coffee pot gurgles like it’s chewing gravel.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn.
It explodes anyway.
Not destructively—just a violent puff of steam that blasts peppermint grounds across my counterand coats my cheeks in warm, sticky grit. I glare at the machine through lashes dusted in coffee shrapnel.
The Bellamy Holiday Curse strikes again.
Every December, the curse wakes like some ancient, bored creature stretching its limbs. Our magic—usually stable, manageable—turns feral. Overly emotional. Overreactive. Spells slip their leashes. Charms misbehave. Enchantments twist into something darker, louder, messier.
Magic reacts to mood, and mine?
Decidedly stabby before caffeine.
My grandmother used to call us the Winter Witches. My mother used to call us walking hazards. I just call it another Tuesday.
I wipe the mess from my porcelain-pale skin, the pink of my lips going redder from the friction. My striking blue eyes—which my aunt always said were “Bellamy blue, storm-bound and stubborn”—catch my reflection in the toaster. Ilook like a sleep-paralyzed Victorian ghost who happens to be wearingTargetpajamas.
Perfect.
I yank on jeans that hug my hips and a sweater thick enough to count as armor, then shrug into my coat. When I step outside, a blade of cold air slices across my face, waking me up instantly. The street is buried under twinkling lights and fake snow, wreaths hanging from poles, garlands draped across every doorway.
Snowglobe Hollow doesn’t decorate.
ItblazesChristmas spirit.
The whole damn town smells like pine sap and gingerbread. My breath clouds as I walk, boots crunching in perfect rhythm with a distant choir warming up in the town square. My curls snag on my scarf, static biting at my ears.
The cursealwaysheightens my senses.
The world feels too loud—too bright. More…alive.
Ifeel magic, even mundane magic, like temperature—an ambient pressure curling against my skin, prickling along my ribs. Today it hums beneath everything, restless and metallic like a storm wanting out.
I make it to my shop—Bellamy’s Hearth & Home—just as the bells above the entrance tinkle on their own. Not the simple chime they’re supposed to give. No. It's a freaking melody—a jaunty little tune, like they’re auditioning for a fantasy musical.
“I swear to the spirits,” I mutter, “if you’re about to sing—”
They chime again. Innocently… Mockingly.
Inside, the shop reeks of lavender, dried rosemary, and faint smoke. My senses stretch, cataloguing the changes immediately. My potions are stacked in a rainbow gradient I never arranged. A spell jar labeled Noise Reduction throbs with bass like it wants to DJ my morning. And every bundle of mistletoe I prepped for tomorrow’s craft fair?
