Wicked sorceress Cora must ruin someone's life before her eighteenth birthday or lose her magic forever, a task made tricky when she falls for her chosen victim.
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Cora Emerson is a magical misfortune who just can't get the hang of being a wicked...
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Cora Emerson applied her favorite shade of red lipstick and set out to ruin someone's life.
She belonged amidst the skeletons, ghosts, and witchy decorations displayed in almost every shop window. One pharmacy had a sign that read, "Magic Spells $1.00." Her family would have laughed at the sign, but it warmed her heart.
This would be her year to prove she could be as wicked as the other Emersons.
The earthy aroma of fall foliage hung in the afternoon air in Thorne Point. There was a bite in the wind that swept a pile of fallen leaves down the street, gathering at her feet. Spiders skittered up her spine and she shivered, loving it.
All of Elorie had been doused in light, rich and caramel glazed.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the window of a flower shop, admiring the red ribbons tied in two perfect bows around her afro puffs, and cackled, ending up in a coughing fit, as if she might lose a lung or two. A few people looked her way, including an old woman who wrinkled her nose over her shoulder.
Cora waved her hand as if to say, "No worries. This happens all the time." It did. More than she would have liked to admit. Once the older woman turned away, she grasped her throat. "For the love of crows."
Her great-grandmother, Mariam, had schooled her in the art of cackling but she never got it quite right. "It should come from the back of your throat." Mariam demonstrated, tossing back her head of silver curls.
When Cora tried, she ended up with saliva down her chin.
The cackle was an amateur sorceress's practice. She should have gotten it right. She wiped her mouth on her coat sleeve, humiliation souring her confidence and darkening her mood. She snapped her fingers, making a strewn coffee cup roll under the old woman's foot. Served her right. She allowed herself a smile. The woman deserved it for being so pretentious. But her delight was short lived as the familiar gnawing in the pit of her stomach returned, egging her to do the right thing. The fall would hurt.
Frail as she was, she might shatter her hip.
As she tipped backwards, Cora ran up to her and caught her before she hit the concrete. Her fine velvet hat went askew on her head, over her eyes.
"Gosh." She struggled in Cora's arms to right herself, shoving her hat away from her face. "Thank you, dear. I don't know how I managed to miss my step, but I'm quite all right now."
Cora's face grew warm, a reaction spurred by guilt. "You're welcome, miss."
She didn't let go until the woman had caught her bearings. Still shaken from her near fall, she tipped backwards once more, losing her hat. She grabbed at Cora for support, and she considered letting her fall. Her mother, Stella, would say, "Common courtesy is not the Emerson way." Instead, she caught her again and helped her up to the right position.
