Cain is draped across the velvet couch like an ancient predator pretending stillness is the same thing as leisure. He's reading a book on seventeenth-century cartography, his long fingers turning the pages with a grace that makes me want to look away and stare at the same time. He doesn't look like he's paying attention to the shop, but I see his ears twitch every time the bell over the door jingles. He shifts his weight, moving a fraction of an inch closer to the counter whenever the spirit noise in my head spikes, that high-pitched ringing that sounds like a thousand distant radios, his presence a heavy, cool anchor that keeps the room from spinning. He doesn't intrude, but he's constant.
The bell rings, and a woman in a power suit walks in, looking like she's lost and very unhappy about it. She eyes the biting plant with suspicion, pulling her leather handbag closer to her chest. Soren sighs, a sound full of theatrical suffering, and slamshis ledger shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small space.
"We don't do psychic readings on Tuesdays," Soren says, his voice dripping with bratty exhaustion. "And if you're looking for the 'love potion' kit, we're out of stock. Try the place down the street that smells like patchouli and desperation. They'll sell you some pink water and tell you it's destiny."
The woman blinks, her mouth falling open. "I... I was actually looking for a warding stone for my office. My assistant said this place was... discrete."
"Soren's just joking," I interject, stepping forward with a smile that I hope doesn't look as forced as it feels. I've spent three years behind a bar; I can handle a confused customer better than a witch who thinks social cues are a personal insult. "He's very passionate about his inventory. The warding stones are right over here, next to the bells that don't scream. Are you looking for general protection or something specific to the workplace? We have some excellent obsidian for cutting through corporate toxicity."
I lead her toward the display, feeling Soren's burning gaze on the back of my neck. I can practically hear him pouting, the air around him crackling with minor sparks. I smooth the interaction over, explaining the difference between obsidian and black tourmaline with a confidence I absolutely don't possess, improvising based on the labels I'd just reorganized. The woman relaxes, her shoulders dropping an inch. By the time I ring her up, she's actually smiling, and she leaves the shop without being cursed or insulted.
"You're terrible at this," I say to Soren as the door clicks shut. "Truly. If you were a bartender, you'd be fired before the first happy hour ended. You have the bedside manner of a migraine."
"I don't need to be liked," Soren snaps, though he looks offended that I handled his customer better than he did. He'srearranging the ledger I just straightened, purely out of spite. "I need to be respected. There's a difference. People come here because I'm the best, not because I'm charming."
"One of them pays the rent, Soren. Charm is just currency for people who don't want to get hexed."
I turn back to the shelves, my hand reaching for a bundle of dried herbs—mountain sage and something dark and sticky—that's been sitting in the shadows near the back. The moment my skin brushes the twine, the shop around me vanishes. It's not a vision. It's a memory flash, vivid and terrifyingly domestic. I'm standing in this exact spot, but the air is warmer, smelling of lavender and old paper. A woman with grey hair and hands that look exactly like Soren's, long-fingered and restless, is grinding herbs into a stone mortar, humming a low, tuneless melody that vibrates in my chest. Vera.
The flash is so sharp I can feel the grit of the herbs under my own fingernails. I can feel her satisfaction, a quiet, humming pride in the work, and a sudden, sharp pang of love for a grandson who was always too loud for his own skin. It's not my memory, but for three seconds, something opens through me without asking. I drop the bundle as if it's made of live coals, the dried leaves scattering across the mahogany floor in a messy arc.
"Aven?" Soren is at my side in an instant, his manic energy replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness. He reaches out, his hand hovering over mine. He doesn't touch me, not yet, but the air between us is thick with the weight of what just happened. He knows. He feels the residual echo of his grandmother clinging to my skin like static. I can see the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate.
“I saw another piece of her,” I whisper, my heart trying to climb out of my throat. The humming is still echoing in my ears, a ghostly vibration. “Not like before. This was a memory. Shewas grinding herbs and humming, and she looked happy, Soren. She was thinking about you.”
Soren's fingers brush the back of my hand as he kneels to pick up the herbs. The contact is electric, a flicker of Vera's presence passing between us like warmth through a cracked door. Soren goes still, his jaw tight, his bratty defenses stripped away until he just looks like a man who misses his grandmother more than he knows how to say. He holds the bundle with a reverence that breaks something small inside me. For a moment, the sharp-tongued witch is just a boy in an empty shop.
"She liked that song," Soren says softly, his green eyes fixed on the floor. "She used to sing it when the shop was quiet. It's... it's an Essren ward. A small one for peace. She always said the walls here were too hungry for their own good."
"Sorry," I say, trying to find my sarcasm again. It's a heavy shield to lift when you're shaking. "Being haunted by someone else's grandmother feels like a significant boundary violation. I should probably bill you for the emotional labor. Does she always comment on the inventory?"
The joke falls flat, the tremor in my voice giving me away. Soren looks up at me, and for a second, the manic brat is gone. There's a restraint in his gaze, a deliberate choice not to push or consume the energy I'm radiating, even though I can see the questions burning in him. He knows I've been used by the Church. He knows I'm tired of things reaching through me without asking. He stands up, his hand lingering near mine for a second longer than necessary before he pulls back, his fingers curling into his palm.
"Just... don't touch the mirrors," Soren says, his voice returning to its usual cutting cadence, though it's missing the bite. "They're even more opinionated than Vera was. They'll tell you exactly what's wrong with your outfit before they show you your soul."
I walk toward the back of the shop, needing the distance. There's a mirror near the library entrance, an ornate thing with a frame that looks like silver vines and tarnished gold. As I pass it, the glass ripples like the surface of a pond. I catch a glimpse of my own reflection, but my posture is adjusted, my shoulders back, my chin higher, my eyes lacking the dark circles of exhaustion. The mirror doesn't show me who I am; it shows me who I'm supposed to be, a version of Aven that isn't afraid of the dark. It's a silent, silver critique.
"Stop judging me," I mutter to the glass. "I'm a work in progress. Talk to me when you've been spiritually rearranged by a coven before lunch."
The afternoon keeps finding new ways to test my commitment to usefulness. I handle a man looking for a cure for "poltergeist-related insomnia"—I suggested less caffeine and more iron in the doorway—and a girl who wants to know if we sell anything that can make her ex-boyfriend's hair fall out. Soren tries to kick both of them out, his patience wearing thin as the shadows grow longer, but I manage to steer them toward the less-dangerous inventory. I even sell a pouch of "clarity salts" to a college student who looked like he hadn't slept since the mid-term began.
Cain hasn't moved from the couch, but he's stopped reading. He's watching me, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. Every time I look over, he's there, an ancient, elegant predator who's opted into a domestic life he doesn't quite understand. He tracks my movements with a focus that should be unnerving, but it feels like a safety net, a barrier between me and the shifting energies of the shop. I pass him on my way to the register, and I let my hand brush against the back of the couch, my fingers grazing the soft wool of his sweater. He doesn't say anything, but he leans into the touch, a small, sensory acknowledgement thatanchors me to the floor. The contact is grounding, a cool contrast to the buzzing spirits in the corners.
Ira is at the front door, flipping the sign to Closed with a finality that suggests he's been waiting for this moment since nine AM. He begins a circuit of the shop, checking the locks and the wards with a methodical, tactical grace. He stops behind me while I'm counting out the drawer, his presence a warm, solid weight at my back. I can feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of cedar and iron.
"Good day?" he asks, his voice low. It's the most he's said all afternoon, a rare offering of conversation.
"I survived the fern," I say, sliding a handful of quarters into the tray. "And I didn't accidentally manifest any more dead relatives. I'm calling it a win. Though the mirror thinks I need better posture."
I look down at the coins, my fingers moving to count the change for the final customer of the day, a teenager who'd bought a piece of hematite for her math final. That's when I see him. In the far corner of the shop, standing near the shelf of ritual oils, is a figure that shouldn't be there. He's sharper than the ghosts I usually see, more solid, less like smoke and more like a person standing in the wrong light. His clothes are sharper than usual, too crisp for a man made of dead light, and his face is stripped of the usual spectral haze. Ellis.
My breath hitches, and a handful of nickels clatters onto the floor, bouncing off the mahogany with a series of sharp pings. I haven't seen him since I left the bar. I thought the shop's wards would keep the dead at bay, but Ellis is standing there as if he's always belonged in this room. He looks restless, his translucent hands twitching at his sides, his eyes fixed on me with an urgency that makes the hair on my arms stand up. He looks more like a warning than a memory.
"Ellis?" I whisper, the name slipping out before I can stop it. The air in the shop instantly drops ten degrees.
Soren's head whips around, his hands tightening on the ledger. Cain is on his feet in a second, not because he sees what I see, but because he sees my face. The graduate student façade is gone; he's all teeth and centuries of reflex. Ira moves instantly, stepping between me and the corner, his eyes scanning the empty air that I'm staring at. He can't see Ellis, he's blind to the dead unless they manifest, but he feels the cold spot. He knows the air has changed, thick and heavy with the scent of ozone and old blood.
Ellis shakes his head once, a sharp, cutting movement. He looks at Cain with a look of profound, agonizing regret, then back at me, and he presses a finger to his lips.Not yet.The message is clear, a warning delivered in the silence of the dead. He doesn't want me to speak. He doesn’t want Cain to know he’s here, though I don’t understand why the warning feels sharper when my eyes flick toward the doorway Cain just left.
