We’re in Morgan’s little apartment above her spellshop, Arcane Atelier, just a block away from the legendary Salem Witch Museum. She would be Central Casting’s first choice for Hot Young Witch. Black hair, cut choppily into a bob, pale makeup with blazing red lips and eyes heavily lined with kohl. She, however,ownsthis look. While you can’t take three steps in Salem without bumping into a Wiccan, medium, spiritualist, or witch, Morgan’s the one the locals go to. She’s also my best friend and refuge when things get too bad.
Her apartment is wonderfully shabby and cozy, with lots of velvet drapes and fabric over the lamps for what she calls an “ethereal glow.” It's more of a, “I can’t walk through here without tripping over something,” aesthetic. But hey, it’s her place.
“Really,” she persists. “You know those two louts are too stupid to run the business without her. Cut off the head of the snake and the whole thing withers and dies.”
There’s a smile of such malevolent satisfaction on her face that I blurt out, “I have never loved you more.”
“I know.” She waves her hands, ladened with a ring on every finger before her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Is that fucker Steve bothering you again?”
“Are you trying to read my mind or is that based on statistical probability?” I ask, taking another gulp of her horrible homemade wine.
“Both,” she says.
“He doesn’t dare do anything. He just… He’s always there, you know? I’ll turn around and he’ll be right there so I’ll bump into him. Staring at me like a creep when I’m vacuuming or washing the windows.”
“If that prick ever shows up at the office building when you’re there alone, you leave immediately, do you hear me?” She leans forward angrily. “Do you still have that ceremonial dagger I gave you? And the pepper spray?”
"I do," I promise, "I swear." Though to be honest, a ten inch ceremonial dagger is kind of awkward to carry around.
"It would have been better if you'd been born ugly," she says, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Instead, you're tall with a great ass and that hair! That insane shade of 'too red to be red' hair that's flowing down to your waist."
"Stop this," I groan, by which I mean, 'please do go on!' because it's been a terrible day and my self-esteem could use a boost.
"You have those stupid crystal blue eyes - remember when Steve Murdock wrote that pitiful ode to your eyes when we were nineteen?"
"Oh, that poor guy," I'm laughing and I really shouldn't because poor Steve was so earnest about it.
"My point is," she continues, "is that if you were hideous I wouldn't worry so much about you being in that house. Even if those fuckingassholes don't bother you, I can see them selling you off if they could make a buck doing it."
Murder Mittens must sense my anxiety, because she leaves her loving tangle with Morgan’s kitties, Familiar One and Familiar Two, to leap onto my lap, placing her paws on my chest, looking up at me sternly.
“That’s a good kitty,” Morgan says approvingly. “Just bring your attack cat to work. Neither of those asshole stepbrothers are willing to get near her.”
This is true. Murder Mittens is dark as sin with a soul to match. I’m the only person she won’t bite. Even Morgan steers clear of her.
“Oh, she never leaves my side.” I scratch Murder Mitten’s chin as her eyes close in contentment. “Maybe that’s why he’s not trying to corner me at work.”
“While I recognize that we revisit this topic every month, I still feel compelled to ask again. Is all this worth it? Girl, fuckingrun.” Morgan leans forward, as serious and concerned as I’ve ever seen her. “Go far away. You’ve been looking for this mysterious proof for over two years. It could be anywhere. Go hide in Australia or something until you can get your trust and then you can hire someone to find the proof for you.”
Murder Mittens drapes herself around my necklike a scarf as I stand up, pacing the tiny living room. “I can’t. You know I can’t. Even if I did, the instant I tried to claim my trust, Marlena would have one of her special little Boston Police buddies there to arrest me. I’m not getting anything if I’m in prison.”
“I’ve got some money saved,” she persists, “I’ll come with you.”
My chest clenches and I can feel my Ugly Cry Face about to make an appearance. She would. I know Morgan would give up everything she loves if she thought she could pry me out of that house on Beacon Hill.
“I can’t. I have to find the proof or I’ll never get free of them,” I say hoarsely.
“You’re not getting emotional, are you?” she snaps, hastily changing the mood. “I don’t do emotional. You know that.”
“I do.” Slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder, I head for the door. “Thanks for the wine and whine session.”
Sniffing in a way that tells me she is Deeply Displeased, she follows me to the door. “I still think the blood turning into tar spell is our best option.”
Giving her a hug, I whisper, “Maybe just have the ingredients for the spell handy, huh?”
Her laughter follows Murder Mittens and me down the stairs.
Chapter Three
