by Abby Knox
“Good morning, Sister Morgan! Stop and have some tea?”
“Sorry, no time. I have shopping and coffee calling my name. And then, finishing touches for tomorrow’s events. Not to mention trick-or-treating downtown tonight.”
“Oh,” said Fern, “Well, I could always use a little freeze spell to stop time.”
Morgan had no intention of stopping to chitchat before she had her coffee, but she could not just let this comment roll off her back.
“Fern. You do know that the freeze spell doesn’t actually stop time. People in a certain radius are frozen, the radius depending on how strong of a spell you can do or choose to do. Time still marches on,” she said.
“You always are the Debbie Downer,” Fern sighed. “You don’t have to take everything so seriously.”
Morgan blinked at her. “I don’t.”
Fern sighed. “OK, sweetie.”
Morgan put her hand on her hip. “I’ll have you know I’m being spontaneous now. I have…a boyfriend.” The word popped out before she could stop herself.
“A boyfriend! Really? Who? Where’s he from? Tell me everything!” Fern was a little too interested now. Time to clean up and get going.
“It’s nothing. We just met. It’s not serious, we’re just enjoying fooling around with each other. We met online. He’s not from here. He’s Canadian; you wouldn’t know him.”
Fern’s face changed from excited to suspicious. “Oh. OK, then. If you don’t want to talk, just say so. But if this, uh, Canadian boyfriend of yours doesn’t work out, I’ve got a hazelnut with your name on it.”
“Sure, but you need a second one with somebody else’s name on it.”
Fern gave her a sly smile. “Oh, don’t you worry.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Fern laughed. “Relax, Sister. This Samhain is going to be epic. I’ve got lots of little things up my sleeve, not just decorations.”
Morgan nodded. Yes, the lunar eclipse coinciding with Samhain was going to be a big deal. They’d been planning it for years. In fact, there was so much talk about it around town that she had heard about some of the more religious zealots starting a counter-reaction. She hoped it didn’t backfire.
“Let’s be careful, OK?”
The younger witch nodded, then went inside her cottage and left Morgan alone.
Morgan looked down the lane and scanned the forest. A red hawk took off from the ground and alighted upon a low branch of a live oak and stared back at Morgan. Its yellow eyes bore through all of her layers more deeply than any user of magic.
She made it all the way through the colony and into town without any further confrontation. She considered how she would make her way back home through the colony again and considered magicking herself back home. But traveling spells…that was a particularly powerful charm, one that would be the equivalent of sending out a homing beacon to every sensitive soul within a 50-mile radius. She may as well run through town naked with a torch, leading everyone to the colony to set every cottage on fire.
First stop: Kava. Maybe she should have something different than her usual pumpkin spice latte. What did the younger witches call her? “So basic.” Well. Too bad. She really wanted that pumpkin spice latte, and fuck what anybody else thought.
The oak door creaked open, ringing an old-fashioned bell as she stepped inside the coffee shop. Inside, a small group of mothers with toddlers were gathered in the area with the mismatched, overstuffed and worn love seats while their children played with a floor puzzle. Children. She could not stay long, as one of them was sure to start screaming about something in a matter of seconds.
Why does Alice even allow children in here?
Some people were scandalized by parents who brought children to pubs. Laws of the land aside, Morgan thought bars and pubs made far more sense. A child acting up? Dose them with brandy to calm them down. All these modern parents nowadays wouldn’t think to give brandy to a child. But Morgan’s grandmother regularly used potent alcohols for different remedies and she’d turned out just fine.
Back in Morgan’s former lives, alcohol was always around, when water wasn’t the safest to drink. Whiskey for teething. Brandy for temper. She’d make a concoction of bourbon, lemon juice and honey for head colds and sleeplessness. But a coffee shop? Nothing here would make a child calm or go to sleep. Except for maybe steamed milk for wakefulness. But alas, parents brought children in here and gave them chocolate milk and a cookie to keep them occupied while attempting a semblance of adult conversation, then acted surprised and overwhelmed and put out when the child’s blood sugar crashed and disrupted the peace of everyone in the vicinity.
All these young parents, wondering why raising children is so hard. Morgan’s simple answer to that: not enough alcohol. She kept these opinions to herself.
Alice, the young owner, barista, and fledgling witch behind the counter, had evidently fired up the espresso machine as soon as Morgan had appeared, walking up the street, because her triple espresso sugar-free pumpkin spice latte with extra foam and cinnamon on top was swiftly pushed into her hand almost as soon as she approached the register.
“The usual?” Alice had a kind smile and slightly over-caffeinated pupils.
“Thank you, dear. You used the natural sweetener and simple spices, yes? No artificials?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I added some crystallized angelica root for protection. The Witch Special,” she said with a wink.
Morgan shushed her.
“Oh come on, one little trick,” Alice pushed.
Morgan scanned the room. No other witch auras that she could detect. Still, something in the air made her uneasy. “Better not, sorry.”
Alice shrugged. Morgan made her way to a secluded corner hidden by a screen decorated with peacocks where she could still watch the door. She sipped her coffee. She did not know why she was watching the door, but her third eye was making her keep both of her regular eyes on the door.
Next thing she knew, a white man, about 200 pounds with a slight “dad” paunch, hulked through the door and approached the counter, his monobrow furrowed from some unknown slight.
“Here we go,” whispered Morgan’s intuition.
The man was holding a protest sign of some kind. He ordered a large decaf coffee with sugar and extra cream. His camouflage tee shirt stretched across his beer belly. Young Alice seemed unfazed by the negative energy he emitted.
A moment passed and it seemed nothing was going to happen. Alice handed him his coffee, made change, smiled. It was a basically benign and totally unremarkable exchange.
And then, shit happened.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m the pastor from the Church of the Messenger, and I’d like to place this sign in your window.”
“Ooooh, sorry,” she replied with a genuinely friendly smile. “I can’t let you do that. We have a strict no-politics policy at Kava.”
Morgan watched as the man looked around to point out some unknown hypocrisy but evidently could not find any other political protest signs hanging in the window. “But The Church of the Messenger is not political. We are a nonprofit organization put in place to protect the children of Birchdale against the forces of darkness.”
Alice kept her smile and breezily went about her work, cleaning the counter. “That’s awesome. If you all really want to keep an eye on the kids, then I expect you’ll be out here tonight helping us downtown businesses hand out candy?”
She is such a good person, thought Morgan.
“Are you aware that there are occultists behind this year’s Halloween celebrations in Birchdale? Do you want a bunch of witches teaching your children how to talk to spirits, cast spells, sacrifice animals?”
Alice cocked her head, still not breaking her beatific smile. “You do know that stuff isn’t real, right? I believe some local historians are going to be giving demonstrations. It’s educational.”
“If you do not help us stand against the witches, then you have already betr
ayed the children of this town. Our Church is comprised of many active local volunteers. You have a bench outside your establishment, and bike racks, and flowers on every corner, and you have some of our people to thank for that.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. But I still cannot hang a sign in my window. And besides, the Sisters are actively helping our town prepare this massive autumnal festival this year, which is going to generate a lot of money for downtown businesses. And if the Sisters came in here asking to hang a sign opposing your Church, I would say no to them as well.” Alice now had a slight edge to her voice. “Good luck to you and have a wonderful day.”
She was simply the best person around and far kinder than Morgan. This was why Morgan could not and should never work with the public.
“Listen,” he said, “I am a public citizen and by buying this coffee, I paid a local option sales tax that supports downtown tourism. I should be able to hang a poster.”
“This is a private place of business, and I thank you for your support and purchase. I find that religion is bad for business.”
Why was young, educated Alice using logic with this man? You can’t defeat with logic someone who has no appreciation for logic.
“The truth is, you don’t want this sign in your window because you are godless, just like those heathen witch friends of yours,” he said, his fingers just slightly starting to shake.
The nervousness was a good sign. He was an oaf, but this tremor was a clue that he didn’t enjoy confrontation. Good. This vulnerability would give Morgan a foothold in his psyche if necessary.
“Sir, I’ve explained my policy. And now I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Alice said, still wiping an already-clean coffee mug but still smiling to beat the band.
Goddess bless her, thought Morgan.
“You’re kicking me out? You’re denying me service?” His voice rose.
“Sir, I sold you coffee and like everyone else, you are welcome to stay and drink your coffee as long as you behave,” she said with a wink. Still breezy but also annoyed.
“Behave” may have been the wrong choice of word. It was the right word in the situation, but the wrong word for Mr. Moisture-Wicking Camo Shirt.
“Excuse me, you want me to behave how? Do my views make you uncomfortable? Are you threatened by a tax-paying citizen who carries a gun within my rights?”
“I am threatened now that you brought up guns. I’m calling the police,” Alice said. Still calm. Still smiling. A chair scraped across the floor from somewhere in the back, but Morgan could not see who it was. She hoped whoever it was wasn’t about to try to be a hero if things took a truly bad turn.
Then the shouting began. “You are so full of shit! I’ve seen the witches in here, praying to Satan!”
“Sir, you’re shouting, using foul language in front of children, and anyone is allowed to rent this space after hours. They come here to do crafts. Plan events. It’s called a maker space,” Alice said, then said into the phone, “Yes, hello, dispatch?” and gave the 9-1-1 dispatcher details of the situation.
The moms in the other corner by the door were now staring, and some of them were starting to gather up their babies and belongings for a quick exit. Well, that’s one way to make breeders leave, Morgan thought darkly.
It should be noted here that some of what Camo Shirt Man was blabbering about was true.
Yes, the Sisters had after-hours access to Kava because they needed space to craft and because Alice made them coffee for free, and they enjoyed getting out once in a while.
“The police don’t scare me!”
“You are scaring the customers. Please leave,” Alice said calmly, though her voice began to shake.
Morgan closed her eyes. She could feel Alice about to crumble. It was time. She dug her hand inside the slit in her layered bohemian skirt and touched her wand, which was tucked into a leather garter belt around her thigh. Morgan opened her eyes, stood up, and approached the man. “Sir, it’s time for you to go.”
At the sound of her voice, the man turned and his furrowed monobrow twitched a bit. He was taken aback and Morgan sensed it. Another foothold, she thought. Good. This is not going to be a problem.
He gathered himself and turned red in the face when he took in all of her—her peasant blouse, lack of bra, expensive handbag, flowing skirt and petticoats, thigh-high moccasin boots, ten silver rings on her fingers. “You’re one of them. One of them hippies in that commune out there in the woods, doing God knows what with your orgies and seances,” he blathered.
Morgan smiled. “Well, which is it? Are we having orgies and séances, or are we doing goddess knows what?”
“What?” He looked at her like she’d just grown another head.
He was easily confused. This was going to be a walk in the park. Whenever she did decide to strike, she would have to remember to go easy on this simple-minded man.
“You need to calm yourself down and leave,” she said. “You’re being rude, loud, and using inappropriate language for a family establishment.”
Not that she cared to elevate the idea of “family establishments” because most days she would rather avoid children as much as she did back in the day, when they all carried the bubonic plague. But why not appeal to a man who surely made a big deal about his “family values”?
“No uppity cunt is going to tell me what to do,” he seethed through clenched teeth.
And then his hand went around to his back and he began pulling his shirt up. He was reaching for a gun. Like an asshole, his gun was tucked into the waistband of his tighty-whities. She saw the glint of metal as he pulled out the .22.
“Hit the floor!” Morgan shouted. The group of moms shrieked and crouched down, shielding their babies. And then, the babies cried.
Morgan seized the moment of chaos and panic. She reached inside her garter belt and pulled out her wand.
She pointed her wand at the small pistol.
And then, another man shouted and appeared seemingly from out of nowhere. “Freeze! Police! Drop your weapon, dipshit!”
On the other side of the glass case of cake pops and scones was a tall, dark-haired man with angry brown eyes and a .38 revolver pointed at Hank’s head.
Morgan’s whole body flooded with the sudden shock of seeing the man she’d ridden lotus-style in her dreams last night.
He’s a cop?!
Her aim wavered ever so slightly as Hank looked back at her in confusion, but then suddenly he yelped in pain. His hand flailed and the pistol skidded across the floor and behind the counter. Morgan could see second-degree burns already blistering up on the man’s skin.
With some practiced sleight of hand, she put her wand away before anyone mentally registered what she’d done. She’d meant to aim for his dick, but a burned hand would do just fine.
Alice kicked the .22 over to the self-proclaimed police officer, who, though confused, reached down and collected the weapon while keeping his revolver trained on Hank.
Totally gobsmacked, Morgan examined the officer’s slight stubble, a blue Knicks tee shirt with the number 33 on the front. The jersey fabric was stretching to fit around the hard-worked shoulders. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a Yankees cap. Nothing about him looked official, except for the single-strap shoulder holster and badge. All signs pointed to Sports Fan in Possession of Ugly Furniture. Ugh.
She zoomed in on his badge. No name, but a number. She committed the badge number to memory before he pocketed it and began wrestling Hank into handcuffs. The officer hadn’t recognized her, thank goddess. This was good. She would have to find out more about him before determining if this was, in fact, the man from her dream.
But as the cop dragged the asshole away, she already knew the truth. It was him. It had to be him.
Morgan stood still and breathed in and breathed out again. The place was empty now except for herself and Alice. Alice, after all her sweetness and handling of Hank, finally broke down.
Morgan awkwardly approached the
young witch. “Are you all right?” She wasn’t sure if she should hug her or not, so she put a hand on her shoulder. Morgan needed to work on the comforting. Goddess, she really did spend too much time alone.
Alice looked up at her through tears. “I’m fine. I’m going to close up for the day.”
“I understand,” Morgan said. “Can I do anything?”
“No, you’ve done more than enough. I guess I got my magic trick of the day after all.”
5
Adam
That was her. I can’t believe that was her. Right there in the coffee shop. Who was that? What is going on? Is this real life?
All these questions scrambled the detective’s head as he tried to keep it together for the sake of booking the village idiot into jail.
Damn, but he had wanted to talk to her. To get another look and make sure he was right. And to ask her what the fuck was going on.
He got Snow booked in, tossed him less than gently into the holding cell, then went to his desk to fill out the paperwork. Just what he needed during a hangover—another altercation with Snow and forms to fill out on a screen.
But wait. A thought occurred to him. It had been so long since he’d worked patrol, responding to incidents as they happened and helping people in immediate need, he forgot the most important part of patrol officer work. Interviewing witnesses.
Perfect excuse to leave the office and head back to the coffee shop. He just hoped he wasn’t too late.
“Hey, Adam. Someone’s here to visit everybody’s favorite dirtbag. You want to talk to her first?”
He paused before heading out the back door to his car. “Who would be visiting that prick? Probably somebody from that creepy new Church. Well, shit.”
Evelyn, the desk officer, shrugged. Adam told her, “Stall her, put her in my office, then make sure the cameras are recording. I want to find out what these weirdos are up to.”