1 Chapter 1

I walked into the living room three days before Christmas to find the coven was in full swing

In case you’re thinking that sounds a bit weird, I should maybe mention I was raised by witches. Three of them, which anyone who’s read their Macbeth (or their Pratchett, for that matter) will know is the only sensible, or even possible, number of witches. I grew up with my Mum, my Aunty Des and Aunty Mags, all of us living together in the little house in Camden that used to belong to my Granny, God rest her. I’m Liam, by the way. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m the one solitary male in the household, unless you count the cats. And to be honest, they’re not as male as they used to be, poor things.

There is, in fact, a fourth sister, my Aunty Gerry. Rejected by the coven on the cruel grounds of numerical superfluity, she became an Anglican priest to spite them. Well, that’s how she tells it, anyway, although I can’t say I’ve noticed a great deal of spite in their relationships.

“I pray for their souls every night,” Aunty Gerry told me piously one evening not so long ago, before collapsing into very un-Reverend-like cackles and passing the gin.

You’re probably wondering exactly what I mean by witches. Well, they don’t wear pointy hats, and I’m the only one of the family generally seen in head-to-toe black, but don’t let that fool you. They have a way of knowing things they’ve no business knowing, and although we’re not rich—far from it—still, things have a habit of turning out just the way my mum and my aunties want them to. We had some unfriendly neighbours, once, who seemed to think it their duty to pass judgement on how I live my life. You wouldn’t believe the trouble they had with that house—pipes bursting, fuses blowing, leaks in the roof, that sort of thing. They spent a fortune fixing the place up, and eventually sold it at a rock-bottom price to a young family who are as nice as you could wish for. And who haven’t had a day’s trouble with the house since they moved in.

So I learned at an early age which way was widdershins, and why it was vitally important to leave a bowl of milk on the doorstep at sunset. For the fairy folk, I thought for ages, but it turned out it was just for next door’s cat all along. They were raising it vegan, and my aunties don’t hold with that. My dad was never much on the scene. Mum likes to refer to me as her youthful indiscretion, but seeing as I’m twenty-three and she’s fifty-five…Well, you do the maths. My father was, cliché of clichés, the milkman, who popped in for a Christmas sherry and barely escaped with his (very) young life. He’s forty-two now, with a wife and a brand new baby, and who’d blame him for being embarrassed about having a grown-up son? Not I.

Me? I’m a musician. Currently between gigs, which means I spend a lot of my time on the London Underground, busking. It’s not as bad as you’d think—it’s in the warm, and I like seeing all the people go by. Wondering where they go to, and hopefully cheering them up a little on their way

There’s one man in particular I’d like to cheer up, although not just by playing the saxophone. He wears a rumpled trench coat like Columbo, filled out nicely by a pair of broad shoulders I can just imagine laying my head on, he has iron-grey hair cut bristly on top and his eyes are the brightest blue you’ve ever seen. He never looks like he’s in a hurry, not like most of the people you’ll see in a Tube station…ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Liam, my love.” That was Aunty Des. She’s as thin as a rail, with a sharp, pointed nose. Aunty Mags is round as a peach, with soft curves that all but smother you when she gives you a hug, which she does at the drop of a hat. For years, when I was little, I used to call them Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, and to their credit, they never spanked my cheeky young arse for it. “Where have you been? It’s nearly time for tea.”

I noticed all three of them had thrust their knitting under cushions. There’s a wealth of cushions on our sofa, as good for easing weary bones as they are for concealment. “Would those be my Christmas presents, by any chance?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Aunty Des spent long afternoons teaching me to do that, bless her bony self.

“And what makes you think you’re getting any presents this Christmas?” Mum asked sharply. “Lord knows I don’t ask much, but it’s been my fondest wish these last ten years to see you settled with a nice young man before I shuffle off this mortal coil, and what have you done about it?”

“Mum! I was only thirteen ten years ago! And it’s not that easy, okay? You wouldn’t want me to settle for just anyone, now would you? Anyhow, you’re as strong as an ox. I reckon you’ve got another forty years at least before you start getting ready to do any shuffling.”

Aunty Mags sniffed. “The rest of us aren’t getting any younger, either. And it’s not right for a young man to be on his own at Christmas time.”

“Ah, but I’m not on my own, am I?” I said, perching on the arm of the sofa and putting my arm around her. Well, halfway around her, at any rate. “I’ve got my three lovely ladies here.”

“None of that!” Aunty Mags giggled, but Aunty Des pursed her lips. “Girls, it’s time for a confab. Liam—go and put the kettle on. And mind you take your time about it.”

I swung my feet back to the fluffy carpet and stood. “I’ll be seeing you in the New Year, then,” I said as I went out to the kitchen.