Free Witchy Woman by Karen Leabo

searched for the word.
    A witch? Nate was burning to ask. He’d read in his research materials that Morganna, Tess’s mother, claimed to come from a long line of witches.
    “I guess in today’s society she would be called a healer or an herbalist, something like that. She offered herbal remedies and, um, blessings, and unlike the Gypsy, she didn’t charge money for her services. You can imagine what this did to the Gypsy’s business.”
    Nate nodded.
    “Only the people who wanted evil stuff—curses on their enemies, that kind of thing—continued to see the Gypsy because Lass wouldn’t touch black magic.”
    Tess leaned back in her chair, relaxing slightly. “Well, the Gypsy finally decided she’d had enough. She came to Lass’s house with a gift, a supposed peace offering.”
    “The cat statue.”
    “Right. But she’d put a powerful curse on it, a curse that affected not only great-grandmother, but all of her descendants and, apparently, anybody who came into possession of the statue. It’s called the Crimson Cat, by the way.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    She set her glass down on the table with a thunk. “See? I knew you wouldn’t believe any of this. You think I’m a nutcase.”
    “No, not at all. You’re merely recounting a bit of family legend. Nothing nutty about that.”
    “Unless I believe it. Which I do. My great-grandmother sickened and died within months of receiving the statue—that was after her herb garden shriveled and her goats’ milk soured. Then my grandmother inherited the statue. She went through four husbands, each dying more tragically than the last until finally Grandma killed herself.”
    Nate shivered despite himself. “That’s awful.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Then did your mother inherit?”
    “No, not yet. My uncle got it.”
    “Not the one who got the cut and lost his—”
    “The very same. By this time the curse was well-known, so he decided to sell the statue. The collector who bought it died in a car accident on his way home.The lawyer who handled his estate found the bill of sale for the cat in the man’s effects, and since the estate was in debt, he returned the statue and got his money back. Then my uncle tried to throw the thing off a bridge.”
    “And what happened?” Nate asked, fascinated despite himself. True or not, it was a pretty good story she was weaving.
    “A little boy from the village found the statue, undamaged, and dragged it up from the riverbed. His mother took one look at it, recognized it as belonging to my uncle, and back to my uncle the statue came. The little boy, incidentally, caught meningitis two weeks later and died.”
    “This is really interesting, Tess, but you’ll forgive me for asking this. How do you know this story is true?”
    “As a reporter, you’re obligated to ask, I guess,” she said. Nate was relieved that she didn’t seem to be insulted. “I heard the early part from a great-aunt. My uncle told me his part himself, shortly before he was killed in a plane crash. That was
after
the business with the splinter and gangrene, I might add. The rest I experienced personally.”
    “I assume your mother got the statue next.”
    Tess nodded. “It happened when I was ten. Before that, she was much the same as my great-grandmother was—an herbalist, a natural healer. Most of the women on that side of the family were interested in the healing arts and the arcane. Mother read auras and collected crystals and meditated twice a day. But as soon as thestatue arrived at our house, something sinister started happening to her. She turned to a darker sort of magic.”
    Yes! This was the stuff Nate had been waiting for.
    Tess got fidgety again. She picked up her brandy snifter, then set it down without taking a sip. She fiddled with some coasters, then with a brass candlestick.
    Nate’s heart rose into his throat when she absently touched his notebook. Whoa, he told himself when he was ready to lunge across the table and grab the