Sea Cursed:: An Adult Dystopian Paranormal Romance: Sector 13 (The Othala Witch Collection)
Amy Lee Burgess and Fallen Sorcery
Published by Amy Lee Burgess, 2016.
Sea Cursed
Copyright © November 2016 by Amy Lee Burgess
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Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
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Chapter 1
“Perhaps you shouldn’t go to the farmers market today, Dem.” Mother stood by the kitchen window, peering out at the brooding sky. “Rain for sure.”
“Says here they took in the sea witch two days ago,” my father said from behind his newspaper. One corner dipped into a yellow smear of yolk left from his breakfast egg. He rattled the paper for emphasis, spraying egg yolk across the table. “No wonder the waves were so high on Thursday. Some of ’em topped the sea wall. Put up a magical fight, I’ll bet.”
“Michael, I don’t want to listen to any more of that spell talk.” My mother hugged herself as she continued to stare out into the cloudy sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she caught us staring at her and blushed. She pretended not to be superstitious, but she was the worst of the family.
“They’ll find the earth witch next. The Reutterance will be soon. Every fifty years. Unsettling, yes, but nothing that concerns us,” my father said, then fell into silence when a news story captured his attention.
“Finish your breakfast, Demetria.”
When my mother called me by my full name, argument was futile. I only had two bites left of my egg, which I polished off in short order. I carried my plate and utensils to the sink and added them to the pile.
“Where are you going? Mother called as I dodged around Father’s pushed-out chair and headed into the hall.
“For my raincoat and the basket. It’s not raining yet and we need food. I just ate the last of the eggs, didn’t I?”
“I said maybe you shouldn’t go.” Another grumble of thunder nearly drowned her words.
I pretended not hear her as I snatched the market basket from the hall table and raced outside. I’d long since learned not to let my mother’s occasional fretfulness override my decisions. I was twenty-one after all. When Mother had been my age, she’d already been married to father with me on the way. The least I could do was show some independence.
As I was halfway down the garden path, the porch door squeaked open.
“Dem! Your raincoat!” Mother stood on the top step, the hem of her blue house dress fluttering in the stiff ocean breeze. Framed by the porch roses, Mother looked young and pretty, even as worry pricked the skin between her eyes.
Strands of rich black hair blew into her eyes, and she brushed them away with the back of her free hand. She held out my coat, and it, too, flapped in the wind.
“You look like a tragic heroine out of a romance book from the Before Times,” I told her. “I’m just going to the farmers market four blocks away. Even if it starts pouring, I won’t melt.”
Despite the intermittent drizzling, Mother lithely descended the steps and hurried to my side. She held my basket while I shrugged on my raincoat. I braced myself for objections when she peeked inside and found my stash of needlepoint pillowslips.
“If your father knew you were selling these at the market, he’d be angry.” She stared at me, her dark eyes uncompromising. “You know he wants to support you until you marry.”
I snorted. “If he expects me to marry one of his co-workers’ sons, he’ll have a long wait.”
Mother bit back a gasp of laughter, and some of the frustration drained from her face, easing the lines of tension. “That boy last night wasn’t one of his better attempts, was he?”
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “I’d rather be a spinster all my life than marry Franklin Wendell Bartholomew.”
Mother tucked a strand of wayward hair behind my ear. “You’re much too lovely to remain a spinster.”
“As if a pretty face is a guarantee of romantic success. Look at me. Twenty-one years old and the last of my friends to be single. The others are all married. Kelly’s even pregnant. Did I tell you?”
Mother made a small sound either of excitement about Kelly’s impending bundle of joy, or more likely, contempt. She hated when I compared myself to my friends. Especially since after they married, they rarely invited me over or stopped by to see me. People changed when they got older. Everyone knew that. What they didn’t always do a good job of explaining, was how much that could hurt.
“You’ll find him, Dem.”
“I might if I sell enough pillowslips to pay for a room at Mrs. Harrington’s boarding house. Get out in the world a little bit.”
Mother made another sound in her throat, and I sighed. “It’s two blocks away. I’d come over every night for supper, I swear. Besides, I estimate I won’t have enough steady income built up to afford this for a few months. So maybe one of Father’s co-workers’ sons will sweep me off my feet yet.”
Mother giggled, making her sound and look more my age than hers. Affection swept across me, and I gave her a one-armed hug while snagging the basket.
Thunder rumbled ominously, a throaty growl that went on for endless seconds. Mother and I cocked our heads to listen to it, as if it might impart some strange wisdom if we could only decipher sky-speak.
“Honestly, it’s going to pour soon,” Mother said, worry clouding her eyes again. “I’d really rather you didn’t go today, Dem. Let’s spend the afternoon sewing. We can go to market together on Monday.”
“Saturday’s when they have the best prices. B
esides, I promised Mrs. Johnson I’d bring more pillowslips and pick up the money I made from selling the last batch. I’m going, Mother.”
She mumbled something. I frowned, straining to hear.
“Just be careful,” she said. The pulse jumped visibly beneath the dark skin of her throat. “I’ve got one of my feelings.” A shamed smile twisted her lips. She truly was lovely. People said I looked just like her, but I couldn’t see it. I had my father’s nose for one thing, not a beautiful button like hers.
“Ah, you and your feelings.” I rolled my eyes. When I was growing up, her feelings had prevented me from going outside to play on perfectly sunny days, learning to swim until I was twelve, and joining the high school girls’ club from which my social life had never recovered. Yet, she wasn’t superstitious. My foot. Living on my own wasn’t only to avoid Father’s dreadful marriage prospects. She smothered me and I allowed it. But twenty-one was high time to make it out on my own, no matter how much she disagreed.
“I mean it, Demetria. Please be careful. For me.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, then jerked her head toward the door. Father’s voice drifted through the screen. More coffee probably. The pot was five feet away, but he’d never think to get out of his chair to fetch it himself. I certainly was never going to wait hand and foot on some man, even if he did make decent enough money to buy me a house with an ocean view from the upstairs back windows.
I waved a hand at Mother, but she had her back to me as she headed into the house. I stared at her for moment as another slow roll of thunder rumbled above me. Dread churned in my stomach. Othala, curse it, Mother’s paranoia would not infect me.
Whirling, I set off for the ten-minute walk, but I wished the rain and thunder would stop.
The farmers market spread out across an old dirt lot where people in the Before Times had parked cars. Asphalt roads and cement sidewalks had long since been broken up and returned to dirt. The vehicles had for the most part been torn apart for salvage or towed out to sea and junked. My school class had once taken a field trip to the Strand Museum where we saw a car that had been preserved for a Before Times exhibit. Hard to imagine something going faster than a horse. Our island, Galveteen, was only around thirty miles long and at most three miles wide. We had no use for cars or trains. Carts, horses, and our feet provided all the transportation we needed.
Thanks to hydro and the sea witches, we still had electricity. The earth witches worked Moody Gardens to provide most of our food. As father said, we didn’t have to be magical to use magic.
The wind buffeted me as I approached the meat vendor, causing me to stagger. My hair tangled in a veil across my face, so I stopped to tie it back. Thunder still growled in the distance, but no real rain, just scattered showers.
Prolonged bad weather heralded the Reutterance that occurred every fifty years. I shuddered, thinking about the sea witch putting up a fight when they’d come for her. Had she been terrified? Defiant? I shook my head to clear it of all witch thoughts. The Reutterance had nothing to do with me, I shouldn’t dwell on it. Instead, I hurried to Mr. Tanner’s meat cart to buy our week’s supply.
Raindrops struck my head as I emerged from under the Mr. Tanner’s awning. I pulled out a multi-colored scarf from my pocket and covered my head with it, tying it beneath my braid. Not much protection if the rain turned into a downpour, but I hoped good enough to finish shopping.
Mrs. Johnson’s knickknack stall smelled of beeswax candles and strawberry incense, but neither could quite drown out the heavy scent of impending rain. She beamed at me, her wizened face crinkling into a smile of welcome.
“Morning, dearie.” She bustled out from behind her stall to give me a brisk hug. “My, you look beautiful. Just like your mother.”
“Hi, Mrs. Johnson. Thank you. You’d better get back under the awning, it’s starting to rain.” I gave her a quick hug then stepped back so she could retreat behind her counter.
“Your pillowslips are selling fast. I’ve had two women asking for them today, and I had to send them away disappointed. Hope you have more for me.”
In addition to candles and incense, Mrs. Johnson sold trinkets and tin ware. When I’d showed her my work a month ago, she’d been more than happy to take them on commission. My jewelry box in my bedroom now held more money than jewelry. Still not enough to rent a room from Mrs. Harrington – at least not indefinitely. Someday soon. Mrs. Johnson told me once I was on my own, and my father couldn’t object, I could work for her. As she had no children, perhaps one day I might even take over her stall. A nicer woman didn’t exist.
I dug into my basket and pulled out a dozen pillowslips. Mrs. Johnson’s eyes lit with appreciation. “Fine work, that, Dem. You have a real talent with a needle.”
I smiled. She took my needlepoint and handed me a wad of bills. I counted it, then frowned. “You didn’t take the full twenty percent. There’s too much money here.”
Mrs. Johnson clucked her tongue. “Don’t you want to move into your own place? Can’t an old woman help out?”
My throat squeezed shut. If the counter hadn’t separated us, I would have hugged her again. Instead, I stuffed the money in my raincoat pocket and beamed at her.
“You’re the best, Mrs. Johnson.”
She waved a hand in the air as if to chase away my compliment. “Go on with you. Get your shopping done before the real rain starts.” She craned her neck to look out beneath her awning at the brooding sky. “I’ll be glad when this Reutterance is over. This period before the sea-cursed witches are marked and sent out to sea spooks me.”
“Magic always does, doesn’t it?” I stared at the sullen sky, a shiver of unease sparking down my spine. This weather was magically induced, not natural. That was the cause of the creeping dread that Mother and I suffered. Witches were unnatural.
I shook myself free of the stifling anxiety, and ducked back out into the slow drizzle, waving goodbye to Mrs. Johnson as I walked.
The wind smelled like raindrops mixed with sea water. I turned to look toward the ocean, barely visible through a haze of fog. Whitecaps rode the high waves, which beat against the seawall. In the murky distance, the fishing fleet headed for the docks. A storm out to sea must have spoiled the fishing for today. That reminded me – seafood stall next.
“Two pounds of mackerel and a pound of cod.” I brushed rain from my face, grateful for the awning covering Mr. Eden’s stall.
“Ain’t no cod.” Mr. Eden scowled. I stiffened. Had I done something wrong to make him angry? “Ain’t much mackerel neither.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Why should you be?” he demanded. “It’s those damn lazy fishermen who ought to be sorry. Half the fleet won’t go out in the rain. Those that do come creeping back before they even clear the harbor. It’s the Reutterance, they say. The portents call for bad weather. Not gonna risk the boat.” He snorted. “Not gonna risk the boat, my ass. How’s a man supposed to make a living selling seafood when there ain’t no seafood?”
I gulped back another rush of anxiety. Magical, unnatural weather again. Small comfort it made others uneasy as well.
Mr. Eden’s frown intensified until he looked like one of the mackerels in his display case. “Bah.”
“I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
“A pound of mackerel. I’ve got some shrimp left. Want that?” He sounded a little less gruff, probably because he wanted to sell me fish.
“Yes, please.” My father hated shrimp, but Mother and I could eat it in salad for lunch when he was at work. Anything to make Mr. Eden not glare at me anymore.
Lightning flashed ominously as Mr. Eden wrapped up my order. Nervously, I scanned the sky. I didn’t mind rain, but lightning scared me. I’d rush through the vegetable vendors and go home.
I shoved the fish and shrimp into my bag, and hurried out into the rain.
Mrs. Boleyn waited behind the counter of her vegetable stall.
“Terrible day,” she remarked dolefully
as I approached.
“I know. I’m in a hurry to get home before the real storm begins.”
“You young people are scared of your own shadows. This is my second Reutterance. I was very young the last time. Just wait for the earth to start shaking. This thunder and lightning is nothing compared to that.”
“Earthquakes? Are buildings destroyed?” Fascinated and frightened, I moved closer to the counter.
“Sometimes.” Mrs. Boleyn nodded sagely. “Depends on the strength of the earth witch, I’m told. Not a one ever likes being marked. And, oh, the waves that pounded to shore the other day when the sea witch was taken. Some of them topped ten feet and more! ”
I shivered. Othala, witch talk bothered me.
“Thankfully, it has nothing to do with us. We just use the magic, we don’t make it,” I said. “Mother wants potatoes, corn, lettuce, and string beans this week.”
Mrs. Boleyn busied herself gathering the vegetables. I’d never spent much time thinking about it, but some earth witch had performed a ritual to grow these vegetables. Feeding the sixty-thousand odd people on Galveteen Island required magic. We needed multiple bumper crops year round. People like Mrs. Boleyn paid for these vending stalls and journeyed to Moody Gardens to harvest the crops, but the earth witches had been there first and would renew the land after.
Menial labor according to my father. The same with the sea witches who harnessed the ocean to provide hydroelectricity and whose spells powered the fishing boats sent out to sea every day.
Laboring under the sun to harvest the crops was menial labor too. Yet it was somehow more respectable a profession than earth witch.
Magic was unnatural. Perhaps that was it. Rituals, spells, chants and incantations using a mysterious energy that the non-magical couldn’t see or summon. Maybe, deep down, we were jealous.
I shuddered again at that heretical thought. I didn’t know any witches, and I didn’t want to know any. That afternoon after Amanda’s wedding shower had been a freaky coincidence. Nothing else.
“Anything else, Demetria?” Mrs. Boleyn’s eyes bulged at me. I must have been woolgathering for several seconds. Maybe I’d even missed a question aimed at me.
Sea Cursed: An Adult Dystopian Paranormal Romance: Sector 13 (The Othala Witch Collection) Page 1
