Murphy's Law: The Family Curse

By Amanda Lindsey Neil

Brie Murphy has enough trouble hiding her supernatural psychic abilities from the “normals” in her life, like the handsomely geeky Pete Bennett. When her sister’s release from a psychiatric hospital prompts the return of her mind-controlling, murderous dad, Brie has to run for her life with Pete in tow. The longer they run, the worse things get for Brie and Pete, and the more Brie has to tap into powers she's shied away from her whole life. When she finally faces her father in a mind-bending psychic showdown, everything Brie thought she knew about her witch-filled family is called into question.
MURPHY’S LAW: THE FAMILY CURSE, a new urban fantasy and paranormal romance from Amanda Lindsey Neil, where anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Lindsey Neil
• Release date: Jul 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005799083

Amanda Lindsey Neil

Amanda Lindsey Neil is an author of paranormal romance, an average ukulele player, and all-around ridiculous human. She identifies as a Houstonian, even when she’s unable to live in Houston. Amanda sees herself as a writer, a dancer, an artist, an agnostic, a member of the queer community, a liberal, a disability advocate, and a feminist. Amanda has a degree in Theater Arts with almost enough credits for a minor in English Literature, and has spent the last twelve years as a semi-professional belly dancer. She has recently taken up drawing and does her own cover art.

Book preview

Murphy’s Law:

The Family Curse

By

Amanda Lindsey Neil

Copyright 2020, Amanda Lindsey Neil

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Sneak Peak

Author’s Note

About the Author

Connect with Me

Dedication

For Nick, who has kept asking if I’m working on the sequel.

Preface

There are three things you should never, ever say, no matter the circumstances:

How hard can it be?

How bad can it be?

But especially: It can’t get any worse.

Fate, Karma, the powers that be, God or gods, the Force—whatever you believe governs the universe sees those statements (and any alternate grammatical form they may take) as an arrogant, blatant challenge and will always, always find a way to make you look like a moron for saying them. It all comes down to one of the most important principles of human existence:

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

The universe will make sure of it, especially when you dare it like that.

Chapter One

I was having one of those days at work already, and I’d only been clocked in for an hour. That’s where it started, actually, with clocking in. One of the reasons I’d chosen to apply at Julianne’s in the first place was the fact that they still used handwritten tickets, an old-fashioned cash register, and an antique punch clock with cardstock timesheets. But when I walked into the back office at the beginning of my shift, I felt my eyes widen in surprise and just stood there a minute.

Pete, I asked, the concern evident in my voice, what is that?

Pete—or ‘Junior’ to most people—grinned up at me from behind the desk, his tablet computer casting a backwash of pale blue electronic light on his tanned face. It was a strange contrast to the yellow incandescence of the bulbs above his head. Isn’t it awesome? They installed it early this morning.

I turned from the square of dark plastic in front of me and shook my head at him. Pete, I can’t use this thing.

It’s not that hard; I’ll show you how. He got up from the cozy armchair his dad had brought in to make doing the books a little less daunting, and walked over to me. You’ll be the first one besides me to use it, he added, his voice rich with anticipation. Here, let me get your card.

No, Pete, you don’t understand, I protested, as he reached into a nearby drawer and pulled out a plastic card. "I can’t use this thing. I’m going to blow it up."

He glanced at me with a smirk in his bright, blue-grey eyes. You’re not going to blow it up, Brie.

Well, then I’m going to scramble the hard wares or the soft drivers, or whatever the hell you call them. I hope you didn’t get rid of the punch clock, because once I touch this thing, you’re going to need it.

Brie, it’s a computer, Pete said gently, despite the growing impatience evident in his tone. It’s a lot more complex than a watch; you’re not going mess it up.

That’s the thing no one ever seemed to understand: complex just made it worse.

Okay, every human being has a unique electromagnetic field generated by their body. For some people, that field has a nasty habit of disrupting certain devices, like watches. Wearing the watch against their skin causes the watch to go screwy bit by bit until it stops keeping time; not just regular watches, either. Some people’s fields are so strong they can screw up personal electronics, like computers and cell phones. But with most people, it happens over time, little by little.

The last time I tried to wear a watch, the hands started spinning out of control until the glass covering the watch face exploded; that was about a minute after I put it on my wrist. A friend handed me their cell phone once to show me some stupid picture of a cat who couldn’t spell the word ‘cheeseburger’, and the thing started smoking in my hand. I had terminally wrecked more than one computer in high school simply by walking past it twice in the same week. I used a typewriter for everything the two semesters I made it through college, and even the keys on that kept jamming. Let’s just say, I have one mother of a magnetic field.

And the computer Pete wanted me to use had a touch screen. Really fucking great idea.

I wouldn’t take the card when he handed it to me. Pete, I said quietly, that’s the point. It’s complex. It’s got a lot of tiny, sensitive, electrical parts. If I touch that thing, it’s going to blow.

I’ll show you how it works, Pete said, cocking a dark, thick, skeptical eyebrow behind the equally dark and thick (though less skeptical) rim of his glasses. Here, you tap the screen to wake it up, then tap this button. He followed his own instructions by tapping the dark plastic with his fingertip, and the screen lit up with a bunch of colorful rectangles. Pete tapped the blue button at the top right corner, labeled ‘Clock In/Out’. Then you slide your card through the reader, like this. He slid the small plastic card with my name and very fuzzy picture through two bars of plastic at the edge of the machine, and an image of the card flashed up on the screen with the time beside it. Tap ‘OK’ and you’re done. It’s easy. You do it again at the end of your shift, and it’ll clock you out. It automatically imports the data into the payroll files. It’ll save Pop a lot of time and paperwork, and you’ll get your checks faster. He clicked some buttons and slid his own plastic card through the reader and tapped some more shapes, and the screen jumped back to the beginning. He stuck my card out at me. Here, I cleared it out so you can try it.

Pete. If I touch that thing, you’re going to have to replace it. It’s not going to save anyone anything. Just let me punch in on the old machine.

He thrust the card at me impatiently, the previously amused lines in his face hardening. Brie, just try it. I promise it doesn’t bite.

Maybe not for you, I muttered, taking the card from his hand. I swear I could feel my own magnetism surround the card, ready to serve as a conduit for my disruptive energy. I tapped the blue rectangle on the screen, and the backlight on it flickered once or twice at my touch.

Pete’s eyebrows waggled curiously, but he carried on, resolute. Now swipe the card through the reader.

I did as he instructed, but other than another flicker, nothing happened. Pete’s brow furrowed this time, and he pursed his lips in determination. He took my hand in his, guiding it to swipe the card slowly through the narrow gap between the plastic bars. This time, my name, picture, and the wrong time flashed up onto the screen about forty times in quick succession.

What the hell? Wide-eyed, Pete tapped at something on the screen, but the big white squares containing my picture and the time kept coming up, each in a slightly different position than the last until they covered every inch of the damned thing. Pete tapped at it frantically, and then, with just a touch of hopelessness, smacked the side of it with the heel of his hand. The screen jumped quickly to a checkerboard pattern of white and black squares, and then all black. A tiny wisp of grey smoke curled up from the back of the machine—a nice finale if I say so myself.

When Pete finally turned away from the ruined computer, I returned his bewildered stare with an even look. This isn’t going to come out of my paycheck, right?

He just kept staring at me, dumbfounded. I reached over to the stack of old cardstock time cards on the corner of the desk, slipping my own out of the pile and passing it wordlessly to Pete. He shook his head, taking a pen from his pocket and writing the date and time in the first open space, initialing beside it.

Thanks, I said with a polite smile, taking the card and returning it to the stack before grabbing an apron and heading onto the restaurant floor. Pete just stood there, scratching his head at the smoking remains of his fancy, new, complex machine.

Morning, Brie.

I nodded at the server behind the counter, tying my black half-apron around my waist. Hey, Kat. Thanks again for switching with me; the fort hold down okay?

Ship-shape, baby girl, she replied, emptying the tip jar’s contents into a pocket of her skinny-jeans.

Kat, the one responsible for the heavy EMD mix currently playing over the speakers in the ceiling—another of Pete’s ‘upgrades’ to the café—bobbed her head along with the music as she worked. Her hot pink shock of an afro and long hoop earrings shook back and forth to the beat. She called me ‘baby girl’ all the time, despite the fact that she was about twenty, looked about fifteen, and was almost a head shorter than me. And I’m only five-foot four.

You didn’t miss much, she added, except Junior in there flipping his shit over that new time clock.

Yeah, I noticed that, I said sheepishly, sliding behind her to the espresso machine and giving it its mid-morning clean. I’m sure he’ll be just as excited when he gets the replacement.

I knew it. Kat shot me an amused, sideways glance with her caramel brown eyes. You already torched it, didn’t you?

I tried to tell him.

You should have told him about my phone, she added. That certainly schooled me.

Remember the friend with the phone and the picture of the spelling-challenged cat I mentioned? Yeah, that was Kat. Sorry again about that.

Hey, it was years ago. Besides, I’m the one that put it in your hand when you told me not to. She shrugged, reaching a thin, coffee-colored arm into the display case to push some Napoleon pastries toward the front. Kat’s mom was black, her dad was Hispanic, and she had the most beautiful skin of anyone I’d ever known. Me and my pasty-white self were totally jealous. Hey, she added, inquisitive all of a sudden, you going to the solstice celebration next weekend?

"Are you?"

She smiled at me. You’re still avoiding the Eriksons?

I was never avoiding the Eriksons, I protested, scrubbing at the steam spout on the espresso machine with a little more effort than was strictly necessary. The Eriksons are lovely people, and I owe them too much to—

Then it’s just Rickie.

Kat knew me too well, I think. I am not avoiding Rickie; I just took my bike over there this morning. Besides, you hate the Eriksons—

It’s been like two years, baby girl. Kat finished adjusting the last of the pastries and closed the cabinet with a definitive shove. You two really need to work your shit out.

I glared at her and turned my scrubbing over to the coffee maker. Three years, I muttered under my breath.

It was the usual 10:30am lull, when all the yuppies had already gone to work and the late-sleepers and early-lunch crowd weren’t on their way yet. I brewed up a new batch of the flavored teas and coffees we kept on hand and managed the slow trickle of to-go customers at the counter, all without incident, while Kat finished up a couple of straggling tables from the morning rush. It was when I started our employees get one free a day espresso drinks that tricky old Morrigan started screwing around with my day some more.

I made Kat’s mocha cappuccino first, and it came out gorgeous. But when I was steaming the milk for my café au lait, the steamer started sputtering. Piping hot milk exploded from the metal cup in my hand and got all over the espresso machine I had just cleaned.

Goddamn it, I muttered, wiping away the small spot of milk that was burning my hand.

Watch your language, young lady, I heard in a low, amused British baritone behind me. Even though I knew it was Mr. Bennett—the owner of the café and the ‘Senior’ to Pete’s ‘Junior’—I still jumped out of my skin and whipped around to face him, knocking the huge coffee mug of espresso off the counter with my bandaged left elbow. Mr. Bennett was quick on his feet, and caught the cup in mid-air, only splashing a small dribble of espresso over the edge and onto the floor. Unfortunately, just hitting it with my elbow had knocked more than half of it out already, so he didn’t save much.

Sorry, Mr. B., I said, immediately grabbing a rag and wiping up the mess. Guess I’m a little jumpy today.

He passed me back the mug with a crooked grin and an abrupt chuckle. That’s alright, love; happens to the best of us.

Me more than most, I added under my breath, dumping the last of the espresso from the cup and placing it in the sink with the metal cup of scorched milk.

Are you not going to make a new one?

I gave my boss a sideways look and a shrug. Thought I’d switch to tea. Might be a little safer.

That’s not a bad idea, he said, chuckling again. Here, allow me. I’m up for another.

I moved aside so Mr. Bennett could get to the cups and the spout on the espresso machine that shot out near-boiling water. He made me and himself a cup each of PG Tips tea, and I added another tick mark to the notebook by the register. Mr. B. kept record of how many cups he and Pete drank every day and put the money for them into the register at closing. Mr. B.’s row of tick marks was already up to five when I added this one. The man drank super-strong English tea like it was air.

Everything go alright for you this morning? he asked, passing me my cup.

Yeah, Rickie said the bike should be done by the end of my shift. I tipped a little milk and a huge heaping spoon of sugar into it, and stirred my tea solemnly. "As long as that doesn’t turn into the end of my shift tomorrow, it’s cool."

How exactly did you wreck it again?

A dog ran out in front of me. I blew into my cup, trying to cool my tea and avoiding my boss’s eye. I didn’t like fibbing to him, even a half-truth, but it was sort of necessary. I swerved, and ended up flipping over the curb.

Mr. B. shook his head at me with wonder in his rich blue eyes. How do you always come out of these things unscathed?

Not entirely unscathed, I replied, sticking my bandaged elbow out and turning away from him a little. I guess I’m just lucky. And I always wear a helmet.

It’s a good thing you don’t drive, he added. I worry about you enough on that bicycle.

Thanks, Mr. B.

He shook his head again, turning back to the espresso machine and starting a coffee for his son. So, I hear you’ve already destroyed Junior’s newest addition to the office.

Yeah, sorry. I sipped my tea, only to discover it was not yet cool enough for consumption.

Don’t trouble yourself over it; it’s his own fault, Mr. Bennett went on, smiling again at my latest self-mutilation—I’d burned the crap out of my tongue and was now sticking it out to fan it with one hand. He patted me lightly on the shoulder, in his usual show of affection. It was probably just my imagination, but the gesture did make my tongue feel a little better.

I warned him not to let you anywhere near it, Mr. B. continued. Perhaps now he’ll abandon the idea of new equipment up here. The machinery already breaks down around you enough as it is.

I squinted begrudgingly at the steamer spout. I think you’re right. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an elderly man and his little old wife hobbling slowly across the front window toward the door. Uh-oh, the Richardsons. Looks like the early-lunch crowd got a move on this morning.

He nodded, taking his tea toward the back of the restaurant. I’ll get started on their usual. Can you take this to Junior? he added, gesturing toward the giant triple espresso on the counter.

Sure.

Mr. B. stopped as he got to the kitchen door before calling out, Kat? What exactly is this music?

Kat, still bobbing to the beat, got up from the table where she’d been taking her break. This new DJ I met at a club last week. Isn’t it the shiz?

"Oh yes, of course. The shiz." Mr. B. made a face at me, and I stuck my head in the office to find Pete on the phone with the company who’d installed the time clock.

Hey, Pete? I said, setting the espresso on the corner of the desk furthest from the phone and Mr. Bennett’s PC. Can you change the music?

He looked up at me in frustration. No, he said into the phone, we didn’t do anything to it; it just glitched out and now I can’t get it working again. I know we just got it today, but that’s what the warrantee is for, isn’t it? No, don’t put me on hold again— Pete let a perturbed breath escape through his nose and shot me a discouraging glance. You’re perfectly capable of changing it yourself, Brie. I’m busy.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. Is the stereo under warrantee, too?

Pete glanced at the ruined time clock again, and got up. As I went back into the café to make Mr. and Mrs. Richardson their usual coffee order, the EDM stopped abruptly and a gentle French melody took its place.

In the next forty-five minutes of my shift, I somehow managed to cut my finger twice on the same sharp edge of the coffeemaker, tripped over the same uneven patch of tile floor three times—once with cups full of hot flavored lattes that I’m sure the floor really enjoyed—and smacked my head on the underside of the countertop when I was cleaning up the mess from the lattes. Mr. B. was right; if I ever tried to drive an actual car, no good could come of it. Up until the next one, though, it was all little clumsy crap. That was stuff no one could really help or prevent, so I could live with that.

The next one was totally Pete’s fault.

We were having an especially busy lunch rush for our tiny café, so Pete had left the books and the time clock’s smoking ruins and tried to help. Kat was working the register and keeping up with coffee orders, multitasking like some kind of robot. She could run someone’s credit card—which she always did, even for my tables, so I wouldn’t destroy the machine—answer the phone, and mix an iced coffee all at once without batting a single full, false eyelash. That left me and Pete splitting the tables; seven for him and eight for me out of the fifteen we had shoved into the narrow dining area. I’ve seen storage units bigger than that restaurant, and on busy days we could fit as many as forty people in there at once.

I’d landed a large party of business lunch-ers that had, of their own accord, pushed two of the smaller tables together. It was one of those where they’d tried to bring work along, and they were having trouble fitting their iPads and notebook computers onto the table with their coffee. I stood well away from the table while taking their orders, and gave them fair warning before I brought their food out so they could clear some space.

Before I go any further, there’s a reason Pete was the restaurant’s ‘business manager.’ His dad had practically grown up in a restaurant back in England before moving to the states to pursue a failed career in finance. Mr. Bennett was perfectly happy in the kitchen and on the floor, and he was elated when things got as chaotic as they were that morning. Pete, however, had spent most of his formative years reading comic books and playing MMRPGs, whatever those were, and had never really had much interest in the ins and outs of the restaurant until the end of high school. When he did start to get involved, he was more into the business side of things and not so much the actual day-to-day operations. As a result, Pete was the worst waiter I’d ever seen. I always had to trail after him refilling drinks for his tables and catching their orders when he got behind, switching said orders when he tried to take things to the wrong tables, and correcting his tickets when his customers stared at them in confusion at the end of their meals. That morning was no different.

As I said, the seating area was really narrow and crowded, and when I brought my business lunch-ers their plates, I had to squeeze past Pete as he leaned down to hear a little old woman’s order more clearly over the noise. Kat had somehow found the time to sneak back to the office and trade out the soft French jazz for some loud dubstep—I think—and none of us could hear a goddamned thing. And just as I slinked my way past Pete and got the tray back down from over his head, his arm brushed against me and he jumped a little, surprised. He’d been blissfully unaware of his surroundings and focusing all his attention on the old lady, so he hadn’t realized I was behind him.

Unfortunately, when he jumped, the first thing he hit was the tray of plates in my hand, shoving the tray back toward me and me sideways toward empty air. The ground seemed suddenly to evaporate beneath my feet, and I fumbled through the fall for control of my balance and the tray in my hands.

To anyone watching, it looked like I twisted in mid-air and landed hard with my back against the cold tile floor, somehow managing to catch the tray at the last second. And while the food on the plates and the plates on the tray shifted, none of it fell. It must have looked like the dumbest luck in the history of dumb luck.

What really happened was this:

As I felt myself starting to fall, at that instant where you realize there is no way you’ll regain your footing, a series of instinctive processes geared up inside me. I took a slow breath, focusing my attention on the electromagnetic field that flowed in and around my body—and screwed up pretty much every electrical devise I touched—and pushed most of it to my back, infusing it with energy. At the same time, I diverted a small amount of the field and that energy to surround my hands and the tray in them, steadying it so I could get a good grip. As the field shifted and whipped around me, it flipped me about a quarter turn, so instead of landing on my side I’d land on the cloud of invisible energy behind me, letting it absorb the weight of my fall as my body neared the floor. Both the energy behind me and around my hands cushioned the fall just enough to keep me from serious injury, and the food from the hungry tile, before dissipating. Then the magnetic field settled back around me in the usual, irregular cloud of invisible particles that hovered over my skin.

Like I said, if you didn’t know what you were looking at, it was pure luck.

Oh, my god! Pete said, in complete shock at what had just happened. He leaned over me, his floppy sable hair falling forward into eyes the color of the ocean on a stormy day. Are you hurt? What can I do?

I shoved the tray higher into the air above my chest. Hold this.

Pete and the entire café stared as I got up from the floor, giving a short curtsy to my table of business folk while they laughed and applauded. I took the tray back from Pete without more than a Thanks, and he shook his head at me.

Brie, how in the hell did you do that?

Catlike skills and reflexes, I said dryly, and turned back to my table. Okay, who had the tuna salad?

Pete just stared at me a second before shaking his head and taking the ticket in his hand to the window, where his father stuck his head out from the kitchen and looked around the restaurant curiously. Kat laughed at me with a knowing smile behind the counter, and the early lunch crowd slowly turned their focus from me back to their meals and their coffee and their conversations.

I hated lying to them. I hate lying to anyone, especially people who’ve been as good to me as Mr. Bennett and his son. But what was I supposed to do?

Tell them that I, Brianna Gwendolyn Murphy, was a witch?

Chapter Two

Julianne’s was a small ‘French’ bakery and café in the Montrose area of Houston, known for its eclectic mix of old buildings, fantastic restaurants and resale shops, varying quality of nightclubs and bars, and a heavy prevalence of the LGBT community. Just down Westheimer from the infamous Katz’s Deli, the café had been there for as long as anyone in my foster family could remember—which amounted to at least fifty years, though it was under about six different names in that span of time. We served a mix of French and American pastries, European style coffees, assorted breads, and that’s just from the bakery counter. If