☂️ Poppy Proctor

Book 1: Cloudy with a Chance of Witchcraft

• Recently divorced, not bitter about it (okay, a little bitter about it)
• Witch from a powerful bloodline — nobody told me, thanks family
• My magic is tied to my emotions so lightning does what I say when I’m upset
• I live with my dead (okay, not-so-dead-but-yeah-dead) grandparents and they have opinions about everything
• Crashed my car into my ex-boyfriend’s yard on day one in town
• He’s been single for years. Suspiciously single. Fated-mate single.

🚩 He’s a 10 but he broke up with you by letter, stayed single for years, and has been checking on you through his mother’s social media ever since.

🌪 Dana Van Helsing

Book 2: Hexing with a Chance of Tornadoes

• Quarter vampire, quarter witch, half slayer — my Nonna let all of this slip over the phone like she was reading a recipe
• Former assistant DA, current full-time skeptic
• My father is THE Abraham Van Helsing. He’s not dead. He’s been paying my bills from the shadows for years. We’re going to have a talk.
• Killed ghouls within 72 hours of arriving in town with zero training and zero remorse
• Wind explodes out of nowhere when things get… intimate. Not going to elaborate. Still processing.
• A wolf pack alpha keeps growling “mine” at me. I keep saying no. Neither of us is stopping.

🚩 He’s a 10 but he growls “mine” at you in public, you punched him in the face the first time you met, and his mother is already cooking for your future together.

🐿 Marcy Dotter

Book 3: Spellcasting with a Chance of Spirits

• Medium, empath, barefoot enthusiast
• I see the dead. I talk to animals. Yes, including the squirrel. His name is Burgess. He’s my best friend. Move on.
• A dark entity is stalking me in my dreams. I thought about trying to rehome it because even demons need love but I’m not sure where you’d list that?
• I’m a big fan of Prince, John Denver, and The Carpenters (their music is a big turn on for me).
• The only person who can help me is a century-old vampire with a demon living inside him. The wind told the flowers, the flowers told the bees, the bees told the birds, and the birds told me he’s my fated mate. Somebody should probably tell him.

🚩 He’s a 10 but he’s a century-old vampire with a demon living inside him and keeps a photo collection of you his best friend called “concerning.”

✨ Astria Frankenstein

Book 4: Starry with a Chance of Nightshade

• Yes, that Frankenstein. My father is Henry. Convicted. Body-snatcher. Mad scientist. Great at family dinners.
• Stitched-together monsters have been tracking me since college
• My goblin nanny was a better parent than my actual parent
• I have Fae sigils tattooed on my arms that I don’t fully understand and a “dog” who is absolutely not a dog
• Lightning listens to me when I’m scared. It’s a whole thing.
• A Fae Hunter kissed me during a monster attack and then refused to put me down. My dog farted on him. He stayed.

🚩 He’s a 10 but he’s a Nightshade Fae Hunter, his kind have been hunting Frankensteins for centuries, and you’re the one he caught feelings for.

Excerpt from Starry with a Chance of Nightshade

“This seems like a really bad idea,” I stressed as I sat at the dining room table of the old Victorian home I shared with my university roommates. The house wasn’t going to win any awards or be featured on any magazine covers, at least not in its current state, but my best friends and I had been able to live in it for next to nothing for the past three years. It had also come fully furnished, which made it all the more appealing.

In some ways, the house reminded me of my childhood home, except this one had somewhat up-to-date electricity. I’m not sure it would have passed a home inspection, but it wasn’t from the advent of the amenity either—like my house had been.

In an ironic twist of fate, the house that I’d been living in for the past three years had a running theme throughout it. One with threads to my past. My gaze slid to the two-foot-high bronze statue of Frankenstein’s monster—or what most people thought he looked like. Big, green, flat head, stupid look on his face. The total Boris Karloff version.

The figurine was one of many different items throughout the house that gave a nod to the classic tale. There were a large number of other things, like a bust of Bela Lugosi as Dracula, and a painting of Lon Chaney Jr. as The Wolf Man.

My guess was that someone in the house’s past had been a classic horror movie buff. That, or they were just crap decorators. Anything was possible.

Apparently, the last person to have owned the home had been unable to sell it no matter how much he’d lowered the price. Eventually, he’d passed away, and the home had ended up in the hands of the city. From what we’d been told, there had been countless attempts made to rent it out, but the tenants never lasted more than a few nights.

My roommates and I had managed three years just fine. I wasn’t sure what the issue was or why everyone else had bailed, but the place worked for us. Sure, the house had a certain creepy vibe to it, checking all the boxes for the type of home that neighborhood children make up scary stories about (it had that in common with my childhood house too), but it didn’t trip my radar.

At least, it didn’t use to make me uneasy. As of late, the basement was somewhat off-putting. It was so unnerving that I’d actually swapped doing laundry with cleaning bathrooms on our house chore list for the past two weeks.

While I’d not been a big fan of basements since I was little, when something happened that left lasting emotional damage, I’d still go down in them. Like my childhood home, this one also had an embalming room in the basement. Though this house had a legit reason for it being there since the house had once been a fully operational funeral home. As far as I knew, no one was down there creating a horde of monsters like my father had stitched together and brought to life.

Super big win in my book.

Two weeks back, deep unease had settled over me when it came to the basement. I didn’t think anything was going to get me when I was down there and knew the fear was in my head. One of the classes I’d only just taken a final in had dealt with subject matter that left buried memories from the past resurfacing.

The class focused on the story of Frankenstein and his monster. Of course, it was as told by an exceptionally gifted teenage girl, not the source himself—a man who was technically my uncle with a number of “greats” before that title. Mary Shelley had been kind enough to weave the truth into fiction and to keep some of the events a secret. But the story itself held grains of truth. Enough that being forced to spend a semester analyzing it, all while knowing the real story, had certainly messed with my head.

But I knew the topic would arise at some point. It was impossible to escape the story of Victor Frankenstein when your major is Gothic literature. Setting aside the personal trauma that resurfaced at the mention of it all, the class had been an easy A.

That was nice.

And I understood my brain had taken the work of fiction combined with the events of my past and twisted it into some weird new fear of a basement I’d been in at least a hundred times prior.

That didn’t mean I was going down to do laundry anytime soon. Nope. Understanding why I was suddenly afraid and overcoming said fear were two vastly different things. For now, the basement was a no-go for me. The only issue that caused was doing my laundry since the washer and dryer were down there.

Thankfully, I’d managed to find a nice group of fellow freaks to live with who didn’t raise a brow at my newfound aversion to the basement or at me swapping laundry for bathroom cleaning. In fact, Jessica, the roommate who had been tasked with bathroom duty this month, seemed downright thrilled to get out of scrubbing toilets.

I’d found a pile of folded clothes on the end of my bed, on top of my purple comforter, when I’d gotten back from class this afternoon, which Jessica had left for me before she’d headed to work at her part-time job. She’d been working at Grimm Cakes since our freshman year of college. They took their name quite literally, offering dark and spooky cupcakes and cakes. For my last birthday she’d brought home a tray full of skull head cupcakes. They were almost too cute to eat. That didn’t stop us from devouring them though.

While my early years had been free from worry about money, which had changed after my father’s descent into madness, the rest had taught me the value of a dollar. I never turned down free food. Demonic-looking baked goods or not.

My understanding of how far a dollar could and could not stretch left me on a hunt for replacement housemates for fall. My current roommates—nine women, all of whom had different backgrounds and upbringings—had become like family to me. It was going to be hard to see so many of them go, but I understood it was time. Half of them were either graduating and going off to other schools for their master’s degrees or heading out into the world to adult.

I could have elected to head to grad school somewhere else, but the town of Grimm Cove had grown on me over the past four years. But, while the cost to live in the house was nominal, it was still more than a broke college student could afford.

I worked part-time at Chicken on a Pitchfork. It was a small place that specialized in chicken on a stick, which was exactly as described. Of course, Grimm Cove, being Grimm Cove, meant the business had a paranormal flare to it. The sticks used for the chicken skewers were made to look like pitchforks and every type of chicken seasoning you could think of had a corresponding name, also supernatural in origin.

Dave, the owner, liked to show up wearing a devil costume while he walked around and greeted patrons in the outdoor dining area. He’d tried to get me to wear one too, but I drew the line there. He was an interesting mix of beach bum vibes meets a slight Jersey accent.

The job wasn’t glamorous, but it helped me make ends meet while also keeping our household supplied with a lot of leftover chicken. I’d be getting more hours soon, once the semester was over.

Last summer, I’d worked full-time for Dave and also bartended at night at a bar just off campus. Unfortunately, there were no extra perks working there. It wasn’t like I could bring home leftover liquor or anything. That was fine. I wasn’t much of a drinker anyway. I just liked the tips. They’d basically paid for my books for my entire senior year. Considering how expensive college textbooks were, that was saying something.

Asking my aunt for help wasn’t an option. She’d already done so much for me. I couldn’t ask her to do more.

Aunt Rachael had walked away from a family fortune and refused help from them at every turn, wanting to live life on her own terms. So much so that she’d even gone as far as to legally change our last name to Franks.

I’d been little when we’d moved away from the big house and drove for what felt like an eternity before we unloaded the few boxes of items that had fit in the car into a tiny home in the middle of nowhere. My cousin, Demi, had only just started to crawl when we’d been forced to uproot and try to start over again elsewhere. The pattern continued for years. Us moving, our past following, and us moving again.

My four years in Grimm Cove had marked my longest stay anywhere since before my father had decided to really, truly embrace the Frankenstein family legacy. It also was the longest I’d ever gone with the sins of my father not coming back to haunt me. I wanted to believe it would stay that way. That I could spend the rest of my days in Grimm Cove and live a normal life, but deep down I knew better.

Nothing lasted forever, especially not happiness.

For now, I’d continue pretending that everything was normal, and that I could have a life. I had my sights set on starting on my master’s degree, and to make that happen, I needed to increase my efforts to find roommates to fill the opening spots.

I had high hopes my flyers that were posted all over campus, announcing rooms for rent for dirt cheap, would yield some takers. There were two potential prospects who were supposed to stop by tonight to see the place and for me to interview them. Beyond that, there hadn’t been much in the way of interest.

Stevie, one of my roommates, had suggested I remove the picture of the house that I’d included in the flyers. She liked to point out that the house could be used to stage a horror movie or a haunted house attraction. She wasn’t wrong. We’d gone so far as to host a Halloween party last year. We’d charged admission and made enough to cover our minimal living expenses and also donate to the local animal shelter.

I sighed. She was probably right about taking the photo off the flyers though.

The house had a certain “dark charm” and was located ideally, only two blocks from campus, The school had recently decided to undergo a rebranding and was now a full-fledged university, rather than a college. The town was growing at a fairly steady pace. I wasn’t exactly sure what the difference between a college and a university was, but apparently it was celebration-worthy, as noted by all the banners and signs around campus.

It also meant I’d been able to grab a decent amount of apparel with “college” written on it for next to nothing. They’d become staples in my wardrobe. I was in one now. It was too big for me, but comfy. I had the lower portion tied just above my belly button. My shorts had started as sweatpants with the old labeling of the school, but they’d fallen victim to my monthly hair dyeing sessions.

Reaching up, I touched the back of my head, running my hands over my pixie cut. I kept the back close cut, but the top was slightly longer, with varied, choppy layers hanging down to my eyebrows. I’d had the same hairstyle for the whole of my college career, though I had gone from my normal dark hair color to a bright purple at the end of my junior year. It stuck. But upkeep was messy. Beyond the monthly haircuts, which I got for cheap at the local cosmetology school by letting students do the cutting, and monthly dye touch-ups, it was a no-muss style. Wash and go. Just the way I liked it.

My aunt hadn’t seen me since I’d gone purple since I’d not gone home over the summer. She’d only laugh. There would be no judgment. Aunt Rachael was good about that. She’d spent the majority of her life being judged by others because of her last name. She didn’t make a habit of doing it to others. She’d also gotten very used to my independent personality. I was the type of person who marched to her own beat and was perfectly happy doing so. It took me a while to warm to new people, and I liked having alone time. That was hard to come by in a house full of girls.

None of my roommates knew the truth of my childhood or the family secrets that were best left unsaid. I’d managed to keep my past separate from my current life for nearly four full years and had no intention of ever letting the two merge. I wasn’t the only one of us who had been vague about her life before university.

All of us were to some extent.

Krissy had come up with a “fun” way to spend the last weekend before classes ended. I didn’t exactly find what she’d planned to be fun. In fact, I found it to be troubling, especially when I’d seen the extremes she was taking.

Mina, her twin Willa, and I had voted on watching movies and pigging out on pizza and popcorn. We’d been outvoted. Mina had done the smart thing and made herself scarce and headed to class to get some lab time in when Krissy had come in with Emily close at her heels, each carrying bags of items they’d purchased to complete their night of supposed fun.

Jessica had retreated to her room the minute she spotted what Krissy and Emily had brought home.

Also smart.

I was starting to think I should have done the same.

Currently, white candles formed a circle around Krissy on the floor at the entrance area to the dining room. Not only was what she had planned something that could backfire with ease, she was basically planted in a spot that would leave all of us having to hop over her. There were better places to play what she kept terming a game. Like nowhere near me.

Before me on the table was an array of works by Edgar Allan Poe. They were spread open as I went over the accompanying text from one of my courses. The class was dedicated to Poe and the only final I was currently worried about. The professor was big into trick questions, so I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. I’d been cramming for the final all day and evening with the hope I could graduate with honors.

I leaned back in the dining chair, rocking on two feet, and debated on getting up to make myself a snack. I was a bit concerned to leave my roommates unsupervised at the moment, so I remained in place, mostly out of fear they’d open a revolving door to Hell, and we’d become a late-night treat for a legion of demons.

Sharing the table with my study material was the remainder of the candles and various herbs and crystals Krissy and Emily had bought. There was an old book Krissy had gotten from the library room of the house. A spot we tended to avoid because it was full of dust, spiderwebs, and smelled like one of those antiques shops that never had anyone shopping there and was crammed to the gills.

The contents of the table all seemed harmless enough, but in the wrong hands, could be dangerous.

Deadly even.

Emily’s attention span was virtually nonexistent, so I was a bit shocked she’d managed to stay put as long as she had. That being said, she wasn’t on the floor next to Krissy. She was sitting in a chair next to me at the table, watching as Krissy did all the setup work.