The Witch of Bourbon Street had a pretty convoluted plotline, but I’ll give it a go. Frankie is a witch from an old family who has long denied her powers. She moves back to the family home that witnessed several mysterious deaths several generations back. The disappearance of Frankie’s son and appearance of her long-lost daughter force Frankie to confront her past.
This was the sort of book that pretentious Honors English college students gush over as “important” and “meaningful”. Which, to me, usually meant it was weird, full of “lyricism”, and contained sentences that never seemed to end. I wanted to like it. I wanted it to be something special. But I really, really hated it.