Page 12

Chapter twelve

Nixon

I ’m at my wits end. I’m frazzled. I’m exhausted. And short of posting missing person flyers all across Manhattan, I’m desperate to find Arit.

It’s been almost a month since that day at the park, and every day that passes only seems to get worse.

I can’t explain what’s happening to me, but there is something inside me that’s shriveling up. As crazy as it sounds, as far-fetched and whacked-out as it seems, I’m genuinely worried for my soul.

Then there are the dreams, which began the night I ran away from Arit.

Vivid, heart-wrenching, gut-wrenching dreams that leave me sweating and wrung out like I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes and never once slept. And what’s worse, Arit is always there. Peaceful, serene, and steady, he’s a balm to my tumultuous subconscious. So much so that I’ve even begun to take notes on any scrap of information I can recall when I finally wake the next morning, panting and damp with my heart racing, and flashes of faces, tools, and objects I have no name for pass through my mind like a kaleidoscope.

Linc asked me if I was okay a while back, but I don’t remember what I told him. I’ve been avoiding as many people as possible. Including my mom, who has called and left a dozen messages telling me if I don’t return her calls by tonight, she’s going to drive down and check on me herself.

Which is why I’m currently standing outside a nondescript shop that looks, from what I can see, more like an old bookstore rather than the magic shop it claims to be. But I need help. And not the medical kind. There is no medicine that will save my soul.

And maybe, desperate as I am, there’s a spell or potion I can take that will help me find Arit. I don’t know how, but I know his presence, or lack thereof, is related to everything that’s going on with me. We’re connected, like truly connected, and without him, I’m dying. Not physically, but inside. And when my soul goes, I’ll go with it.

There is no bell or chime to signal my arrival, but smooth as silk, a man in a top hat appears from behind a curtain, smiling a friendly and welcoming smile that slowly slides off his face the closer he gets to me. His ageless features and eyes that seem too black to be normal pull down as he approaches, and his rabbit-in-a-hat routine is gone. “I see we are in trouble, yes?” he says by way of greeting, and perhaps I’m only imagining a trace of an accent.

Ignoring the musty smell of old books combined with the overpowering scent of what are likely aromatherapy candles or incense, I nod gratefully. “Yes. I’m desperate. I need to find someone, but he’s like a ghost. Is there a summoning spell or a potion I can take? I’ll try anything.” My hand automatically goes to my chest, where I’ve taken on the habit of rubbing the sore spot inside me.

The gentleman nods, solemn yet keen. “Let us do some research first. I’ll need a bit of information to see what we’re dealing with.”

Sighing in relief, I follow when the gentleman beckons me along, passing a tiny café-type area with a Closed sign on the counter. Strangely, the shop seems to be endless and has much higher ceilings than I would have suspected from the street. There are tall bookcases everywhere, complete with the classic black ladders I’d associate with an old library.

Off in various corners, I can tell there are sections of the shop dedicated to crystals, tarot readings, herbs, and even mythology. While the front of the shop contains a lot of the usual kitschy items I’d associate with a magic shop—card decks, top hats, clown noses, and face paint—it seems to me that the rest of the shop covers a broad variety of the more mystic arts, not the usual party tricks.

Stopping at a small desk at the head of a long aisle of books, the gentleman takes a tablet-looking device off the table and turns to me, offering a more enigmatic smile. “I’m The Owner here. What might I call you?”

“Nixon,” I reply, and The Owner nods again.

“Thank you. Now, what can you tell me, Nixon?”

Sighing, I explain that I don’t have much to go on. I tell him about meeting Arit, how he had to leave suddenly, and then how he reappeared just as quickly. I tell him about the connection we share, the buzzing I can feel coursing through Arit’s veins and into me. Then I tell him what Arit said, about us having met before and the multiple lifetimes Arit has recognized my soul.

The Owner doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tell me I’m crazy. He listens with squinted eyes and occasionally taps at the tablet in his hands. He studies me in a vague way, like he’s trying to see through me to the source of my problem.

When I finish telling him about the dreams and the ache inside me, and that I basically blew Arit off as a lunatic, he nods in sympathy. “And now you are in trouble. Your aura is dwindling and barely visible. If I read your cards right now, I’m not sure I’d like the outcome.”

I swallow hard because I have a feeling I wouldn’t either.

“Do you have any idea what Arit is?” The Owner asks, no trace of amusement anywhere on his ageless face.

The word what should send a shiver down my spine, but instead, I only shake my head. I’ve thought about every possible scenario in regard to what Arit might be. “No. I assume he’s not a ghost because I can see and feel him. He doesn’t strike me as the demon type. And maybe it’s just a stereotype and they can hide their wings, but I didn’t see any wings, so no angels or fae.”

“I’d agree. Does he carry anything? A staff or talisman?”

“I’ve seen him with an umbrella, but I don’t know if he has a talisman. Oh! I just remembered, when I asked him what he did for a living, he said he was a guardian of sorts. Which kind of brings me back around to the angel thing, but definitely rules out other supernaturals. I’ve never heard of a vampire or witch guardian.”

The Owner’s eyes are wider than I’ve seen them, and I notice a deliberate swallow. As I study him a moment longer, a trickle of fear has entered his unnatural eyes as he looks around quickly and then focuses back on me. “Come. To the back room,” he urges, his voice low and unsteady.

He reaches out like he wants to guide me along but quickly pulls his hand back and goes paler than his medium complexion would seem to allow. His nervous energy suddenly has me on edge, and every worst-case scenario I’ve thought up jumps to the forefront of my mind.

Whatever just popped into his head, it doesn’t bode well for me.

The back room is not at all what I was expecting, not that I have any experience with the back rooms inside magic shops. Where I was expecting a break room, maybe a sofa and microwave, a refrigerator or storeroom, this room is full of glass cases, books that look to be temperature or humidity controlled, and objects I could never guess the name or purpose of.

There’s a long workbench type area along one wall that’s full of shelves lined with glass bottles, odd-shaped containers, and felt or velvet pouches. A mortar and pestle sit near one end with a vial and sachet nearby. Various bits of plants, feathers, rocks, powders, and other tidbits are scattered across the workspace.

But the majority of my attention is focused on a crimson curtain The Owner is pulling back, or rather, what the curtain reveals. An archway, which looks to be woven together out of vines around stone, crystals, and— gasp —bones, stands alone in the back of the room. From what I can see, there are runes carved into the stones and the crystals glow softly in the dim lighting.

The Owner returns to me, wary and cautious. “This is a portal, spelled by a great wizard who used to trade with me when he passed through town. I wouldn’t normally offer the portal as a first resort, but I’m not keen on meeting your intended. If you’re open to it, I’d like to make a quick potion and grant you passage through the portal. A small blood offering should suffice and allow the Fates to match your DNA to his, expecting, of course, that you are his Fated one.”

If I wasn’t so desperate to find Arit, I’d have a lot of questions about what this man just said, namely why he’s so freaked about who Arit might be. But knowing the questions I have are for the ghost in my dreams, I hold them back and instead say, “I’m open. I need to find him, so I’m willing to do whatever you think is best.”

“Very well. Come to my workbench, and we’ll get started. The only payment I ask is that when you find him, if he’s pleased to see you, tell him it was me who helped you. If not, do not mention my name.”

Agreeing because I really have nothing else to offer and hadn’t even thought about a payment, I follow The Owner to his workbench and watch as he crafts a potion that smokes and sizzles, but it will also take me to Arit.

For a potion like that, I would pay just about anything.