Desert Magic

After her Hollywood screenwriting career implodes, Morgana Quinn moves back in with her witchy moms in the dusty Arizona town where she grew up.

But her homecoming takes a deadly turn when her former girlfriend is murdered in what looks like a ritual sacrifice—and Morgana's the prime suspect.

To clear her name, Morgana turns to her moms’ coven for help and uncovers a terrifying truth. The killer isn’t entirely human. And neither is she.

With the body count rising and the cops closing in, Morgana and her friends must face their worst fears in an all-out showdown against dark magic and small town bigotry.

From queer thriller author Dharma Kelleher comes a sapphic, witchy urban fantasy brimming with magic, suspense, and a touch of romance.

Fans of Kim Harrison’s Hollows series and Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files will be enchanted with this spellbinding first installment of the Witches of Wiccanburg series.

“Morgana?” A voice cut
through the fog of my spiraling thoughts.

Do not start crying,
I warned myself. If you do, you’ll never
stop. You’ll only embarrass yourself. Everyone will stare at you and know what
a loser you are. Just get your shit together, girl.

Sure, my life was falling apart. But a public meltdown at
the Driftwood Café, my favorite Santa Monica hangout, would only make things
worse.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly let it
out—the way my mothers had taught me.

It usually helped—when my ADHD brain wasn’t stuck in
emotional overdrive.

Love, peace, and
happiness in. Hate, anger, and bitterness out.

Positivity in.
Negativity out.

You got this.
You’re fine. Everything’s fine.

Nope. Didn’t help. The memory of my girlfriend, Saffron
Blaise, tangled in the sheets of our bed with some bleach-blond bimbo was
forever seared into my brain, her passionate moans ripping me apart from the
inside.

The Edison-style light bulb above me flickered erratically.
A strange electric charge rippled through the air, raising the tiny hairs on my
arms. That meant something—something important—but my brain refused to hold on
to the thought. It slipped away like everything else when I was overwhelmed.

“Earth to Morgana Quinn! Your vanilla latte is ready.”

I wiped my face, rose from my chair, and approached the
counter.

Mila, who owned the café, handed me a ceramic mug printed
with the coffee shop’s logo in retro bubble letters. A little espressy for my
depressy.

“Hey, girl! Haven’t seen you in forever.” Mila was cute
with a purple bob and major lez vibes. Always flirting with me. Or maybe she
was just being nice. Hard to tell with lesbians sometimes.

The cup’s warmth helped ground me. “Yeah, well, I’ve been—”

“Actually, that’s not technically true, is it?” she
interrupted, giving me a knowing look. “I saw you on TV a few weeks ago.”

“On TV?”

“At the Emmys? On the arm of one Saffron Blaise, star of LA Murder Squad? I’m such a stan for
her. Can’t believe you two are dating. I’m totally jelly!”

And that’s when the chaos erupted in earnest.

Lights throughout the shop flared and buzzed before
shorting out in a series of sharp pops. Customers’ phones began ringing,
dinging, and beeping all at once in a raucous chorus of ringtones. The electric
charge in the air sent a tingling sensation through my body. Then came the
mothball-like smell of creosote after a rainstorm.

Déjà vu bubbled up in my mind. I’d experienced this before.
Long ago. But what was it?

A memory from my adolescence hit me.

Magic. Someone’s
using magic. But not spell magic like my mothers use. No, this smells…
different. Mama Joyce had called it Faerie magic.

I scanned the room and caught a sus-looking dude watching
me. Like me, he had black hair and olive-brown skin. But unlike me, he was
wearing prosthetic elf ears and dressed in a forest-green cloak. Like, seriously, dude? Halloween’s still a
few weeks away. A little early to play dress-up, don’t ya think?

Is he the one
using magic? Could he be a Faerie?
wondered my inner child, who still believed in such things. My brain latched on
to the idea and ran with it like a terrier with a sock. Hyperfocus, much?

That’s ridiculous, my rational brain countered. He’s not a Faerie. Faeries don’t exist. He’s an actor on break from a
movie shoot. Or a cosplayer attending LA Comic Con, taking a break at the
beach.

But why was he glaring
at me? He was the one dressed like an extra from The Lord of the Rings. Surely, he didn’t think I was responsible for the flickering lights or the phones going
berserk.

It must be him, my inner child assured me.

Impossible!
Faeries. Do. Not. Exist. There must be another explanation. 

Mila stared, aghast, at the blown bulbs. “That was weird,
huh? Must’ve been a power surge.”

Thunder rumbled, drawing my attention to the street
outside. Dark, brooding clouds drifted in from the ocean, swallowing the early-afternoon
sun. Pedestrians scrambled for cover while heavy raindrops battered the
sidewalk.

Weird, indeed. The forecast had called for clear skies
until late tonight. But on par for how my day was going.

I struggled to compose myself. “Faeries,” I replied, trying
to act nonchalant.

“Excuse me?” Mila said.

“That’s what my maternal units always said when strange
things happened.”

“Faeries, huh? Could be.” Mila entertained the thought with
a grin. “Well, I’ll get the ladder and replace the bulbs. Enjoy your coffee.”

“Gracias.” I quietly returned to my table.

 Mom and Mama Joyce, in addition to being my mothers,
were the head priestesses of a coven back home in smallsville Arizona—something
that had earned me no end of grief from classmates while growing up.

I don’t believe in
Faeries. I don’t believe in Faeries.

Unlike my mothers, I preferred to live in the real world. I
was twenty-six, not twelve. I had adulting things to worry about. Like finding
a new job as a screenwriter, since the studio I worked for had canned me this
morning. Never mind that I won them an Emmy a month ago. That’s gratitude for
ya.

I also had to figure out where the hell I was going to
live, now that I’d caught Saffron cheating on me with her little side piece.

My phone rang the moment I sat down. I dug it out of my
purse, hoping it was a job offer. Marc Luna, one of my friends in the writers’
room, said he had a lead on a new gig and would mention my name. 

My heart sank when Saffron’s name appeared on the caller
ID. Bitch had some nerve.

A briny gust of wind blew the café’s front door open and
whipped through the shop with all the fury of an Arizona monsoon. Napkins and
cups went flying. A glass canister of biscotti fell from the counter and
smashed on the floor.

I took a shaky breath, sent Saffron’s call to voicemail,
and shoved the phone back into my purse.

Again, I tried the relaxation techniques that Mom and Mama
Joyce had taught me. Maybe if I closed my eyes for a few moments, I would open
them to find the morning’s dumpster fire had been an awful anxiety dream. That
I still had a career I loved and a girlfriend who hadn’t cheated on me.

Positivity in.
Negativity out. Peace and love in. Fear and shame out.

I opened my eyes. Nope, not a dream. Though the rush of
wind had quieted, I was still sitting in the café. Still unemployed. Saffron
was still a cheating skank. And Legolas over there was still staring daggers at
me.

Seriously, what is
his damage?

Mila had replaced the bulbs over the counter and now
perched on a ladder above my table. 

“Congrats on the Emmy win, by the way. That’s huge,” Mila
said.

I shrugged. “Not sure I deserved it, honestly.” 

“Nonsense. Too bad Saffron didn’t win Outstanding Actress.”

“Yeah, too bad,” I echoed. I’d felt sorry for Saffron at
the time. Now, not so much.

Mila climbed down and leaned against the ladder.
“Everything all right, girl? You don’t seem your usual cheery self.”

Translation: I looked like a wreck.

“Another beautiful day in Santa Monica.” Thunder rumbled
again outside, as if to prove what a horrible liar I was. No one believed me
when I lied anyway.

She cocked her head, clearly not buying it. “Morgana,
what’s really going on?”

“Been a rough morning.” I didn’t feel like burdening her
with my problems. She had enough to deal with, what with the lights, the
spilled cups, and the smashed biscotti canister.

“How about a chocolate croissant? On the house.” Her
generosity caught me off guard. I still couldn’t tell if she was flirting or
just being nice. Probably feeling sorry for me.

“I’d like that. Gracias, Mila.” Maybe a pity pastry could
fill the swirling pit of despair in my heart. Doubtful, but worth a shot.

My phone rang again. No doubt Saffron trying to justify her
betrayal. Nope, not gonna answer it.

But what if it’s a
job offer? Shit.

I pulled out the phone and let out a sigh. Not a job offer.
Or Saffron, thank Goddess.

I answered, trying to sound casual. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”