Desert Fae

Morgana Quinn's life is a mess. She has a screenplay due in three weeks. She's still learning to open up to her new girlfriend, Roxy. And she owes a debt to Grandmother Raven, a terrifying ancient wereraven.

Morgana attempts to focus on her writing career, but Grandmother Raven forces her to pull a heist and steal back an ancient relic from the Desert Fae. Should she fail to retrieve it by the new moon, Morgana will be burned alive by the wereraven's curse.

While she'd rather fulfill this quest alone, her best friends, the Sand Witches, insist on coming with her. Roxy, who specializes in healing magic. A werepuma who teaches desert survival. A goth tarot reader with attitude. And a journalist who keeps her spells in mini liquor bottles.

They cross into the bizarre realm of the Desert Fae, an unforgiving world of rival Faerie queens, questionable allies, and cruel monsters with a taste for human flesh.

When the heist goes sideways and Roxy is taken by ogres, Morgana must choose between fulfilling her oath to Grandmother Raven or saving the woman she loves.

Desert Fae is the second book in the Witches of Wiccanburg series: sapphic witchy urban fantasy with a heist set in the realm of the Desert Fae and a diverse cast of characters.

Readers of Jim Butcher's Dresden Files, Seanan McGuire's October Daye, and Kim Harrison's The Hollows will fall hard for Morgana Quinn and the Sand Witches.

I stared at my laptop screen. 

The words Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet stared back at me. The fake Latin filler text appeared whenever I started a new project in my screenwriting app. 

A few weeks ago, I’d used those exact words to magically unlock my moms’ front door. They were witches who often used magic for everyday tasks. Who needs keys when you have spells?

But now those words embodied my impostor syndrome. Because I too felt like a fake, sitting at a secondhand desk in our guest bedroom instead of the writers’ room for the studio I used to work for.  

The legendary showrunner Joanne Rosenberg had hired me to adapt Kayla Cara’s Shea Stevens Outlaw Biker novel series into a show that Netflix had already greenlit. 

Everyone believed I was qualified for the job. Everyone except me, that is. 

I’d read the first two books and had started the third. I liked them. The characters had grit. The stories kept me turning the pages and ripped my heart out in a few scenes. But adapting them to the screen without blowing the studio’s budget was the challenge. 

Joanne and the other producers expected a completed script for the pilot and a detailed synopsis for the remaining first-season episodes by the first of December—only three weeks away. But no pressure, right?

I glared at those damned words. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet. 

Chanting them the way I had at my moms’ house wouldn’t magically fill the screen with beautiful dialogue. I’d already tried. 

My ADHD brain squirrels raced through my head, reminding me of all the reasons I wasn’t qualified for this project. I was only twenty-six. I’d only worked in the industry for a few years. And my last studio for had fired me. Granted, they’d fired the entire writers’ room, but still…

My phone was in my hand before I realized I’d picked it up. Doomscrolling social media. Checking the weather app. Checking my bank app. Yep, my signing bonus from Runaway Girl Studios was still there. 

A pharmacy notification popped up, reminding me of the dexmethylphenidate prescription they’d filled six days ago. Had I taken today’s dose? I couldn’t remember. Had I eaten? Couldn’t remember that either. 

I dropped my phone when the scar on my palm flared with white-hot pain. 

“Shit!” I cradled my hand to my chest. 

The scar was a reminder of a bargain I’d struck with Grandmother Raven, an ancient shifter who lived deep in the Superstition Mountains. 

“Relax, you old bird,” I hissed. “You’ll get your damned artifact soon enough.”

Not that Grandmother Raven could hear me, since her lair was a hundred miles away. Or could she? Either way, I didn’t have time to worry about it. I had a script to write, dammit!

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to ground myself. The pain from Grandmother Raven’s mark settled into a dull throb. I opened my eyes and refocused on the screen. 

Come on, Morgana. You got this, I told myself. Butt in chair, hands on keyboard. Rough drafts are not supposed to be perfect. They’re rough by definition. And you can’t edit a blank page.

Impostor! Impostor! Impostor! screamed my brain squirrels.

I highlighted the filler text and typed.

INT. IRON GODDESS CUSTOM CYCLES - NIGHT

Garage is filled with motorcycles in various stages of assembly. Tool chests and equipment line the walls. 

SHEA (mid-30s, scarred face, pained expression) is standing over a new motorcycle with DAKOTA (late 30s, tense, tired), and SWITCH (late 20s, disheveled hair). 

SHEA

Okay, folks, let’s bring this baby to life.

Thunk… thunk… thunk.

The muffled report of a nail gun echoed from the back of the house. My girlfriend, Roxy Monroe, had waited all summer to enclose the porch. Now that November had rolled around, it was finally cool enough here in Wickenburg, Arizona, for her to start. 

I’d moved in only a week or so ago, shortly after our second date. Cue all the lesbian U-Haul jokes. 

Roxy was everything my previous girlfriend was not. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Wise. The latte she’d made me an hour ago sat half-finished next to my laptop, the heart drawn in the foam sagging where I’d sipped it. 

So, who was I to complain about a little noise? Even if every thunk of the nail gun pushed my need for a dopamine hit into simmering rage. 

I took another cleansing breath and put my hands back on the keyboard. 

SHEA inserts key into motorcycle. Hits the starter. The engine goes rurr-rurr-rurr but doesn’t start. She tries again, longer, but still doesn’t.

Thunk… thunk… thunk.

“Oh, for the love of Gaia,” I grumbled and rested my head in my hands. 

I put on noise-canceling earbuds and hit Play on an ambient playlist. But the percussive thunks of the nail gun came through anyway, ratcheting up my frustration. Maybe I’d be less distracted at Java Junction. No fancy latte art, but it’d be quieter.

I was packing up my laptop when my phone rang. Mom’s name appeared on the caller ID. I sighed. I was never going to get this script written. 

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” I kept the irritation out of my voice. Mostly.

“Hi, sweetie. I was wondering what you and Roxy are bringing to Friendsgiving dinner.”

Friendsgiving. What my moms called Thanksgiving. They always invited their covenmates who didn’t have family to spend the day with. This would be the first time I’d attended since I left for UCLA six years ago. 

“Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it. Been a little busy with work.” 

Also, cooking stressed me the hell out. With my ADHD, I always forgot steps or did them in the wrong order, even when following a recipe. Why’s the dish taste bland? Oh yeah, forgot to add salt. Why are the shrimp rubbery? I sautéed them before the veggies. Why’s the hamburger burned on the outside but bleeding onto the plate? Had the pan too hot. 

I hadn’t given anyone food poisoning. Unless you counted the chili that gave my ex-girlfriend the runs because the ground beef had been in the fridge a month past its best-by date. 

Bottom line, I hated potlucks. I never knew what to bring. A bag of chips always felt like a copout. 

“How about a southwest black bean and corn salad?” Mom suggested. “Mama Joyce made it last year. I can send you the recipe. No cooking required. Just dump all the ingredients into a bowl and give it a stir.”

“Yeah, okay.” I’d probably forget a key ingredient. Maybe Roxy could whip something together.

“How’s the writing going?”

I was tempted to tell her it was going great. But no one believed me when I lied. 

“I think Joanne Rosenberg made a mistake hiring me.”

“Morgana Quinn! That’s nonsense, and you know it. Why would you even think that?”

“Because I can’t do this. I’ve never worked as an executive story editor before. And I’ve never adapted a novel except for a class project. Which I got a C on, by the way.”

“As I recall, you won an Emmy a few months ago for an episode you wrote for LA Murder Squad,” she replied. 

“That was a fluke. The episode only got a 6.7 rating on IMDb.”

“Morgana, I understand you feel intimidated. But Joanne Rosenberg can spot talent, or she wouldn’t be where she is. If she hired you, it’s because she recognizes your talent. You just have to see it yourself.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Feeling like an impostor, are we?”

“A little.” More like, a lot.

“Good news, then. Impostors don’t get impostor syndrome. Therefore, you must be the real deal. Be willing to see yourself differently.”

She and Mama Joyce had been telling me that since I was in high school. Be willing to see yourself differently. Easier said than done. 

“I’ll try.” 

“You’ve got this, sweetie.”

“And I’ll talk to Roxy about what we’re bringing for Friendsgiving.”

“We can’t wait to see you.”

We hung up, and Grandmother Raven’s mark flared again as if I’d gripped a red-hot coal. 

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” I hissed, blinking back tears. 

Roxy poked her head into the room. “Hey, babe, you want any… oh, my Goddess, are you okay?”

Her dark skin glistened with sweat in a way that made her look sexier. Sawdust marked one cheek. Cornrows framed her face, making her chestnut eyes pop. I caught myself gazing at her damp tank top where a hint of her nipples showed through. For a moment, my irritation ebbed a notch. 

“I’m fine,” I muttered. An obvious lie. 

She sat on the bed next to my chair and cradled my burning hand. “It’s Grandmother Raven’s mark again, isn’t it?” 

“I said, I’m fine.” I jerked my hand away. Frustration and pain flared again, tightening my gut into a knot.

The bitter scent of creosote filled my nose, and my desk lamp flickered. My Fae magic was slipping my control. 

“Maybe a healing spell can take the edge off the pain,” Roxy offered. “I found a new one in—”

“I don’t need a healing spell, Rox. I need to be left alone.” 

I was being a total bitch but couldn’t stop myself. And no healing spell would remove the mark or the accompanying pain. We’d tried several times and failed. 

“Sounds like you need some space. I respect that.” 

She worked as a substance abuse counselor at the Oasis Treatment Center. So she was big on boundaries and needing space and all that. But vulnerability and hurt tinged her voice. “I’ll be around if you need me, okay? Love you.” 

“Love you, too.” I really did. But I was also overwhelmed. Why did everything happen at once? 

She slipped out of the room, leaving me to stare at the angry welt on my palm. Goddess, I wanted it gone. I wished I’d never made that bargain with Grandmother Raven. Sooner rather than later, I’d have to return to her lair to fulfill my part of the deal. But not today.

I grabbed my laptop and my purse and stormed out of the house.