Ritual income witch of t.., p.1
Ritual Income: Witch of the Demesne, page 1
Cover designed by GetCovers
Map by Lindsey Staton
Interior Design by B.L. Brown
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The opinions expressed by the witches in this novel in regard to burnt ends, comfy pants, and the City of New Orleans do not reflect the views or positions of the author.
ISBN 979-8-9879716-3-5 (pbk)
ISBN 979-8-9879716-2-8 (ebook)
Please don't forget to feed the raw-head.
Contents
Dedication
Author's Note
Map
The Ways
Lake Pontchartrain
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Twenty Five
Twenty Six
Twenty Seven
Twenty Eight
Twenty Nine
Thirty
Thirty One
Thirty Two
Thirty Three
Thirty Four
Thirty Five
Thirty Six
Thirty Seven
Thirty Eight
Thirty Nine
Forty
Forty One
Forty Two
Forty Three
Forty Four
Epilogue
Elsewhere, in the World of C.R.O.W.
Playlists
Thanks, y'all!
About the Author
To Oliver – for telling me to shut up and write the damn thing.
I wrote the damn thing.
This novel is the slowest of burns. That being said, if you're related to me, feel free to skim chapters twenty-eight and thirty-four. If you aren't related to me, please enjoy chapters twenty-eight and thirty-four.
Author's Note
Ritual Income is book one of Witch of the Demesne, a series within the World of C.R.O.W. Shady Depths: A Witches of C.R.O.W. Novella acts as a prequel to Ritual Income. It is not required reading (but, if you'd like to know more about Darkly, I do recommend it).
Content Warnings
Depression, grieving, self-harm, on-page sexual acts (consensual), mental and emotional abuse, gore, profanity.
"Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions."T.S. Eliot, Ink Witch
Lake Pontchartrain
New Orleans, LA
He turns his back. He always turns his back.
Every single time she relives this moment he turns his back with the surety and unassailable faith in his own ability that only narcissism can provide. And that is his fatal mistake, every damn time. That unswerving trust in himself and the natural extension of that trust to her.
Ezra glances back, the teal crackle of magic bright and painful in his eyes. “No matter what you See, Milla, believe in me.”
“I will.”
“That's my Millapet.” He takes a step. Another and another and for a heartbeat she thinks he might manage it this time. He might succeed in pulling the world apart. And then her vision fractures into three, the pain in her head debilitating. The tether between them frays, it rips out of her grip and shreds her to her soul.
“Ezra!” Her feet slide in the silt and she grabs at the tether with both hands, bearing her weight down on her heels.
“Hold tight, Milla, believe in me!”
Snap. Snapsnap.
“Ezra, come back!” Strands snap and coil away, the tether slips and tears her palms, lashing her forearms and spraying blood across her face, her clothes. Her vision continues fracturing; nine, twenty-seven, eighty-one. A bone in her arm shatters and she closes her eyes against the scream. “I can’t hold on. I don’t-I don’t know—”
Snap.
“Ezra, please!” The tether burns against her palms and the tension fails, whipping against her wrists and the back of her hands. His scream echoes hers, a pain cut deep to the center of their very being. “Come back!”
And then he is gone. The only sound is her ragged breathing and the staggered cessation of chanting as she struggles to piece together what is left. Of her, of him.
No. That wasn’t right.
There was nothing left of him.
One
If it weren’t for the customers, Milla’s job would be ideal.
There were days when all she did was sit at the front counter, sipping her drink, and waiting for something to happen when she wished nothing would. Glorious days when the only person she spoke to was her roommate and co-worker, Diego, and all of their sales were made online.
“Hey, hon!”
And then there were days like today when Milla had to remain calm in the face of Southern passive aggression.
“Me, again.” Her sole customer approached the counter, flapping the garment in her hand. Milla paused mid-sip, identifying the vintage nineteenth-century asymmetrical bathing costume being treated as a handkerchief as The Pinkerton.
She frowned into her bubble water. The Pinkerton was an antique bathing costume she had painstakingly restored under Diego’s watchful eye. It had been the first magick she’d attempted in months. Her blood, sweat, and the echoes of her curse words lived on in each thread of the asymmetrical banding and delicate frill on the collar.
The woman was still talking, probably complaining about the ventriloquists’ dummies being creepy, or the Tiffany lamp in the corner flickering whenever she walked by. Tourists had no end of complaints when it came to Milla’s store and its eclectic collection.
She took another small sip, let the sharp tang roll over her tongue, and swallowed her annoyance. “What.”
Okay, so maybe she wasn’t so good at swallowing her annoyance.
“Excuse me?” The woman’s eyebrows arched, which was a feat. Milla honestly did not think eyebrows drawn with Crayola could arch with such disdain.
“You’re excused?” She extended a hand, palm up, gesturing at the Pinkerton. “Did you want to buy that?”
“Well, sort of.” The woman’s eyes dropped to her hand, indignation wrestling with and losing to sick curiosity. Her hands had that effect on people. It had been over a year, and even Milla wasn’t entirely used to the webs of spidery white tissue marring her palm.
The woman sneered, shoving the Pinkerton into Milla’s waiting hand. Her fingers brushed Milla’s palm, and the unnatural chill had her darting away, the sneer widening to alarm.
Even before the incident that earned her those scars, people said she was too cold, her skin clammy when it should be warm from the Florida sun. Chilled when it should be flushed from heat or exertion.
No one had really liked touching Milla, until Ezra.
Ezra who ran hot and wore bags of ice tucked into the waist of his running shorts. Ezra who slept in the buff and sweat through the night, even with the a/c running itself to exhaustion.
Ezra who was Gone.
“Sort of?” Milla raised her eyebrows.
“I was wondering if you had this in a larger size?”
She held up the garment, using it as a shield to hide the incredulous look on her face. “A larger size.”
“You know how it is when you’ve had kids.” The woman patted a hip in a manner that might have been cute had Milla not noticed a torn seam on the bathing costume.
“Did you—this is a 19th-century bathing costume, originally sold by Pinkerton’s on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City.” The woman smiled, nodding. “Atlantic City, New Jersey.” Another nod. “In 1886.”
“Uh-huh.” She smiled broadly, still not understanding.
Oh, Horned God.
“This is an antique.” Milla prodded the torn seam and tried counting backward from ten. She made it to seven which, truth be told, was an achievement. “One-of-a-kind. I had to outbid a collector in New Haven for this.”
“Incredible.” The woman nodded, clearly not picking up what Milla was putting down. “So do you have it in a bigger size? Maybe in the back?” Eyelashes fluttered, her lips pressed together in a pink, glossy pout. “I won a cruise through my company, I’m a Diamond Qualifying Executive for Icy Me, by the way, and this little bathing suit”—Milla’s eye twitched—“is just perfect.” She paused, lips pursed like a sturgeon, and Milla could have sworn she was holding for questions.
She had just the one, but Diego would be pissed if Milla asked this woman, this customer, if she was fucking serious.
So she cleared her throat and reached for her sparkling water. “Nope.”
“Aren’t you even going to check?”
“What part of ‘one-of-a-kind’ is confusing you?”
“I …” The woman’s smile finally faltered. Milla relished the war of emotions playing out on perfectly contoured cheeks. The eyes lost it first, then the right corner of her mouth, foll
Had Milla not been the owner and operator of Southern Gothic Antiquities and Curios, she might have quaked in her boots.
Might have.
But the point remained: it was the Pinkerton. She couldn’t sell it to just anyone.
“I’m afraid I’m the only one here.”
“I see.” The woman whipped her phone out of the oversized beach tote on her shoulder, thumb swiping at the screen. She was no doubt crafting a rude post of her experience for Yap! Reviews, which was fine. Milla didn’t need in-person sales to survive, the store was mostly a way to fill her days and keep her mind from wandering.
Believe in me, Milla.
Not that it was working very well.
A shutter snapped and Milla blinked, jaw hanging open at the sheer gall. “Did you just take my picture?”
“You don’t have any signs saying I can’t.”
“I…wha…you…” Milla fumbled, her usually sharp tongue struck dumb. “I think you should leave. Ma’am.” The woman’s nostrils flared at the layers of insult Milla added to the honorific. “Maybe Shopaholic has something more in line with what you’re looking for.” She gestured to the front door. “They usually carry plus sizes.”
“Did you just body shame me?” The woman flushed, though it was hard to tell beneath the caked-on makeup. Her neck turned an alarming shade of red, as did her ears, but her face remained the same painstakingly contoured shades of peach and pink shimmer.
“I—shit,” Milla stammered. “No, it’s just, that’s an antique. People in the 1800s were, um, smaller.”
The woman slammed her palms down on the glass. “I’ve decided I don’t want that moth-eaten fabric you call an antique,” she snarled, which would have been intimidating, were it not for the beach tote choosing that exact moment to slide down her arm. She jogged her shoulder to readjust the bag. “You’ve made a big mistake. Huge. I’m going to tell everyone I know about the appalling customer service at …” She squinted at the business cards beside the register and snorted. “Southern Gothic? I guess I shouldn’t expect someone who designed their entire personality off of Wednesday Addams to be creative.”
“Whatever,” Milla rolled her eyes, “Karen.”
“Kayleigh.” She sniffed, then screwed her mouth into a purse of disgust. “This entire establishment reeks like the gin in your coke.”
“It’s juniper-scented bubble water,” Milla huffed.
“Whatever.” Kayleigh jabbed her phone screen with a finger. “What kind of trash store only sells clothing in one size.”
“An antique store.” Milla swept her arm at the curio cabinet behind her, pointing out the porcelain figurines, heirloom jewelry, and the broken-but-beautiful Berthoud marine clock. “Full of antiques, which this bathing suit—I mean costume—is.”
“Do yourself a favor, sweetpea, and sell something people actually want to buy,” Kayleigh hissed. “Not like it’ll do any good by the time I’m done with you.” She whirled in a swirl of floral polyester and shoved the door open, muttering insults under her breath. “You body shaming piece of …”
Milla fumed, palms itching, as Kayleigh stormed across the road and disappeared down Toques Place.
“That went well.” Diego’s mocking voice hummed from the hallway leading to the rear office, bathroom, and sewing room.
She drummed her fingers on the glass display case, chewing on her lip. “She wanted to buy the Pinkerton.”
“Diosa forbid we sell anything.” Diego sidled in front of the display, slipping a hand beneath the bathing costume and whisking it from the counter with a flourish. “You are obscenely attached to this shift.”
He was on the shorter side for a man but tall for an Iberian, or so he claimed. Thick, shoulder-length black hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck and the shadow of a beard clung to his jaw, adding warmth to an already deep olive complexion. From the wireless headphones looped around his neck, Milla caught the synth-loop refrain of Chaka Khan’s “I Feel For You”.
“Already in 1985?” Milla asked. For the past few months, after he'd figured out his smartphone, streaming services, and Bluetooth, Diego had been painstakingly reviewing music of the twenty-first century. In order.
Diego made a face, squinting behind his thick-framed glasses. “Chaka’s later catalog is so frivolous. I much preferred her collaboration with Rufus.” He held the bathing costume at arm’s length, examining the torn seam with a critical tailor’s eye. “Not much can compare to Cher’s Best Works of the 1970s.”
“Obviously,” Milla agreed. “Nothing beats ‘Dark Lady’.”
“How you can say that when ‘Rescue Me’ is on the same album, I do not know.” Diego turned his attention to the Pinkerton, shaking out the garment and muttering an allure. “Muéstrame.”
The fabric swelled and curved in the intended places, tapering around a modest waist and flaring over sweet hips as though it clung to the body of a turn-of-the-century model. As a Stitch Witch, Diego had a Way with fabrics, especially those from previous centuries, and he delighted in these impromptu displays of his magick.
He tilted his head, pressed a finger to the torn seam, and muttered a second quiet intent. There was a faint crackle of magick that rose the hair along Milla’s arms, and the stitching at the hip wove itself back together. Diego smiled, releasing his Way, and the bathing costume sagged in the way of all woolen things.
“She wanted it in a bigger size.” Milla leaned against the curio cabinet. The figurines, jewelry busts, and vases rattled, and Diego lurched to steady the hutch. “Oh calm down, I’m not that heavy.” The broken clock thumped off of its display and Milla flinched.
“Not at all what I was suggesting.” Diego gripped the glass vial he wore around his neck, unable to completely wash away the sick look on his face. “You should have called for me, pequeña bruja, rather than frighten away a customer.”
“Right, because I’m so scary.” Milla rolled her eyes. “I can handle an angry customer.”
“Like you handled that one?”
“It’s not my fault that Karen tried to squeeze herself into an antique bathing suit.”
“Kayleigh,” Diego corrected.
“Whatever. We don’t even have a dressing room, where did she even try it on? And she tore a seam.”
“Which I have fixed.”
“Well aren’t you special,” Milla grumbled. “Not all of us have the luxury of old age and Stitch Witchery to fall back on.”
“Old age?” Diego narrowed his eyes and flicked his fingers at her with a hiss. “Do not start insulting me because you were rude to a customer.”
“I—” Milla started. And stopped, immediately regretting her words. She covered her face with her hands. “Shit, I’m sorry. That was … that was unacceptable.”
“I will not say it is alright.” Diego held her eye, forcing a weak smile. “But I understand you are frustrated, Milla.”
He did. The Horned God and the Triple Goddess knew he did.
“Doesn’t excuse it.” Milla peered at him over her fingertips. “I’m sorry.”
Diego’s smile warmed. He stepped around the glass display, grabbing her cold, clammy hands and tracing his thumbs over the ruin of her palms. Not for the first time, she wondered if a Stitch Witch could see the seams beneath the scars.
“What sort of tío would I be if I did not forgive you?” Milla managed a tiny smile. He let go and fixed her bangs before tucking a dark lock of hair behind one ear. “Si, I forgive you,” he smiled, eyes crinkling. “Also, there is a rat stuck in the trap.”
Milla set the rat free in the alley and clung to the corners of the store while Diego worked the register. Another attempt was made at getting the Berthoud to work, which ended with Milla storming out the rear door, hollering with the ship’s clock in hand, “To the dumpster with you!”
Diego wrestled her for the clock, cursing a stream of Spanish as he stalked inside, and then, finally, it was sunset. Closing time.
