For centuries, flowers blossomed and fell and gave way to fruit. Thanks to the Haywoods, the plants had flourished, an equal exchange of heartache for harvest. The witches only ever took what the garden offered when the garden offered it, never forcing the plants to produce more than they were capable of.

But now, the vines twisted and turned. Stems stretched skyward, leaves splayed their fingers through the air. Fireflies landed on buds, spreading gloom, and the plants drank it up greedily as if the darkness that hung over the town was itself thick with melancholy and the creatures knew the garden needed it. Though the sun had long since set, heavy black blossoms turned toward the chain-link fence at the far edge of the Haywood property. It was only a tiny bit of land that separated the shadow garden from the Bonner corn. Ebony vines crawled up the metal, stretching toward the other side, where the gloom was heaviest.

As the branches reached toward the Bonner distillery aboveground, the roots dug deeper and deeper into the earth below. Blackened stalks of corn, once a gift from the Haywoods to the Bonners, might’ve respected their place in carefully planned rows, but the hunger in the roots knew no boundaries.

Chapter 9

Kaden

Kaden had not planned to attend his father’s funeral, but after that night in the bar, he couldn’t stop thinking about home. He’d gone to bed, tried to convince himself he’d had too much to drink. But he couldn’t shake it.

He’d stolen that woman’s memories.

It couldn’t be possible.

The Bonners didn’t have any magic. The only magic in Yarrow rested in the hands of the Haywoods and their shadow garden. It was that first dark batch of corn they’d used when Kaden was a kid that turned Bonner bourbon into something special. Everyone knew that.

Now, Kaden tore down Interstate 75, crossing the Ohio border into Kentucky. His dread grew with each mile marker he passed. A memory tugged at the back of his mind. He tried to pull it forward, but those years before he left Yarrow only came back in pieces. It had always hurt too much to think about his father’s abuse, his mother’s decision to look the other way. But now, as he was heading back into the vipers’ nest that was Yarrow, looking back was the only option.

“This distillery was supposed to be mine.” My father towered over me, his voice measured, his face red, his fists clenched. I should’ve been scared. I should’ve backed down or scrambled away or tried to run out the back door, but I was never one for doing what he wanted.

Maybe that’s where our problems began.

Just that morning, my mom let me work in the grain house. I was still underage, so it wasn’t entirely legal, but that didn’t matter to her. It mattered to him.