Hummingbird Moonrise is one of those books that sneaks up on you. You expect a cozy paranormal mystery with a witchy twist, and you do get that, but you also get something quieter and deeper: a story about inherited hurt, chosen family, and the slow work of learning to live again after life has been smashed into pieces.
Arista Kelly is not a flashy protagonist. She’s not the snarky-super-powered witch we see so often in this genre. She is bruised, tired, and still trying her best, and that’s exactly why she feels so real. Two years of grief and upheaval have already reshaped her world when the book opens, and you can feel the strain right away in how she moves through her days, how carefully she reaches for happiness, and how afraid she is of losing more. When Iris—an enigmatic, slightly odd old friend of Great-Aunt Bethie—goes missing, it isn’t just a convenient mystery hook; it’s another crack in a foundation that was already unstable.
The missing person plot works beautifully as a thread that pulls everything else to the surface. While searching Iris’s home, Arista and Bethie uncover something that ties back to their family curse, and this is where the book really shines. The curse isn’t just a spooky device. It has roots in the 1940s, in the early days of the Kelly cottage in the redwoods, in real choices and real mistakes that echo down the generations. The sense of history behind the curse gives weight to Arista’s current struggle. You feel that she isn’t just dealing with “bad luck,” but with the accumulated pain of those who came before her.
The relationship between Arista and Great-Aunt Bethie might be my favorite aspect of the book. Bethie isn’t reduced to a quirky-old-witch stereotype. She’s layered: stubborn, wise, vulnerable, and sometimes quietly heartbreaking. The way they talk to each other—sometimes tender, sometimes exasperated—adds warmth and authenticity to the story. Their shared investigation into Iris’s disappearance becomes as much an emotional journey as a magical one, forcing them to confront what they’ve lost and what they still might save.
The setting does a lot of work too. The redwood cottage feels almost like a living character: it holds memories, secrets, and the residue of spells cast long ago. The contrast between everyday domestic scenes (tea, crystals, little household rituals) and the looming presence of dark magic and old hauntings is handled with a light touch. Nothing is overblown; it’s more like an undercurrent you can sense in the creak of the floorboards and the rustle of the trees outside.
On the paranormal side, Hummingbird Moonrise strikes a nice balance. The witchcraft, curse tablet, hauntings, and psychic impressions are all present, but they’re never so flashy that they overpower the human side of the story. Magic here feels like an extension of the characters’ emotions and histories rather than a pile of special effects. Arista’s powers are growing, yes, but what matters most is how that growth intersects with her grief, her fear of repeating the past, and her fragile hope that she might be the one to finally break the pattern.
The romantic element with Shane is handled in a similar, understated way. This is not primarily a romance, and the book doesn’t pretend it is. Instead, we get the nuanced, sometimes awkward dance of two people who share history and hurt. Their connection adds a soft thread of second chances, but it never takes over the main story. It’s more like a question hanging in the air: Can Arista open herself up to love again while her life feels so unstable and cursed?
From a mystery standpoint, the pacing is thoughtful. This isn’t a frantic race; it’s a steady, methodical build. Clues around Iris’s disappearance, the curse tablet, and past tragedies are revealed in layers, and each new piece recontextualizes something you thought you understood. The stakes are both personal and supernatural, which keeps you emotionally invested as the danger sharpens. When the book reaches its more intense moments, they land precisely because we’ve had time to care about these people and their history.
Emotional tone is where Hummingbird Moonrise truly stands out. It deals with loss, trauma, and the fear that some families are “doomed,” yet it never sinks into despair. There’s always a little light: small acts of kindness, bits of humor, gentle rituals, shared food, and conversations that crack open just enough space for healing. By the time the final revelations come, you feel the weight of the past and the possibility of a different future with equal strength.
As a blog reviewer, I’d also point out how accessible the book is within its series. It’s part of the Murder, Tea & Crystals universe, and returning readers will absolutely appreciate the continuation of themes and character arcs. At the same time, the author gives you enough context to follow along if you’re new, without drowning you in exposition. You can feel that this book is part of a larger mosaic, but it also stands solidly on its own emotional feet.
In short, Hummingbird Moonrise offers:
* A wounded but resilient main character you can truly root for
* A rich sense of family history and generational consequences
* A thoughtful blend of witchcraft, mystery, and quiet hauntings
* Strong, believable relationships, especially between Arista and Great-Aunt Bethie
* An ending that feels emotionally satisfying without being too neat or sugary
Five stars from this reviewer. Witchy, heartfelt, and beautifully human, Hummingbird Moonrise is the kind of book that lingers—less like a jump scare and more like a soft hand on your shoulder, reminding you that even old curses can be challenged, and even the most haunted hearts can find a way forward.