“What about me?”
“What are you studying in college?”
My cheeks warm, but there’s something so earnest about how Cal asks that I don’t mind telling him the truth. “I’ll actually be a senior at the high school this fall. Veronica’s going to college this year, though. She’s going to study journalism at Ithaca College in New York.”
“Who’s Veronica?”
My heart skips a beat when I realize what I’ve done. I thought this stupid reflex, this subconscious need to include Veronica in every part of my life, was broken. Dead. Gone.
“She’s my ex,” I whisper, my stomach clenching as I wait to see how Cal responds. Coming out is always nerve-wracking, no matter how many times I do it. And now that Veronica and I are broken up, there’s an added sting of loss along with the rest of the anxious emotions.
Cal pauses a moment, considering me. Then he lets out a knowing sigh. “My first boyfriend broke up with me a few months before he went to college, too.”
“Yeah?” I ask, instantly feeling a tighter kinship with my new coworker, like seeing a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. “What happened?”
“Some of it was the usual stuff, like not wanting to juggle a relationship while we went to separate colleges. Mostly, though, I don’t think he wanted to date a guy.” When Cal sees my confused expression, he clarifies. “I’m trans. I came out senior year.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my surprise. “I’m sorry he dumped you.”
“It’s fine.” Cal smiles wide, his pale cheeks flushing. “My new boyfriend is a much better match. He’s home in Brooklyn for the summer though.”
I offer my condolences on the long distance and walk Cal through the most common functions on the register. As we work, we swap stories about our exes. Cal groans sympathetically when I tell him about the public shouting match that ended my relationship, and I pester him for details about how he met his current boyfriend.
“This is the least intuitive register system I’ve ever seen. How old is this thing?” Cal asks, interrupting his own story. We’re in the middle of a practice return, and the register keeps making angry beeps at him.
“You’ll get the hang of it. Sometimes it helps if you smack it.”
“That doesn’t actually—”
I hit the register with the heel of my hand, and Cal cringes at the shuddering clang the old machine makes. “Try now.”
Cal eyes me suspiciously and runs through the steps again, glancing at the notebook where he wrote the instructions. This time, the return goes through fine.
“Told you.” I grin, and Cal smiles back. It’s nice having some fresh blood around here. Lauren is cool and all, but she’s still the boss.
The bell above the door rings, announcing a new customer. Cal plasters on a smile so wide it rivals Lauren’s best customer service grin and offers a hearty, “Welcome to the Fly by Night Cauldron!”
His enthusiasm is infectious. I turn to greet the newcomer, too, but I freeze when I see who it is.
Evan.
I hardly recognize him at first. Gone is the goth kid who came into the shop before the bonfire. This new Evan’s face is free from makeup. He’s wearing dress pants, a white collared shirt, and a name tag with the Witch Museum logo.
What is he doing here?
“You good?” I ask. When Cal nods, I follow Evan down the candle aisle. I cross my arms, all my customer service training forgotten. “Can I help you?” I snap, my tone more hostile than my words.
Evan raises a brow. “Uh, hello to you, too, Hannah. And I’m fine. I know what I need.” He disappears down another row, and the clinking of glass tells me he’s looking through our vials of magical herbs.
A war rages inside, leaving me frozen in place. Evan’s a Reg. His actions shouldn’t concern me. Lady Ariana’s words echo in my head: It’s not our place to save them from themselves. If Evan wants to sacrifice another animal and risk the consequences of that kind of magic, that’s on him.
And yet . . .
By the time I glance back at the register, Cal is cautiously ringing up the first of Evan’s supplies. Crystals and candles, most of them black. Evan isn’t by the counter, probably searching for something else. I peek down the herb aisle, but it’s like he’s disappeared. He’s not in the book aisle either. I turn to help Cal at the register and smash into someone.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” I look up. Evan. He’s carrying vials of blood root and hemlock. I’m suddenly feeling much less apologetic. “What are you doing?”
He stiffens under my stare, and his expression becomes guarded. “That’s none of your business,” he snaps, and shoves past me to the register, where Lauren has appeared to help Cal. She shoots me a look as she rings up the rest of Evan’s purchase, but I can’t tell whether she’s upset by his collection of supplies or my lackluster customer service skills.
With her, it could really go either way.
Evan pays and heads for the door. As he draws near, I step in his way. “What’ll it be this time?” I ask, hands clenching into fists. “Another raccoon? Or are you going after something bigger?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Evan says, holding my gaze like he’s daring me to accuse him again. “Get the hell out of my way.”
“Or what?”
Anger flashes through Evan’s eyes. “Or you’ll be next.” He stalks around me, his arm jostling my shoulder, and he’s out the door a second later, the chime a discordant crashing in my ears.
“What was that about?” Cal asks, coming around the counter when Lauren heads back to her office. “You okay?”
I nod, too busy fighting the angry thrum of magic in my veins to speak. Evan does not get to threaten me and walk away feeling smug. He’s a Reg. Whatever power he feels, whatever rush he got from his ritual—and given his reaction, I’m almost certain it was his—that’s nothing compared to what I can do. Less than nothing.
* * *
• • •
“Tell Lauren I’m taking my break,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
Locals and tourists mix and mingle along the narrow sidewalks as I slip out of the shop. I spot the crisp white of Evan’s shirt as he turns the corner and hurry after him, weaving through pedestrians with a string of apologies in my wake.
A pack of middle schoolers clog the sidewalk, and I step into the street to hurry around them. A car horn blares behind me, and I jolt, pushing back onto the sidewalk and knocking into the gaggle of sixth graders.