To the Devil a Daughter by K. H. Koehler

Author:K. H. Koehler [Koehler, K. H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: KH Koehler Books
Published: 2019-04-20T16:00:00+00:00

31

I’M WORRIED about stepping into Curiosities again. Seeing Nick…encountering Morgana…the idea sends a cold, icy finger up my spine. Nick and I didn’t exactly part on good terms, but I know I could probably deal with him. Morgana is another story.

She has never liked me. Can’t blame her. She’s this tall, cool, powerful green witch. She’s connected to the elements, to the stars and the Earth and the skies and all the good things in the world like a real-life Glinda. She lives in a state of total peace and has complete control over her powers. She helps people and asks for nothing in return.

Me? I’m a hot mess train wreck witch. I try, I really do. But I know I’ll never be as good as she is. I’ll never be good, period.

Parked in the curb outside the shop, I grab the wheel and take a few deep, rapid breaths. I don’t feel better, but gulping all that oxygen too fast does make me feel dizzy.

“Fuck it.”

Getting out, I walk to the door, grab the old-fashioned latch, and pull. With a tinkle of the bell, I’m in the store. It’s warm and stuffy and crowded with displays. Not the kind of place you take your toddler. I see racks of books and how-to DVDs and shelves of healing crystals, small pots of tinctures, and New Age-style curios and baubles. Not all of it is “magical stuff,” of course. Blackwater is a tourist trap, so there’s a whole section dedicated to souvenirs—Blackwater ball caps and T-shirts and wind chimes and that type of thing. Nick and Morgana make a lot of money off travel junk, but I know the real magic is made in the backroom, and every townie in Blackwater knows it, as well.

The funny thing about Blackwater is that if you ask any of the townies, they’ll act like they hate the reputation this shop gives the town, but nearly all of them come here when they have a problem they can’t solve on their own. While I was with Nick, I saw the full gamut of customers—people with embarrassing rashes, or sexual performance issues, or even more serious issues like cancer or genetic disorders that wouldn’t respond to traditional medicine. I saw old ladies buying tinctures for their rheumatoid arthritis, and I saw young girls buying pennyroyal for homemade abortions. I have to assume Morgana is very good at what she does, because no one ever died, and no one ever came back angry.

I want to be like that. I want to help people.

Maybe it will make up a little for all the shitty things I’ve done.

The shop is empty except for an older woman in a flowered hat looking through some sparkly scarves. Morgana suddenly appears from the back room and says in a cheery tone, “Here you go, Mrs. Bailey.”

Lucky for me, the rack of dreamcatchers is blocking me from her view.

Mrs. Bailey, dressed in a long, lavender dress, glides over to the counter to take a small white bag from Morgana.

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