The Dead (The Thaumaturge Series Book 1) (6 page)

Though I had a pretty steady stream of customers visit me, no witches came to my shop. Aside from Misty, the foul-tempered hag who unfortunately was one of my regulars, no one came in who resembled a witch either in manner or dress. But the worry stuck with me, and I jumped every time the door opened, only to relax at the sight of my regular customers and chide myself for my skittishness. This was fucking Heckerson, Montana, after all. It was very possible that these people were wearing clothing that did not include flannel or denim and Bryler had interpreted that as witchcraft.

There was little to be done, though, and rather than sit anxiously staring out the window, I made an effort to be chattier than usual with my customers. In general, I maintained a certain distance from other people, because I felt it risky due to both my sexual inclinations and my supernatural abilities. Neither were topics I really wanted to broach with people. Being gay in an isolated rural town was bad enough, but having the ability to raise the dead was another thing entirely.

My customers were friendly enough, and I made light conversation with them as the morning dragged into afternoon. The weather changed again and the sun burned off any lingering clouds. Around two I found myself alone in the shop. The long narrow room flooded with sunlight, growing pleasantly warm, and I sat down near the front picture window with a book and a cup of tea.

For a while, I read in peace. My stomach gave a low grumble, alerting me to the fact that I hadn’t eaten lunch. The thought reminded me of tomorrow’s impending dinner at my mother’s, and I scowled, setting the book aside. I was still scowling, trying to come up with a plausible excuse (plague? a brain hemorrhage?) when the bell over the door tinkled.

I swung my head towards the sound, with an expectant smile that froze on my face when I saw the group of people crowded into the shop. I had thought that I was prepared, that I was expected them, but they still were a shock.

The witches stood in the doorway, looking straight at me.

I looked back at them, wide-eyed and startled. Bryler had been right.

They
were
wearing pentacles.

They filed in, one after the other, and then bottlenecked by the aromatherapy oils display. I was struck by such a sense of unreality that I shook my head, blinking a bit in case I was hallucinating. I wasn’t. There were five of them, three men and two women, and my brain just pinballed around in my head, knocking little pieces of information out, because I hadn’t really expected the witches to be quite so witchy.

It wasn’t the pentacles. Plenty of wanna-be witches came into my shop, and I had even joked to Leo once that I was going to put together a “Witch 101” herb package to save me the hassle of having to track down the same old materials for every budding occultist that came in. The pentacles made sense to me, in that respect, like any Christian who wears a cross.

No, it wasn’t the pentacles. They moved oddly in rhythm to each other, like seasoned line cooks who had grown accustomed to working close together in tight spaces. And even as I stared at them, they gave me nothing back, their faces blank and expressionless. Each of them wore black and as they stood shoulder to shoulder, their bodies seemed to melt into each other, as though they were some sort of bizarre five-headed beast.

One of the men broke off and stepped forward with a smooth glide, and the thought that perhaps they had practiced this whole eerie spectacle came clearly into my head. The guy held his hand out and I reflexively batted it away.

The guy laughed and I gritted my teeth at the sound of it. The rest of them murmured softly amongst themselves and suddenly the weird spell of silence broke. They moved apart, the connection gone, no longer pieces of a whole. Had I imagined that whole thing?

“Sorry, man,” the guy said standing in front of me said, chuckling. “We’re just excited to meet you.”

I was still stunned into silence, unable to do anything more than glare at him. He just offended me, on both an aesthetic and personal level. First off, he dressed entirely too eccentrically for it be anything than on purpose and that shit just grossed me out. I had to look down at him, and his somewhat diminutive height made the black duster he wore look frumpy rather than cool. It bunched unattractively at his elbows, and the sleeves covered everything but his bejeweled fingers. What was with the fedora? It made his pinchy little face look tiny, and someone needed to tell him that if all he could manage was sad tufts of facial hair, he might as well just go clean-shaven.

I didn’t like the look of him, and I looked past him to the other people standing in a clump by the aromatic bath herbs display.

“Help you folks with something?” I deadpanned with as much disinterested annoyance I could manage.

The clown standing in front of me started to say something, but another of the men placed a hand on his shoulders.

“Hello,” the second man said, and I didn’t miss the bright flash of anger in the first guy’s eyes, the way his jaw momentarily tightened.

“We’re glad to have found you,” The second man continued. “We’re looking for a few things.” He looked more normal. Except for the discreet pentacle half hidden against his average black jacket, I would have taken this guy for an attorney or a manager at Target, with his balding hairline and double chin. Despite his softness, though, there was definitely something about him, something that spoke of hidden power. The guy had a deep, throaty James Earl Jones type voice, and from the way the rest of them were looking at him, he was clearly the boss.

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. “Yeah, I guess.”

A brief moment passed where they all looked at each other, engaging in some sort of silent communication that worried me. I wished someone else were still in the store, someone lingering over the newspaper, or coming in to buy tea. But there was no one and I didn’t like how outnumbered I was.

“You are open, right?” one of the others asked, and I looked past the first two guys to the one who had spoken, and my breath caught in my throat.

There was no doubt that he was . . . something. Witch or not, he sure wasn't from around here. He was black, and milky-white Heckerson wasn't exactly a hub of culturally diversity. His black, tailored, slacks flattered his long legs, and the black shirt he wore tucked into his belt showed off a trim waist. He made the dark clothes seem stylish rather than tacky. His black wool coat looked like something a TV lawyer might wear and somehow the scarf around his neck didn’t seem hipster at all. His hair was dark, too; not Leo's Spanish curls but little black twists that stuck an inch off his head. His face looked like it was made for smiling. He was more handsome than the usual visitor to my store, for sure, with lovely high cheekbones and large, cat-slanted eyes the exact color of jade.

It wasn't the look of him that made all my spidey-senses tingle, though. It was something that floated in the air around him, something not visible but tangible enough that my astral antennae started twitching. I supposed it was what people called an aura. I had never seen one before, not around a living person anyway.

“Hi,” he said, giving me a friendly, dazzling smile that faded as his eyebrows drew together. “You’re open? This is okay?”

For a second, I was dumbstruck, just staring at him, unconcerned with the others, though they must have been watching.

“Yeah,” I managed.

“Great,” he said, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “I'm Marcus.”

I hesitated; I didn't want to touch the energy coming off of him. The pause went on too long and his smile faltered. He let his hand drop and glanced at the bald man with uncertainty.

“I'm Ebron,” I said, coughing into my fist to cover my embarrassment. “What are you guys looking for?”

Marcus’s smile recovered. “We’re just in town for a few days and the guy at the motel told us about your shop.”

Fucking Bryler.

“Oh, okay,” I said, as though he had answered my question. Feeling awkward, and distracted by the loveliness of his mouth, I gave a jerky wave, indicating the room. “Well, let me know if you need help.”

“We do,” The bald man replied quickly. “We’re looking for some very specific items. That's why I was so glad to hear of you.”

“Oh?” I said again. “What's that then?”

He gazed at me levelly for a moment, and I was aware of weird, pushing sensation against me, a feeling of probing and exploration. At the same time, I watched the other witches – the two women– break off and wander deeper into the store, leaving me alone with the men. I froze, bristling under the man’s sharp gaze. I didn’t know what he was doing to me, what measures he was taking. I had no idea what they were capable of, so I just endured the scrutiny, glaring in turn at each of them.

“My name’s Jim,” the bald man said to me. He nodded to the first guy, the twitchy one with the fucking fedora. “This is Corvin. Morgan and Shaina.”

Politely, I nodded to the two women examining the tea infusers. One of them, a round, dark haired girl, gave me a bashful smile. The other, a stern looking redhead, didn’t react.

“What did you say your name was?” Jim continued, peering at me curiously.

“Ebron,” I said irritably. “Look, what do you guys need?”

Corvin gave me a challenging glare, his lip curled like he wanted to smirk at me, but at the last second he turned abruptly and walked away. Jim fished into his coat and pulled out a slip of paper.

“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Marcus, why don’t you help with that? I want to look around.” He clapped Marcus on the shoulder, and went to join the rest of them.

“Sorry,” Marcus said quietly, stepping closer to me. He looked at me intently and I found myself looking back, staring into his eyes in a way that seemed terribly forward, dangerous even, for a man trying to stay hidden. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen eyes so pretty.
A guy could get lost in those eyes.
He wet his lips with his tongue, and my eyes leapt down to his mouth, then back up, painfully aware of how he could have interpreted that.

“Are you . . . Wiccan?” he asked softly, with some reservation. I didn't think that that was what he meant to ask.

“Huh? No. Oh, Wiccan? No, I'm not.” I blushed, and desperate for any action that would get me out from under his gaze, I moved further back behind the counter. There, that was better. Better to have space between us.

“Sorry,” he said, his smile turning apologetic. “I assumed. Because of the, y'know, the stuff you sell. And you just have a . . . weird . . . energy.”

I didn't respond, suddenly feeling frozen and panicked. My palms left damp outlines on the glass counter, and the room started to feel too hot. Too small. I wanted to tug at my shirt collar, nervous that my stupid hickey was showing. Instead, I glanced out the picture window and saw a car with Colorado plates parked out front. The rest of them murmured quietly amongst themselves, and I wondered briefly if they were shoplifting.

When I didn't offer anything more, he gave a brisk nod. “Okay,” he said, as though dealing with an unreasonable drunk or a skittish horse. “Well, I won't keep you. I just have a list. Um . . .” he nodded towards the paper in my hand. I smoothed it out on the counter before me.

I scanned the list, written in pencil with careful blocky letters. It was short, only five items, but they all made me raise my eyebrows. I gave a low whistle.

“Mugwort?” I asked. “Licorice root? Calamus root? My, what do you have planned?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “I thought you weren't a Wiccan?”

“I'm not. But I know what these are for.”

He gave a low, amused snort. “Do you? What do you want, like an ID?”

“Just curious is all.”

He paused for a moment, looking me over. His eyes held no malice, just mild interest, and I waited patiently. My fingertips pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

“Nothing nefarious, if that's what you're asking,” he replied finally, having come to some sort of decision.

I shrugged. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

“You didn't.” He opened his mouth to say something else, stopped to glance at his friends, and then started again.

“Can we start over here?” he asked quietly, giving me a boyish smile that was infectious, and made me a little hazy, like I wasn't quite in control of myself. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Sure,” I said helplessly.

“I'm Marcus,” he said, but this time he didn't offer to shake my hand. “I'm Wiccan. I'm from Colorado. I’m here with my coven.” He nodded towards the others and then looked at me expectantly. I just gaped at him, and after a few seconds, he sucked his teeth, raising his eyebrows a bit. Belatedly, I realized he was waiting for me to make some sort of statement.

“Oh,” I said. “Hi. I'm Ebron. I, uh, I own this shop.”

I could think of nothing else to add, nothing that could even hint at some sort of imagined exciting life. How would he react, if I added any more?
I can raise the dead and my boyfriend is a vampire?
That thought led me to another.
Are they here because of me, as farfetched and as unlikely as it seems? Had word gotten out on some sort of supernatural grapevine? Am I a topic of discussion amongst shadowy figures in back rooms? Do people
know
about me?

I banished those thoughts; they were ridiculous. The supernatural was indeed a reality on this earth - this I knew for certain, knew
intimately
, one might say. But I had never so much as heard a whisper from any other person involved in any sort of magical activity. Was it even realistic to call it magic? I never gave it much thought. I didn't want to know. Maybe the world was full of witches and vampires and all manner of creatures, but all I wanted was to stay in the woods and be left alone.

The silence between us stretched, and became uncomfortable. I was really doing a terrible job at promoting my merchandise.

He smiled again, a little forced this time. “Well, uh, okay. Can you help me with this stuff?”

“Yep,” I said. “Sure.”