Five
MORGAN
Saturday night is absolutely a perfect night for a party. If you're into parties. Which I'm not.
I can admit, I had a little bit of fun shopping last weekend, but that was more about aggravating Zach than anything else.
Witching Hour Winery, fortunately, was able to get us in at the last minute. They have a beautiful event space that can accommodate indoor or outdoor events. I ended up renting both spaces, since you never know what the weather in Wisconsin will be like in September. Could be sweltering, could be storming, could be a tornado. Unlikely, but there could be a blizzard.
Or it could be in the 70s, with low humidity, as it is tonight. My aunt Betsy did a quick spell to keep the mosquitoes away, and that's all we need. There are trees and trellises around the space, all adorned by the winery with white and blue fairy lights, so my decision not to get any was the right one.
It's cocktail hour, with an open bar, the sun hanging low in the sky. It's a fairly small crowd, and roughly 75-percent witches. Because of that, there are animals everywhere.
Most witches have an animal who is our familiar. Which means we are able to communicate with that animal. I "hear" my owl, Bowie's, thoughts in my head, like they're my own thoughts almost. Except they're in a distinct voice that I identify as his. And if I talk back to him out loud, he understands me.
A select group of witches can communicate with all animals; that's their special power. A lot of days that seems way better than talking to spirits. But I wasn't given a choice. The deities bestow our powers before we're even born.
I've lost track of Bowie, but he's probably off harassing Sirona's cat, Koko, and Bronwen's goat, Lake. It's one of his favorite pastimes.
Maria, too, is in attendance. She's standing next to me at the bar as I order my second of the signature cocktail, lamenting that she isn't capable of changing her outfit.
"I'm so out of fashion," she complains. "I mean, this was fine for a funeral outfit in the thirties, but now?" She shudders.
"Fortunately, no one but me can see how out of style you are," I say dryly.
She makes a face at me. "You planning to get drunk tonight, or something? We've only been here a half hour and you're already getting a refill." There's censure in her tone.
I do not need a ghost lecturing me on my alcohol consumption. I didn't come with a plan to get drunk, but I also didn't come with an intention not to. It's an open bar and I've been stressed as fuck lately, and the signature cocktail my Aunt Sarah came up with is delicious. It uses lavender honey, with the lavender from my cousin Lavender's farm and the honey from my other cousin Honey's bees.
I know, my cousins’ names are too spot on. Take it up with Aunt Betsy. Their older brother, Basil, has a huge herb-growing farm, and their youngest sister, Chessie, has the nickname Cheesy and owns the Grilled Cheese Diner.
I accept my drink from the bartender with a forced social smile, then immediately take a long drink. I don't even know what kind of alcohol is in this, but it's a healthy pour and having an effect. Just a little. It's dulled the sharp edges of what has been my life lately.
"Slow down there, girl."
I sigh. "You don't need to lecture me. I'm a big girl. Almost 29 years old. I can make my own decisions. And it's not like I drove."
Like I always do, except in the very depths of winter, I rode my electric tricycle. Sirona got one a few years ago, and now everyone in our family has one except Nana. Despite being 79, she's healthy enough to still ride. She just doesn't feel like changing her ways.
"Who are you talking to? Your imaginary ghost friend again?"
An annoyingly familiar voice cuts into my conversation with Maria. With narrowed eyes, I turn to find Zach standing next to me at the bar. He's close enough, I could reach out and touch his arm, but not close enough to be in my space. I refuse to be disappointed by that, even if he does look even more delicious than usual tonight.
He's wearing black dress pants and a cream-colored button down. The sleeves are rolled up and show off the full sleeves of tattoos he has on his arms.
I am such a sucker for ink. I'd be lying if I said I haven't fantasized at least once—OK, more than once—about tracing all those lines with my tongue.
His dark hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, his face clean-shaven, and his eyes their usual glittering darkness. I don't even like long hair on men, but on him, it works.
Which is real fucking annoying .
My memory flashes back to two weeks ago, when I saw him drumming. All that bare, tattooed skin and flying hair.
I'm in danger of drooling, so I take a swallow of my drink. Then I lift it in his direction. "Their signature cocktail is excellent. You should try one."
He frowns at me, deep creases around his dark eyebrows. "You didn't answer my question. There's no one here but me. So who are you telling not to lecture you?"
I barely manage to stop myself from sneering at him. "You didn’t believe me when I told you last weekend. So I'm choosing not to answer you."
His gaze drills into mine, an uncomfortably intimate moment that has my pulse racing. Has he moved closer? I feel like I need to take a step back to have enough air.
Which makes no sense, since we're outside, surrounded by air.
"Humor me." His voice is low, a caress as intimate as his gaze. How can he look at me like this, like he wants inside me in all literal and metaphorical ways, when he so clearly can't stand me?
"OK." He wants the truth? Sure, I'll give that to him. Then he can call me a fraud and that will douse the fire currently flaming through me. "Well fuck you. You already know who I’m talking to but you’re too much of a bonehead to believe it." Did I really just use the word bonehead ?
On that note, I toss back the rest of my drink and set the lowball glass, which now only holds ice, on the bar. I do need to slow down, but the drink is just so delicious and goes down far too easy.
"Scotch on the rocks, with a twist?" I ask the bartender. I'm not a huge fan of scotch, so I'll drink it more slowly.
"Two of those," Zach tells the bartender, who nods and goes off to make our drinks.
"Interesting," Maria says. And doesn't elaborate .
I'm not going to chat with her in front of Zach, so I don't respond.
"So what, you have an imaginary friend? You’re really sticking with that story?" The sneer I'm so used to in his voice is noticeably absent. Maybe he's not on his first drink either.
"I am not imaginary!" Maria's indignant. "Tell him I am a very real person. Or I was, anyway."
"She doesn't like you calling her imaginary," I tell him, eyebrows raised in a challenge. Is he going to tell me I'm full of shit? Or is he on his best behavior tonight?
I'm not even entertaining the possibility that he might be opening his mind and starting to realize magic is very real. And perfectly compatible with his stupid science.
He raises his eyebrows. "I've offended a ghost?"
"Spirit," Maria and I say at the same time.
"They prefer spirit. Too many negative associations with the word ghost."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I see."
Was he going to smile? Say it ain't so! In all the months I've known him, I don't think I've seen him smile once. I'm relatively sure he could say the same for me.
It's probably for the best he didn't. I'm sure he's one of those people who goes from hot to devastatingly gorgeous when they smile. I don't need that in my life.
"Morgan! There you are!" Bronwen appears and slings her arm around my shoulders. She gives Zach a knowing look. "Hey."
I want to elbow her in the gut for that look. There is nothing but some animosity happening between me and our future stepbrother. And, OK, maybe some chemistry. But I've had chemistry with people before. I can ignore it.
Zach accepts his drink from the bartender. After stuffing a five in the tip jar, he nods at Bronwen. It's very distinctly at her and not both of us. "I'm going to go find my seat for dinner. "
She waves, grinning, as he walks off. As soon as he's out of earshot, she turns to me. Still fucking grinning. "It's working. I can tell it's working. You two want each other. Bad." Her brown eyes sparkle in the setting sun.
My own brown eyes roll. "So? I've ignored attraction before."
"Yeah, but not with magic binding you before."
Little sisters are so damn annoying. "I thought you didn't mess with people's free will with your love spells."
"Oh, I'm not. You two want each other all on your own." She tips her head so it's resting on my shoulder. We're basically the same height. And it feels nice. She may be a pain in my ass, but she's also one of my best friends. Basically, she's my sister.
"I'm just greasing the wheels."
"I wouldn't mind greasing his wheels," Maria adds.
I can't help a snort laugh.
"What?" Bronwen asks. "Maria commentary?"
My family is used to my afterlife companion. "She wants to grease his wheels."
"Sorry, Maria. I can't make that happen. And even if I could, we're saving Zach for Morgan."
"You're just saying that because you want the curse broken," I mumble.
She shrugs, her movement jostling me since her arm's still around me. "So what if I do? It's good for both of us if you fall in love."
After taking a tiny sip of the scotch and pausing as it burns its way down my throat, I say, "I am absolutely looking for someone I can fall in love with. For you. But I'm sorry. It's just not going to be Zach."
ZACH
I'm sitting at a table with Celestial Alchemy. Like, Sapphire Goode is sitting across from me, Amethyst Goode diagonal from me, and Garnet on the other side of Amethyst.
My mind is blown. This is something that's really happening.
Despite my knowing witchcraft is bullshit, and knowing the three sisters who make up the pop-punk band Celestial Alchemy claim to be witches, I've loved them since the first time I heard their breakout hit, "Don't Go Back Underground."
I have all five of their albums, digitally, on CD, and on vinyl. I listen to their music daily. I haven't gone so far as to put up posters—that's for kids—or join their online fan club. But I follow them on social media and I own t-shirts from all the concerts I've been to.
They are, by far, my favorite band.
I didn't choose to move to Owl Cove because I know it's where they're from. I actually found that out after I accepted the job at OmniGenQuest. But I can't say I haven't hoped to run into them in town. Maybe even get autographs at some point.
So it kind of blew my mind when my dad announced he was engaged to their Aunt Angela. I felt kind of silly the first time I went to dinner at Angela's, when they announced their engagement. I was wearing a Celestial Alchemy t-shirt that night, and it was mildly embarrassing. Thankfully no one pointed it out.
Since they tour a lot, this is the first time I've actually met them. I'm not great at small talk. It's just not my thing. So mostly I've been listening as they talk to Morgan, sitting to my left, or Bronwen, on my right.
There's been no mention of Morgan's imaginary dead friend. Or dead imaginary friend? I don't even know.
What I do know is that, as gorgeous as all the women in the Goode family are, even the musicians I look up to aren't half as beautiful as Morgan is tonight. Which is damn annoying.
She's got her brown hair in some messy pile on top of her head, with strands from the white streak in front hanging down around her face. Her makeup is subtle, and somehow accentuates the freckles smattered over her nose and cheeks. Her lips are berry red, a lighter shade to match the wine-colored dress she's wearing. It's made of silk or satin or something like that, skims her curves, falls all the way to the ground, scoops low enough in front to tease but not low enough to reveal, and has barely-there straps over her shoulders. Which makes me wonder if she's wearing a bra. Which makes me annoyed with myself for wondering about the state of Morgan's lingerie.
But shit, I'm so aware of her next to me, I can barely focus on eating my meal, let alone anything else. An urge to turn to her, bury my face in her neck, and kiss her throat keeps running through me. I can imagine it in exquisite detail, right down to how she would smell—like lavender, because I've heard her and Sirona discuss using lavender-infused products from their cousin.
"Hey, so I've been working on that song you wrote us," Sapphire says, looking at Morgan. She winds a strand of her electric blue hair around her finger. Because of course her hair is blue.
Just like Amethyst's hair is deep purple. And for some reason, Garnet's is bubble gum pink.
"Fantastic lyrics," Garnet adds. "Lend themselves to an excellent bass line."
"I'm putting together a really nice, moody piano part," Amethyst says.
Sapphire, who I gather is the oldest, is the lead singer and plays guitar. Garnet plays bass, and Amethyst, who I believe is the youngest, plays a variety of instruments, depending on the song. Only their drummer, who changes a lot, isn't part of the family.
Man, it would be amazing to get to play drums, even just once, with them.
"You wrote us what I can tell is going to be another hit," Garnet says, grinning across the table at her cousin.
At Morgan.
Wait, Morgan writes lyrics for them?
She looks flustered by the praise, waving it off with her hands. "No biggie. I was just playing around. Although someone spilled coffee all over the first draft. So I had to start over."
Knowing I'm the someone puts me on the defensive. "It was an accident. That kid ran into me."
She doesn't look at me, just shrugs. Drawing my attention to her bare shoulders. Her skin still holds a bit of a summer tan, and I can faintly see lines where her swimsuit straps would go. My mouth waters as I imagine licking along that path.
Damn. I can't think like this. Especially not when she's right next to me. I have to shift in my seat because things are getting uncomfortable.
"Do you write a lot of their lyrics?" The question is out of my mouth before I can think better of it. Apparently my curiosity about Celestial Alchemy outweighs my dislike of conversation with Morgan.
"Most of them," Sapphire answers for her. "You didn't know she's been nominated for a Grammy?"
Morgan plays with her fork, staring down at her half-eaten meal. "It's not a big deal."
All three band members roll their eyes at the same time. It's practically choreographed.
"Yeah, the Grammys, no biggie." Amethyst shakes her head. "Don't be so jaded. "
"I don't need all that hoopla," Morgan says. "I just like writing."
Against my will, my opinion of Morgan is subtly shifting. When I get home, I'm going to have to look at my CD inserts, figure out which songs she did write.
"Which song got you the nomination?" I can't help asking.
"'Bound By Shadows'," she mumbles.
One of my very favorites. And somehow, knowing she wrote those words that speak so deeply to me, shifts my opinion of her even more. There's so much more to Morgan than conning people into believing she can talk to the dead.
And dammit, I don't want my opinion of her to change. I might start liking her. And how can I like someone when I so fundamentally disagree with all they stand for? Being attracted to her is one thing. But becoming... I don't know, friends? That just can't happen.
Still, I can't shake the idea that it's her words that speak to me so deeply. It's causing uncomfortable cognitive dissonance, so I set my napkin on the table and excuse myself. I take my mostly empty scotch glass with me. I don't want a refill, but it gives me something to do.
A flamingo struts past me, then I'm almost plowed down by two small goats chasing each other. It's like a damn zoo here, with all the animals they call their familiars. Allegedly witches can communicate with their familiars, and apparently keeping up that part of the ruse was important enough for guests to bring their animals.
I'll admit, I've never had a pet so I don't fully get the bond owners have with their animals. But this is ridiculous. I mean, there's a damn bear lumbering around. How is that safe?
My dad is standing alone at the bar as I approach. He has his back to the bar, resting his elbows on it as he surveys the party going on in front of him. He has a neutral expression on his face, but it's a pleased neutral expression. No resting frown face .
If I think back, I can't recall him looking this at ease. Not since my mom died when I was eight. I've gotten so used to his resting furrowed brow expression that this is a minor shock to my system.
"There you go, Mr. Werner." The bartender slides a glass of white wine toward my dad.
Dad smiles as he takes a sip, then puts a five in the tip jar. Over the rim of his glass, his gaze catches mine.
"Zach! I haven't seen you yet tonight." He's grinning now. "Enjoying yourself?"
Enjoyment isn't the word I'd use for how I'm feeling at the moment. But I'm not dousing my dad's good mood. "Having a great time. Can't believe I'm sitting with Celestial Alchemy."
He claps me on the shoulder with his free hand. "They're playing a big concert in Milwaukee next weekend. I know Angela's girls are going. I'm sure we can get you a ticket."
On the one hand, I would hardly turn down tickets to see my favorite band. From what would inevitably be excellent seats. I tried to get tickets but they sold out in record time.
On the other hand, go to a concert with Morgan? Spend all that time fighting my attraction to her while simultaneously being subjected to them all pretending they're magic?
"I'll see. I think we might have a gig next Saturday night."
Dad frowns at me, his bushy eyebrows forming a deep vee. "Something wrong? I have a hard time believing you're turning down tickets to see the band you worship."
"Worship is a strong word..."
He simply stares at me. Right when I'm about to start squirming, I say instead, "Dad, are you happy? With Angela?"
I'm not entirely sure what I'm getting at. Some of it is disbelief that my dad has been fooled by these grifters. Some of it, I suppose, is dormant loyalty to my mom. The rest, I have no idea.
"Of course I am. I'm happier than I've been in years. Since... "
He doesn't have to finish the sentence. We both know how it ends.
Because I was being so awful that day, I drove her out of the house and to her death. For a moment, the pain in my chest is as fresh and raw as it was that night when my dad told me. But I shove it away, because that's the only thing I've ever known to do with it.
"Is this about the magic thing?" His eyes narrow slightly.
"It just… it's scientifically impossible. The things they say they can do. They don't follow the laws of nature."
"Do you remember the poster you used to have hanging in your bedroom? Put it up when you were about six?"
My memory of my childhood bedroom is vague. Details have fuzzed out over the years. After a few minutes of trying to remember, I shake my head. “No.”
"It had a kids science fiction sort of feel to it, and it said 'Magic is just science that hasn't been discovered'. Back then, you believed in both."
"I was a kid."
Dad sighs, then takes a drink of his wine. "The things they can do, they're real, son. I've seen too many scientifically inexplicable things to believe otherwise. Maybe you should spend some time with Angela's daughters. They can show you that this magic is very real."