Still gnawing on my lower lip, skin threatening to bleed, I try to summon the courage to enter the store. From Main Street a few yards away, I hear the echo of approaching footsteps and laughter. A couple passes by, not bothering to glance over at me. Yet another example of why rogues keep settling in this area. I shake my head as they disappear down the walkway.
When I let my mind focus on the task at hand, I enter an internal battle with Malik, an argument I will never win. I don’t need the power of spirit and foresight to predict his wrath. When he finds out I came here tonight, he will be furious. But the question is, how furious? I’ve come to learn there are different levels to his anger.
At level one, Malik is still the strong, silent type. His quiet seething is somehow deafening, but he’s just mad, not quite angry enough to say anything. He knows his silence speaks volumes, and that’s enough.
Next, we have level two. At this point, he forgoes silence and forces me into the basement training quarters, where he proceeds to take out his frustration on me while explaining the art of war. I usually succumb to his reasoning, and I spend the rest of the night pretending the body aches are my imagination. We haven’t trained in days, so I’m guessing he may skip level two and dive headfirst into what lies beyond.
Like level two, Malik’s level three is verbal, but it’s a different kind of loud. Instead of using metaphors and analogies on how my mistakes are comparable to failed battle plans, he expresses his disappointment in me. Honestly, this is the worst level I’ve experienced to date. There is nothing quite as awful as knowing you’ve let down someone you care about. I can handle his anger, but I can’t always handle his pain.
Finally, Malik reaches level four. While I hate experiencing level three and Malik’s disappointment in me, I am terrified of level four. This is the point of no return, when the mistakes are so grand, they threaten our livelihood. Malik would never physically hurt me, but while wearing his new leadership hat, I can picture him asking me to leave the manor and never return.
Somehow, deep down, I know stepping inside the magic shop, crossing that threshold, I will awaken level four in Malik. There will be no going back, and as much as that kills me, what other choice do I have? If I can’t trust my friends, I have no one else to aid me but my enemies. Deciding to be impulsive, I enter the store, choosing to ignore the itchy sensation in my gut that’s screaming at me to leave.
The air is coated by burning incense. I can see the smoke swirling around me, seeping into my clothes. I inhale deeply, and while the scent is a bit overwhelming, it puts me at ease. Nothing quite reminds me of home like burning sage.
The lighting overhead is a soft yellow, so dim and low I tell myself the shopkeeper may not see my crimson irises if I keep my distance. And since spring is newly emerging, I like to think everyone in Darkhaven has lost their tan.
I scan the store, which is surprisingly large for having such a small storefront. The front part of the store houses most of the items. On one side of the store, the walls are cluttered with glass jars, all labeled with names of various herbs. On the other side, I find boxes of candles in different heights and thickness, in every shade available. There are several tables scattered about, with rows of relics used for magic, from pentagrams to crystals.
The back half of the store mirrors the layout of a traditional bookstore, with several rows of shelves stacked with volumes. The smell beyond incense is that of musty old tomes, with yellowed, frayed pages. Everything about this store makes my heart happy.
A large chandelier buzzes above me, offering warm yellow lighting to guide me inside.
I make the mistake of glancing at my right, where the shopkeeper stands beside the register. A spinning carousel of Pagan-inspired jewelry is beside the front counter, and I pretend to be distracted by something to avoid looking at the girl.
“Hi there!” she calls, voice bubbly, high-pitched, and far too eager at the chance to gain a customer. Based on past experiences, I imagine her store isn’t doing as well as she hoped it would.
In my effort to beeline for the books at the back of the store, I grin and nod, sidestepping a table cluttered with Lunar Magic Shop merchandise. The girl closes her book and stands straighter.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asks.
I shake my head, desperate to keep as much space between us as possible. She begins to walk around the front counter, inching closer as I proceed to step backward. I bump into the wall, and glass jars of herbs clink together. I spin, probably a little too quickly, and adjust them so they don’t fall. I mumble an apology.
“No worries! That is, as long as you’re okay with my you-break-you-buy policy,” she says, laughing. Her voice is soft and sweet, and something about the way she speaks has me turning to face her.
“Oh, I’m just kidding,” she says when I don’t laugh, dismissing her joke with a wave of her hand. “My name is Luna, and if you need help finding anything, just let me know.”
I nod, undeniably charmed by her allure. Something about her—maybe the way she smells or the way she sounds or the way she carries herself—invites me closer. She smells like honeysuckle and dried flowers. Her hair is stick straight and jet black, with long fringe poking down behind her teal-framed glasses. Her eyes are light gray, almost silver, and even though every fiber of my body is telling me to look away, I cannot.
When she turns around, we break eye contact, and I manage to find the strength to walk away from the girl. The closer I am to the stacks, the greater the distance between us, the easier it is to ignore her. Still, as I scour book titles and author names, I find myself peering through the bookcases, trying to catch a glimpse of her.
Luna remains at the register, humming softly as she twirls a lock of hair around her index finger. She is flipping through the pages of her book, frowning as she scans the text. Something about it has disappointed her, and I want to know what that is.
I can hear her heartbeat, strong and steady, and it makes my stomach churn. Her skin, smooth and milky, is radiant in the low lighting. Something sparkles at her clavicle, and I focus on it. The glint of a crescent moon, bright silver, glows back at me.
Behind the front desk, there is a large clock adorned with astrology symbols instead of numbers. It is nearly nine at night. It’s late for the store to be open, so I assume it will soon close. There are no customers, and the lighting seems dark and moody, even for a metaphysical shop, like maybe Luna was in the process of closing before I showed up. Regardless, I probably don’t have much time. I need to find what I came for.
Luna looks up, catching my eyes, and I look away quickly. I turn, scanning the shelf behind me. I hear her approach. Internally, I try to calm myself. The only thing worse than admitting to Malik that I came here is also mentioning the untimely death of the shopkeeper. He will be none too pleased with me. And even though I remind myself of this, even though I tell myself she will notice my crimson irises if I face her, I want to turn around, to greet her fully, to relish in her scent and understand just what I find so familiar about her.
Thankfully, I don’t do this. At least there is a part of me, however small, that has kept my wits about me.
“Are you looking for a particular text?” she asks.
She is standing so close, too close. Her scent washes over me, filling my lungs with honey and lavender. I hold my breath, shake my head again, and squeeze my eyes shut, silently willing her away. If she notices my distress, she doesn’t mention it.