Sour Read online

  Sour

  Iris Kain

  Published by Iris Kain, 2022.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SOUR

  First edition. January 18, 2022.

  Copyright © 2022 Iris Kain.

  ISBN: 978-1957244006

  Written by Iris Kain.

  Also by Iris Kain

  Shadow Hunter

  Eternal Spring

  Sour (Coming Soon)

  Watch for more at Iris Kain’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Iris Kain

  Dedication

  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

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  About the Author

  To DJ and Ember, my real-life version of Jake and Lorina. Keep rocking, you two.

  Chapter 1

  Being a chaos witch sucks.

  I was reminded of this as I stood behind the counter of Witch’s Brew, my combination coffeehouse and metaphysical supply shop. The products are metaphysical. The coffee is, well, coffee. The front room had over a dozen four-person tables scattered around its space. The other two rooms had crystals, candles, herbs, books, wands. If it’s witchy, I sell it. No one shopped at the moment, though.

  Teens on their school lunch break stood frozen over their espressos and Ethiopian brews, staring at the man who had come into the door holding a gun. One held her cup of white chocolate latte inches from her perfectly lipsticked mouth, frozen as if by not moving, she would reduce her chances of being a target. Another’s eyes darted around, searching for an opening to escape, but he didn’t move, much like the skeletons I had posed in humorous ways around the store as Halloween decorations. I recognized him as a running back for the Gryphon High School football team. It contrasted starkly with the confident way he moved on Friday nights, running the football down the field.

  The man with the gun, however, moved just fine. He strolled in with his shoulders back, the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, an automatic pistol of some sort gripped in his hand. Once upon a time, I might have been able to tell you what type. When my mother died, I went a little crazy learning about weapons. Despite the chaos that followed me seemingly every time I left my shop, none of it had involved weapons until now.

  I’d lived a few lifetimes since then. That I can say that at twenty-six is a little sad, I guess.

  I met the interloper’s eyes with a steady gaze. I supposed being held at gunpoint would terrify most people, and while I didn’t want to die, you don’t go through as many shitty catastrophes as I do and not come out the other side a little more fearless. The gun man stared back, not intensely, but with intent.

  Several of the kids took advantage of our locked eyes to sprint for the side door; others darted out the front and down the veranda stairs. I heard a cup fall with a crash to the floor and shatter. No biggie, I told myself. All the cups and plates were as mismatched as the salvaged furniture I used. Chair legs clattered, then the whole seat tipped to the floor with a bang.

  Gun man’s focus never wavered. His eyes were sea-foam green, his face bordering on gaunt with a fringe of light red beard. He made no move to aim, other than the vague ninety-degree angle he held at his elbow, and the short barrel pointed imprecisely in my direction. Several glass jars full of coffees, teas, and herbs stood on whitewashed shelves behind me, and I tried not to cringe at the thought of the shrapnel they might cause if hit by a bullet intended for me. At this close range, he’d have to be a shitty shot to miss.

  Four kids remained. Regulars. I knew them all by name and had half of their mothers’ phone numbers saved on my cell phone. They all looked terrified, and it touched me when I realized their concern was for my safety, not their own. Eight eyes darted back and forth between him and me, but their heads remained still.

  Desperate to keep his attention on me, I spoke.

  “What do you want?”

  The gun man came to the counter. His imprecise aim tightened until the muzzle pointed more directly at my chest. My heart rate increased. My throat constricted. The heat from the unseasonably warm October air hit me, and it occurred to me that only seconds had passed since the front door closed.

  “Your money,” he snarled.

  My mouth flattened, and I pushed a few buttons on the cash register screen, never breaking eye contact. I didn’t want his eyes to leave mine—there were too many potential targets nearby. The drawer slid open, coins jingling and jostling as it hit the fullest extent. I grabbed a black plastic shopping bag with Witch’s Brew written on the front in purple from under the counter and began filling it with my meager daily take, my mind racing.

  I am protected by your might, oh mighty goddess, on this night.

  Who robs a tiny shop like this knowing that its main clientele are high schoolers and a handful of southern pagans and novelty shoppers?

  Protect those present from harm and fear, and keep your mighty presence near.

  Past the shiny, short barrel, the man on the other side of the counter wore a clean polo and slacks that would be at home in any office for casual Friday. Middle-class. From this close, the smell of his aftershave and the oil from his gun wafted. He didn’t look strung out on drugs or desperate, like the type who needed money.

  If he doesn’t need the money, then what—?

  Mighty Athena, help me see. I trust your aid. So mote it be.

  And she did. A veil lifted, and for the first time, I saw the containers of belladonna and vervain. The candles. The skulls, gourds, dried leaves, and bottles of mead I used as Samhain decorations. The handmade brooms standing in the corner.

  He wasn’t here for my money. He was here because I was a witch.

  Well, that’s a dumb idea.

  I put the last of the bills in the bag and handed it across the counter to him, but not before I made an almost imperceptible back-and-forth with my arm—a move so slight he had undoubtedly written it off as hand shaking in fear.

  Fear inside my shop. The safest place on earth for me.

  He gave me a smug smile and accepted the bag of bills, turned, and promptly tripped over a shard of ceramic from the shattered mug.

  His ankle twisted with an audible snap. The load-bearing leg gave way under him, and he fell face-first onto the polished wood floor. The painted white moon in the center of the wooden floor became splattered with red from his newly broken nose. The pistol slipped from his grip and spiraled across the floor toward one of my regulars, a slender young woman named Cadence, who picked it up gingerly and handed it to her boyfriend, Jake. I wasn’t sure if he knew how to fire a gun, but I knew he was a black belt, which was some comfort.

  The tinkle of bells from the front of my shop drew my attention back to the entrance, where two police officers came in from the unseasonal heat, hands at their holsters. One student who fled must have called 9-1-1. Jake, still holding the gun, placed it on the tab
le behind him, away from the robber, and put his hands up. I guess he thought they might assume he was the criminal with his long hair, death metal shirt, steel-toed boots, and black jeans and didn’t want to give the cops any reason to suspect him.

  “Murph? You OK?”

  Officers Brandon Stout and Kenny Hendricks were regulars—two of the few people in Gryphon who didn’t give a flip that I ran a shop full of witchy goods. The trail of chaos I often left in my wake meant police weren’t an uncommon presence in my life, and over the years, both Stout and Hendricks had become friends of mine.

  Stout, both his name and description, shot Jake a hasty glance, and his attention turned to the bloody would-be robber on the floor. Kenny—younger, fitter, and darker than his partner—switched his attention from me to the robber sprawled on my floor and back to me, waiting for an explanation.

  “I... he...” my hands tried to say what my mouth couldn’t, motioning back and forth from the robber to the cash register to the plastic bag of cash.

  Another one of my regulars broke in. “He tried to rob her,” Betony said, her purple hair shining in the light from the window. Her bright hazel eyes pleaded with them to listen. “He slipped and...” her hands performed the voilà motion toward the man on the floor. “See? The bag of money is right there.” She pointed.

  “His gun,” Cadence added, pointing to where it lay on the table. “Jake took it away,” she added. I was glad she clarified. It would explain any fingerprints that might get Jake in trouble.

  Kenny’s expression said it all as he shook his head. “Murphy.” He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t stern, either. I sensed there might be voodoo or hoodoo in his family’s past, but I wouldn’t be the one to bring it up. The little hamlet of Gryphon lay in the Bible Belt of northern Alabama, after all. Most folks tend not to talk about things like that.

  “I know, Kenny,” I said, noting as I ran my hands through my hair that my purple nail polish almost matched Betony’s hair. “Murphy’s Law strikes again.” I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans and plopped into a wooden Queen Anne chair with a worn cushion. I tapped my Doc Martens on the floor, trying to let out some of my nervous energy.

  Stout’s kind, brown eyes met mine. He sighed and went to work. I sat, my heart still racing. Cadence, sweet young woman that she was, took a position at the door in case anyone came by to explain that it might be a few minutes before they could shop.

  I tucked a strand of thick brown (chestnut, my best friend Hanna called it) hair behind my ear and leaned forward, resting my chin on my hands, my elbows on my knees.

  Stout and Hendricks helped the struggling man to his feet. I noticed he had knocked out his two front teeth in his fall as well as cutting his cheek on another shard of the ceramic cup. As Stout snapped a pair of cuffs on his wrist, Hendricks got out a notepad to take down the details of the incident. Stout cuffed the man in front so he could use a paper napkin to stanch his bleeding nose, which would (based on the extremity of the damage) never look the same. Neither would his cheek. That gash needed stitches.

  “Keep the change, asshole,” I whispered. Cliché, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  SOME PEOPLE ARE GREEN witches who have anything they touch blooming under their fingertips, use herbs to heal the deadliest of illnesses, befriend the worst-tempered animals, and help the most infertile person create life. Others are orange—astral witches who foresee the future in the stars, their tools, or inside still waters. My mother, Nora Blackwell, was brown—a kitchen witch—and could turn anything into the most delicious food you’ve ever tasted, could turn sugars and oils and vinegars and salts into potions and spells. Red witches create both love and glamour and sometimes use glamour spells to induce love. Everyone knows about black witches and their famous ability to curse and hex, but most people have never heard about the strength and power they often provide to grieving people and people in desperate need. Haunted house? Call a white witch to purge it. White witches also perform weddings and blessings on new babies. There are more common types, but those are the most often found in the United States.

  Me? I’m a freaking chaos witch. Gray. Drab. Neither black nor white; the color of thunderclouds and boulders and mist. Well, my hair is chestnut brown, and so are my eyes, but whatever makes the rest of me is gray. I cause mayhem and destroy everything I am near.

  Relationships? I learned not to bother trying to find my significant other when I hit sixteen. I was the one who broke hearts, fell for the best friend, or became bored after two dates. Sometimes one. One guy left in the middle of our first meal.

  Work? Mother God, don’t get me started. It’s hard to get a career off the ground when every place you work closes, loses funding, or has everyone quit, get injured, or become ill within weeks of you starting.

  Friends? Well, there I lucked out. I have Conall Barry, who has been my wingman since kindergarten—long before I discovered my power. And then there is Hanna Chava, my sister from another mister. Beautiful, composed, tall, tanned, stunning, and did I mention warded by her own mother’s power? Yeah. She’s impossible to kill—even her last name means “life” in Hebrew. That’s the only thing keeping me from destroying everything we touch together. All of our mothers were in the same coven. They also died the same night. After that, there was no separating us.

  I often wondered why Conall and Hanna never tried dating. The three of us had crested the mid-twenties, but none of us had stayed with anyone for long. My reason was obvious, but Hanna’s list of suitors changed constantly. Her tiger’s eye hair, smooth skin, and wide brown eyes drew men in like hummingbirds to honeysuckle. Add to that the mystery of being friends with a known town witch, and her allure was irresistible. Despite his dark hair, fit build, and super-friendly nature, introverted Conall led a homebody life. He seemed content to hang out at the store most evenings, even when he didn’t have a client to read cards for, which was fine by me. Sometimes, being the only metaphysical store owner for miles made for interesting interactions, especially from local church folks. It was reassuring to have a backup with muscle.

  I can’t imagine what my mother’s pregnancy might have been like, especially since she never intended to become pregnant. My conception wasn’t planned. My mother didn’t make it a secret that although my father held a special place in her heart, he’d never be a constant in her life. One of my great-great-grandmothers, who tried to warn the family of a coming gray witch, foresaw my birth.

  I was prophesied.

  I didn’t know I was a chaos witch for almost half my life. I am the last of my family’s line, and until things started going wonky around me, I’d never heard of a chaos witch. I guess we’re rare. I’ve since learned we come around maybe once every three hundred years.

  You don’t get to pick what variety witch you are, and most witches exhibit a gift early. It’s strange not to figure yourself before you reach the mid-teen years, but me... I caused chaos trying to decipher my witchiness.

  I tried to be every other type, but nothing took off. Every plant I tried to raise in my high priestess LaDonna’s thriving garden died. Every wildly inaccurate card reading I did outside of my home’s warding caused more problems than it solved. Weather? Forget it—Mother Nature and I don’t speak the same language unless it’s about a coming storm. Relationships? Hell, how’m I supposed to help someone figure out what’s going on with their love life when I hadn’t experienced love? I had a gift for hexes (of course I did), but I never bestowed the strength in them that an average black witch does. I didn’t have the heart.

  The only trend I noticed was the path of destruction I wielded as I coursed through life. My elementary school? Burned to the ground when I was in 1st grade. A tornado ripped the roof off my middle school while I attended there. High school? Well, I dropped out of public school my sophomore year; I think the hormones combined with my witchy powers were too much for the Universe to handle. I went through a slew of teachers who got pregnant, moved, changed school districts—one died i
n a car accident. I spent a week in my bedroom racked with guilt after that last one. Every friend I made moved, was injured, or hated me within six months of meeting me. One poor soul broke her ankle in my car as I drove her to the airport to meet a flight. Her last words? “Murphy Blackwell, you are the worst friend ever!”

  Yep. Chaos witch.

  It freaking sucks.

  Chapter 2

  My hands still shook half an hour after Stout and Hendricks left. I longed for coffee to knock out the headache I’d been nursing since my power had caused the mugger to keel over and break his face on my floor. Cadence had kindly cleaned up the blood when she saw my reluctance to touch an object so intimately related to the intruder. There’s a hell of a lot of power in a person’s blood, and I’d already caused him enough damage. Yeah, he’d stolen from me, but my luck, I’d kill him by accident or something equally, freakishly bad.

  “Mama Murph? You OK?” Bet crept closer and peered up to my face. Short and curvy, with long, wavy hair, Betony was the most outspoken of the troop of high school eccentrics who frequented my shop daily. At sixteen, she was too old to be my daughter, but she and her crowd had all started jokingly calling me “Mama Murph” when I began mothering them as if they were my kids. I made sure they did their homework, scolded them for skiving off classes or vaping. Betony might be like a second-mother-in-command, but she was the most mischievous one, and I adored her.

  “I’ll be OK,” I assured her.

  At six-foot-three, Jake loomed over everyone, and concern painted his freckled face. His wideset, downturned blue eyes reflected everything his mind turned over. Jake was a worrier. Tall, sturdy, dressed every inch in black, one would assume he left his house intending to kick someone’s ass. Unbeknownst to them, Jake was a softy. A band nerd with the heart of a musician and the soul of a poet.