Spotlight & Giveaway: Dragon Fires Everywhere by Hazel Beck

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Hazel Beck’s new release: Dragon Fires Everywhere

When a witch plays with fire, she might just ignite a love that can’t be extinguished…

Newly-minted Historian of the soon-to-be-ascended Riverwood Coven Georgie Pendell has always played her part—so why does she feel like an outsider in her own life? Duped and dumped by her boyfriend, Georgie finds herself dismissing love as a fairytale. But when the words she reads aloud from an enchanted storybook free a dragon shifter, everything changes.

Georgie finds herself drawn to the dragon in ways she didn’t think were even possible for her, and her dragon, with his fiery golden gaze, all but claims Georgie as his own. But beneath his scorching intensity lies a secret, one that stretches back into the ancient past.

With the Joywood Coven still finding ways to upend the new order of the witching world, Georgie and her coven will need to prove themselves up to the task of being in charge, and right the wrongs their predecessors committed—if they can uncover the truth. Because something is missing. Something that will stop the Joywood once and for all. Something that only a Historian and an ancient dragon can find.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Dragon Fires Everywhere 

The number of crows everywhere would be a little bit alarming—since there are far more than a mere murder, in every tree, strutting in the roads, wheeling lazily in the late November sky above all the shops—if I wasn’t so close to home.
And so happy to be back on the pretty bricks of St. Cyprian. It feels like I’ve been away longer than I have. I’ve spent the weeks since Samhain traveling around the world, gathering the magical keys to the Witchlore archives that poor, deceased Happy Ambrose (spoiler alert: he was never all that happy) left littered about.
The Joywood—the ruling coven we basically dethroned, who would like to make our ascension into rulers as difficult and challenging as possible—claimed it was a mistake. An accident caused by poor Happy’s unfortunate fate at Samhain.
Because otherwise, he totally would have gathered the keys himself and handed them over to me once the Joywood well and truly lost the ascension trials in October. Sure.
I liked traveling, I won’t lie. But I missed home. I missed my friends and coven. And as much as I’m primed and ready to be Georgie Pendell, Historian of the Riverwood Coven, it still feels a bit like a costume I’m wearing. A little too special for the likes of me.
It’ll feel real once we fully take over at Yule. I’m almost sure of it.
I could have transported myself anywhere from my last stop in Merry Olde England when it was time to come back home, but I came to Main Street first. I wanted to take a moment to fully bask in this town I’ve always loved, no matter how difficult the last year has been.
After weeks of not hard, but tedious, work put in place by the pettiest witches I know, I wanted to remind myself why, exactly, we all fought so hard to save this place from the evil coven that came before us.
The evil coven that had no intention of stepping down until we forced the issue.
I wanted exactly what I do now—to walk down the street that I would know if I was blind, with all the magical bricks and historic houses that are now shops and restaurants that draw in witches and humans alike.
St. Cyprian has been the center of the witching world since witches decided that Salem was the last witch hunt they planned to live through and came here, to a then-frontier town at the magical intersection of three mighty rivers—only two of which are visible to human eyes—to build a safe place where magical folks could hide in plain sight, safe from the burning torches and Puritan fantasies that had come for too many of our forebears.
And speaking of those Puritans, it’s Thanksgiving. A holiday with its own questionable roots, but still the one I love best as it plays no favorites. No rituals, no gifts. Just food and the people you love.
I miss my people. My best friends, who are like family to me because my family of origin is complicated—whose isn’t—and who are now the coven known as the Riverwood. The new ruling coven. And everyone is aware of that, I think, as people on the street catch my eye and nod or smile greetings in a way they definitely didn’t do before we went through the ascension trials and were officially voted in.
Clearly things have shifted here at home while I’ve been away.
I walk faster.
And remind myself that I also miss my boyfriend. Obviously. I’ll go see Sage, of course. Maybe tomorrow.
But first, I’m headed to my people, the Riverwood. They’ll be excited to know I gathered all the keys quicker than expected. The Joywood told us I’d be lucky to find them all before I’m supposed to open the archives at the Cold Moon Ceremony at the start of December, next week. I therefore decided I would be so lucky, I’d do it fast.
This ceremony is meant to kick off the Yule season and our last weeks into full ascension. Though we won the ascension trials, that isn’t the end of our fight with the Joywood. They’re evil. And are no doubt planning to unleash their usual terrifying nonsense on us between now and our full ascension on the winter solstice.
No one can remember the last time there was a transfer of ruling coven power, suggesting to anyone who’s paying attention that the Joywood really are as bad as we’ve pretty much always known they are. Playing with collective memories is just one example. Even now, after we beat them fair and square, every step we take toward assuming power seems to lead to more steps. I know this annoys my friends, and it’s not that I’m not annoyed, but I’m a Historian. We’re used to the twists and turns and hidden paths of history and lore.
No doubt the Joywood will continue to try to obscure things, hide important information, and outright thwart us. We know they have access to black magic—our healer has been busy cleaning up black magic attacks since Samhain—so even though we’ve won, there’s no certainty it’s over.
But they never really have understood who they’re dealing with when it comes to us. My friends and I grew up under their rule. We watched them steal our friend and leader’s power and memory. Her sister’s freedom and magic. We watched them lie and change the lore. We fought back when they attacked us again and again and again, straight on and in secret. We tracked their offenses—and sometimes I think we only know the half of it.
The secrets tucked away in the archives only the leading coven has access to will tell me the truth, and then there won’t be so much uncertainty. We’ll know the exact steps we need to take. We’ll know how to protect ourselves, what unsettling dreams about crows might mean, and a whole slew of other things.
I can’t wait.
This thought brings a smile to my face as I decide to head to Wilde House first. I want to drop off my things and magic them into place. It might not appear like I’m organized, but I certainly am. One witch’s mess is another’s system. I also want to check to see if my cat familiar, the delightfully lazy and gloriously orange Octavius, is about.
Wilde House is dark and empty when I transport myself in right at the front door. For a moment I just stand in the foyer and breathe.
Home.
Of course, Wilde House isn’t really my home, even though I’ve lived here since I was eighteen. Truth is, I don’t know how much longer I can justify staying here. I’m not a scared teenager moving in here to support my best friend who no longer remembers the truth about her magic anymore. I’m not the girl who lied to said friend about my family life so she would insist on me moving in. I’m not even a Wilde. Emerson and Rebekah, who are, spend more time with their significant others these days than in their ancestral home.
Wilde House has always been a special place because it’s lovely and old and represents one of the founding families that made St. Cyprian what it is. It’s also had over a century of protections built into its very walls and floors. These days it stands as a monument to the much-prophesied Wilde sisters, who were deemed disappointments at eighteen but are now two of the most powerful witches alive.
Someone should be here until we take over actual ruling coven duties full-time.
But after the holiday season is over, I’m going to need to find my own way. Maybe by then I’ll be ready to move in with Sage, the way he’s been asking me to do for months now.
I wait for images of us together like that to sweep through me and charm me. I’ve been waiting. And like always, I find it impossible to picture. It’s just a blank, when I’ve always had an incredibly rich fantasy life.
Too rich, some might say. And often have.
“This is a sign of maturity,” I mutter to myself, because a rich fantasy life really only ever got me in trouble. I’m maturing, and just in time, as this ruling coven costume needs to fit me better. Not being able to daydream about my future with Sage probably means that I’m growing into all those good adult habits my mother despaired of me ever finding.
Mind you, I can and happily have imagined all those scenarios for my friends—all now coupled up in our coven. Emerson and Jacob ruling St. Cyprian and the world with Emerson’s might and fairness and Jacob’s calm and certainty. Rebekah and Frost tucked up in Frost’s glamoured Victorian on the hill (with Frost’s enviable library) being snarky and beautifully in love in spite of it. I have thought more about Ellowyn and Zander’s baby and the parents they’ll be more than anyone has a right to, probably.
But Sage and me? Nothing.
Facts, not fantasy, are what make good Historians, my mother always told me. You keep letting your head run away with you, Georgina, and you might lose it.
She’s never made it clear if she means that literally.
I drift toward the stairs and my attic garret rooms—my preferred description, though there’s nothing garrety about the third floor of Wilde House and the actual, lovely turret I get to live in. I smile at the sometimes grinning, sometimes scowling newel post, depending on who you ask. I’ve always found the carved wooden dragon’s expression more interesting than fearsome. The glittering onyx eyes seem to pay attention, and I like that. And occasionally, the effect of whatever enchantment exists around the newel post means you can hear it say something in your head.
Hello, Azrael. I’ve returned home. Hope you’ve been well.
He says nothing in return this time—no surprise there.
Dragons, even inanimate ones, do what and how they will. That’s only one reason that many of my favorite daydreams involve great fire-breathing creatures of legend.
Where good old Azrael might make others uneasy, likely because he’s been known to give off the occasional electric shock, I find his presence at the bottom of the stairs comforting.
Like a sentry guarding anyone who resides upstairs.
Namely me.
My hand glides along the intricately carved head, warm and silken under my palm, and it offers a kind of deep purr in return.
The only welcome home I need.
But the word home makes me feel anxious again. I hurry up the stairs, feeling out with my magic for Octavius, but I don’t sense him. He’s either enjoying Thanksgiving with the rest of the coven over at Jacob’s farmhouse across the river, or he’s off doing whatever it is familiars—and cats—do when left to their own devices.
I drop my things off, putting them back into their specific places. Especially my travel crystals, which need a good recharge. To anyone else, my room and my library in the next room look like a towering, haphazard mishmashes of everything I love—books, old things, all kinds of crystals—but my system is as ruthlessly organized as the best archives and libraries around the world.
I don’t like to let people see how my brain works.
I don’t think that’s weird.
Once satisfied, I’m even more excited to see my friends. I could transport myself over to what’s no doubt a delicious Thanksgiving feast, but I decide to fly. To get a taste of the cold November night, the stars pulsing bright and beautiful. To enjoy the sight of St. Cyprian below me, twinkling in the late fall dark. And to take in the confluence of three rivers and all its magic that my friends and I once saved.
After I get across the river to where St. Cyprian’s cemetery resides and the North Farm sits in rolling fields dotted with pretty farm buildings, I touch down outside in the yard. I see Murphy, Jacob’s stag familiar, grazing in a field in the distance in the moonlight. I hear the ruffling of feathers—no doubt Zander’s and Ellowyn’s bird familiars settled into a branch somewhere. Maybe even Frost’s raven, Coronis.
And through a big picture window in front of the house, I see everyone else gathered around a very full dining room table.
I should go right in. But I don’t. I stop. I watch.
My friends are eating, chatting, laughing. The dog and cat familiars are sprawled out around them, including my bored-looking orange Octavius. I try to step forward—I’m almost certain I do—but it’s like something . . . stops me.
It’s like there’s a little bubble around the house. Not a real one. Not the sort of magic encasements I’ve seen and used before. It’s just a figment of my imagination and I know that.
I know it.
Just like I know that if I walk in there, my friends will greet me with excitement. They’ll make space for me. They love me.
But the table is crowded. And from the outside looking in, it doesn’t seem like there’s space for me. Not just because they’ve only pulled up as many chairs as they need, but because . . . everyone is so happy, and it isn’t the wine. They’re smiling, laughing, and enjoying each other.
Three pairs of perfect couples.
They’re balanced. And if I go in there, I’ll upend that balance. I shake my head, out here by myself. It’s a silly thought. Particularly considering a coven is made of seven. This is my coven. I belong with them.
But Thanksgiving isn’t about covens or witches or St. Cyprian. It’s just . . . giving thanks. And they’re all having plenty of thanks without me.
Because you weren’t supposed to be back yet. Because you decided to make your return a surprise.
No amount of reason gets me to move my feet. I just stand here, feeling like I don’t belong. And when I reach into my pocket, curling my fingers around the crystals that always guide me, I get nothing. I frown and touch the necklace I often wear—a teardrop-shaped piece of prehnite I’ve worn on a delicate gold chain since the day of my pubertatum, when my mother gave it to me. It’s the only time my mother has ever given me a present that made me feel like she was trying to understand me instead of the daughter she wished I was.
Tonight it offers nothing but a kind of bleakness that sinks in deep.
Which is a sign in and of itself, I decide. I should have gone to see Sage first.
So that’s what I do instead.

Excerpted from Dragon Fires Everywhere by Hazel Beck. Copyright © 2025 by Megan Crane and Nicole Helm. Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

Excerpt. ©Hazel Beck. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

Giveaway: 1 copy of DRAGON FIRES EVERYWHERE (US/CA only)

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Meet the Author:

HAZEL BECK is the magical partnership of a river witch and an earth witch. Together, they have collected two husbands, three familiars, two children, five degrees, and written around 200 books. As one, their books will delight with breathtaking magic, emotional romance, and stories of witches you won’t soon forget. Find them at www.Hazel-Beck.com.

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