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I smile, in spite of myself. I have no idea why, but I’m glad to know he cares aboutsomething,even if it’s an insanely niche problem like cobblestones.
Roman and I stand on the cobblestone street under the red and white awning of a shop called “Weird Wiles” and stare at a photo of my aunt plastered to the door under the heading: “READING TODAY!” The windows of the shop are dark, with herbs and glass witch balls hanging from the ceiling. It’s all a little touristy for my taste, but I suppose that’s where the money is.
Roman glances sideways at me. “Should we go in?”
“I guess there’s no point in just standing here.”
As we push open the door, the smell of incense and musty old books greets my nose and a tinkling bell rings in the depths of the shop, heralding our entrance.
The shop is dimly lit with candles and small lamps casting a warm glow over the entire room. A table in the center of the shop is covered in dried herbs, baskets of crystals, candles, and what looks to be voodoo dolls. Glass cases line the walls, some containing jewelry, others carrying silver knives or crystal skulls.
A pretty, petite woman leans against the counter, a huge, leather-bound book spread out in front of her. She’s wearing thick black eyeliner and a cheap leather corset over a contrastingly expensive looking lace top. Her long, chestnut brown hair is tied back in two fishtail braids, woven together with wilted, yellow flowers. As we enter, she looks up from the book and smiles widely. “Hey,” she says dreamily. “Welcome in! Are you the ones who called about the ghost tours?”
I clear my throat. “Uh, no.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Her smile wavers. “They’re wicked good this season. Lots of spirit activity.”
Beside me, Roman clears his throat, obviously skeptical. I elbow him. He’s a warlock for the gods sake, it’s not like he doesn’t know spirits are real. My guess is he doesn’t believe that tourist attractions know where real spirits are and doesn’t have any problem making that clear—no matter how rude it is.
The woman behind the counter wrinkles her small, freckled nose. As we approach, I realize she’s younger than us—maybe only eighteen or nineteen at most. “Oh, a non-believer?”
I shake my head. “Ignore him.”
She nods sagely at me. “Don’t worry, Icompletelyunderstand. If you need anything, my name is Ophelia.”
I shake my head, a little thrown by her unblinking eyes. “We’re actually looking for a tarot reader.”
The girl looks me up and down before replying. “Right. She’s just finishing up a reading.” She gestures to a closed velvet curtain in the back of the room. “You can wait if you want, she doesn’t have any readings scheduled this afternoon.”
My back stiffens as I glance at the curtain, and my voice shakes as I reply. “Okay, thanks.”
Roman and I step back from the counter and go to stand on the opposite side of the shop from Ophelia, while he unenthusiastically scans a shelf of books on tarot reading and pop-witchcraft.
“Do you think the ghosts are in the room with us now?” he mutters, sarcastically.
“Don’t be an asshole.”
He raises a brow at me. “I don’t know what would ever give you the impression I’m capable of anything else.”
I swallow, thickly. I know he’s joking, but his statement has me thinking…why would I have that impression? Roman is an asshole, and unapologetic about it.
Except, sometimes, when he’s different with me.
About fifteen minutes later, the velvet curtain pulls aside with a flourish and three people step out into the shop. Two, are clearly clients, while the third, I recognize immediately as my aunt.
Though it’s been over a decade since I’ve seen her, Angelica looks, at least to my eye, exactly the same. She’s wearing a red and black silk robe over a long, corseted dress, similar to Ophelia’s, and has her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Aside from the dress, her minimal make-up and school teacher demeanor don’t exactly scream “Psychic,” Yet, there’s something inexplicable about her aura that says she just knows things.
“Ophelia will get you scheduled for next week,” she says to her clients as she walks toward us across the shop. “And you really should check out the ghost tours. They’re wicked—” She looks up, and stops short, fumbling her words mid-sentence as she catches sight of me waiting by the counter. “—Uh, and happy Halloween! Bye, now.”
Behind me Roman snorts, as Angelica ushers the confused couple outside. The moment the bell over the door jingles, signaling we’re alone once more, my aunt turns back to me. “Well, it’s about time you came to see me.”
I blink in surprise, thrown off by not having to introduce myself. While Aunt Angelica might look the same, I most certainly don’t, and I can’t imagine how she knows who I am. Unless, perhaps, she’s a better psychic than I was led to believe.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” my aunt says, before I can even comment. “I wasn’t banished to a cave in the mountains, or a deserted island. I have social media.”
A laugh bursts from my chest. “I’m sorry, I should have come sooner.”
She waves me off. “I know why you didn’t. Gods, I worried about you in that big house all alone with a mother like yours,” she wrinkles her nose. “Not that I should comment. Not my business. Anyway, do I get a hug at least?”
