Page 8 of Dead Serious Halloween Special

Harrison huffs quietly, but I don’t miss the way his eyes soften slightly at Chan. As prickly as his personality often is, Iknow deep down he cares for all of us. He just doesn’t like to show it—or doesn’t know how to. I’m not sure which.

“Still not really decided what you’re doing with this place?” I ask, glancing around at the bookshop’s main floor.

When the place had belonged to Madame Viv, it had been so cluttered that the space had seemed much smaller. Viv had filled it with rows of bookcases and occult detritus, not to mention an old sagging sofa. However, most of it had been irreparably damaged when Issac Crawshanks had literally ripped up the floor to open a devil’s trap and release an ancient demon.

I glance down at the clean and repaired floor. At a glance, no one would ever suspect the dark secret that lay beneath the newly polished and gleaming hardwood, but it’s a sight I can never unsee. The burning symbols, Harrison’s blood… I look up and see him watching me. His gaze flicks to the floor and his hand unconsciously twitchesas if trying to stop himself from reaching for the wound that has long since healed but left more than a scar.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with the place yet.” Harrison’s spine stiffens and his tone slides back into the haughty inflection I’ve learned he uses when he feels uncomfortable. “It was an absolute pigsty, a hoarder’s paradise. It’ll take me years to sort through it at this rate.”

“He’s letting me sort through and have all the vintage clothes he finds though,” Chan squeals excitedly. “I found a Mary Quant original miniskirt.Mary Quant!”

“I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.” I grin at him before turning my attention back to Harrison. “No plans to re-open it as a bookshop then?”

“That was the plan, but now I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I’m not in any kind of rush. I closed my shop in Islington, but I’m still fulfilling orders online for my regular customers.Ialso have the money I inherited along with this mess, so I have a bit of time before I need to make any definitive decisions.”

“What’s the stock you wanted help unpacking today, then?” I nod towards the stack of books piled at the corner of the room.

“It’s not stock. They’re on loan,” he explains. I glance at him questioningly and he elaborates. “Olivia sent some of them, and the others are from her friend, Veronica Gilbert.”

“Olivia?” Chan picks up a paper ghost and once again climbs the ladder to affix it to the ceiling. “Isn’t she that American? The one who sent that wine for Tristan and Danny’s wedding.”

“Trust you to remember the wine and not the fact that she was the one who saved our collective arses by shoving that demon straight back to where it originally came from,” I say dryly, and Dusty snorts beside me.

“That wine was no joke. You’ve got to stop getting completely twat-faced on supernatural booze, Tris, honey. Because of our weird E.T. slash Elliott thing, I was hungover for about a week afterwards.”

“How do you think I feel?” I grumble. “Nearly four months later and I still have complete strangers on the streets of Whitechapel telling me I throw a hell of a wedding. I honestly didn’t think anything could top Viv’s magically spiked gin, but honestly, I’m not sure how we didn’t all end up arrested.”

“Actually, I think we did. D broke us out.” Chan steps back from the ladder and critically studies his paper ghost placement. “You’re just lucky my boyfriend is an eons-old supernatural creature with kick-ass powers.”

“Anyway.” I shake my head and focus on Harrison. “Why’s Olivia sending you books? Don’t you have enough here already?”

“Apparently not.” Harrison rolls his eyes. “Olivia seems to think there are some pretty big gaps in my education. She says she doesn’t know what the hell they’re teaching witches over here, but if I’m going to be responsible for a property thatis not only home to a dormant devils trap but also an inter-dimensional portal, then I should be prepared for anything. And I have to say, Tristan, being friends with you? I think she might have a point.”

“Hey,” I say defensively. “It’s not like I asked for that potential apocalypse, and the demon was not my fault. Technically, that was your family.”

“I’ll give you that one.” Harrison’s mouth twitches and for a moment, I think he’s going to smile. One of these days, he’s actually going to laugh and the whole of time and space will come to a standstill.

“So who’s the other woman, and why’s she sending you stuff?” I ask, following Harrison over to the boxes as Dusty chats to Chan while he continues to decorate.

“Veronica Gilbert is apparently a very close friend of Olivia’s. She also happens to be the curator of the Mercy Museum of Witchcraft.”

“Mercy?” I blink.

“It’s the town in New England where they live.” Harrison hauls one of the boxes off the top of the pile and sets it on the floor, scooting it over to me and handing me a box cutter. Before I can grasp it, he pulls his hand back, his fist curving around the knife. “You will be careful opening the box, won’t you? Some of these books are very old and irreplaceable.”

“Harrison, I cut bodies open for a living.” I lift my brows and stare at him pointedly. “If I can slice through skin and tissue without damaging the organs beneath, I’m pretty certain I can open a cardboard box without damaging a book cover.”

“Sorry, no offence.” He shakes his head and hands me the box cutter. “I suppose I’m a little nervous since these don’t belong to me.”

“None taken.” I take my coat off and drape it over a nearby chair before settling onto the floor beside the box and deftly opening it.

“Anyway, where was I?” Harrison continues as he opens his own box. “Oh, Mercy. It’s a small town, not too far from Salem in Massachusetts. From what I understand, it was founded over three hundred years ago by two of Olivia’s ancestors, twin sisters by the name of Hester and Bridget West. After surviving the witch trials, they created Mercy as a sanctuary for people of magical descent. Olivia is from one of the oldest and most powerful families, but she says there are others. People with supernatural gifts seem to be drawn to the town.”

“You seem to know a lot about her.” I open the flaps of the box and start carefully removing old leatherbound volumes, the scent of dry parchment and dusty pages filling the air.

“Yeah, well,” Harrison murmurs. He gives a little shrug as he sets about unpacking his own box. “After what happened… well, you know.” His eyes flick once again to the floor where the devils trap lies hidden deep beneath the ground. “We’ve been keeping in touch.” He pauses and draws in a slow breath. “Both of my fathers are witches, second and seventh generation. I was raised that way, grew up observing the sabbats, honouring the traditions and rituals. I respected the craft and never doubted that it was all real. Although my parents have always been solitary practitioners—mostly, I think, to protect me—I did go along to a few coven meetings in Devon and also when I arrived in London, and do you know what I found?” I shake my head, and he continues. “Neophytes, wannabes, people who believed and respected but did not have the gift. They wanted to be a part of something bigger, but those who did have magic, it was very weak and diluted. In all that time, I never found anyone who could do what I could... what I can.”

He lifts his arm and opens his hand. His fingertips erupt into deep pink flames, and I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes wide.