A socially awkward bobcat shifter.
An ex-cheerleading vampire.
A sweet—but slightly neurotic—cupcake-baking witch.
They fight crime?
When the case of a missing mean girl throws Hazel back into contact with two old classmates, it’s time for these supernatural frenemies to set aside past grudges and help clear each other’s names.
But in the cloudy, romantic beach town of Blue Moon Bay, Oregon, it seems nearly everyone’s guarding a secret.
And they all involve magic of one kind of another.
Will these three women, who normally can’t stand each other, crack the mystery of what really happened to Hazel’s old bully, Ashlee—or is their effort cursed to fail?
I pressed the button to unlock Trixie, but nothing happened. Desperately I tried again, over and over. Couldn’t even hear her voice. “Crud! The remote battery must be dead.”
Max jogged back over, looking curious. “Maybe you could just fly to him, or something?”
I rolled my eyes at her. “Witches don’t fly, that’s a myth.”
“Not even with a broomstick?”
“Also a myth.”
“Can you stop time?”
“I’m a kitchen witch, not freakin’ Dr. Who.”
“That is a real thing,” I admitted grudgingly. “I’m just . . . not very good at those kinds of spells yet.” Or Mary Poppins clean up spells. Or reading auras.
“Right then.” Max closed her eyes and screwed up her face into a grimace.
“Wow, sorry that my witch skills aren’t up to your high standards,” I muttered, miffed.
Max’s eyes opened in surprise. “Hazel, I’m not judging you.”
“That’s not your judgy face?”
“No, it’s my shifting face. I’m getting ready to shift into a bobcat so I can sprint back home and get my car for you.”
I stared at her. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d leave it at home today, it was nice and sunny . . . ”
“Not that. You didn’t by any chance just say you were turning into a bobcat?”
“Guess I did.” Max shrugged and made a lackadaisical “oops” face. “Welp, that was me coming out. You can process the whole ‘shifter’ thing while I get us some wheels.”
I didn’t so much see Max shift as I saw her clothes fall to the floor in a soft heap. A graceful, brown-spotted wildcat with black-tufted ears bounded past me. Picking up her still-warm shirt, I caught a whiff of the pleasant, woodsy essential oil blend she liked to mix up and use as perfume. Made sense. A bobcat liked the smell of the woods.
There wasn’t really much to process. Except what an idiot I’d been not to have guessed it all ten years ago.
This explained so much.