Page 15 of Magpie
S quinting against the blinding morning sun, I press a dollar bill along the side of a vending machine, trying to straighten out the crinkled paper.
Feeding it into the slot, I let out a sigh of relief as it finally accepts the money.
This is my third try, and after a restless night of wandering the stacks of the library, I’m in no mood to fight with a machine.
I punch in the numbers and wait as it spits out a large canned drink.
Cracking it open, I take a cursory sniff, grimacing at the foul odor before taking a large gulp.
I never acquired the taste for energy drinks, but I need something to chase the sleep from my eyes.
When was the last time I truly slept? I frown, a soul-wrenching tightness strangling my throat.
I know when I last slept easy, and it was in the bed of someone who no longer exists.
Blood-red eyes. A crooked smile. Hands exploring every dip and swell of my body. A cry of pleasure breaking through my lips as—
Stop it.
Before anguish can control me, I force those memories down, blinking rapidly against the tears brimming in my eyes. Taking another large gulp of the sugary drink, I lean against the wall, watching the store across the street.
Nestled between the brick and steel buildings is a single old house, like the last hold-out from a once sleepy town refusing to move forward into a bustling city.
Robin’s egg–blue paint adorns the exterior walls, with what appear to be hand-painted wildflowers swirling on the shutters.
Trailing ivy and vibrant blooms crest out of pots that hang from the roof and litter the porch.
A sandwich board advertises palm readings and healing herbs, beautifully written in a flowing, elegant script.
A windchime made of crystals clinks away in a gentle breeze, sending bits of light scattering around as air flows through the stones.
Warm sunlight glitters around the house, illuminating it among the muted colors of the city street.
It is so entirely out of place, it looks like it was plucked out of a scene in a fairytale—like the house of a witch that belongs hidden deep in the woods.
My eyes are not trained on the house itself, but on her.
She is standing in front of the store, pouring a watering can over the flowers.
Her glistening silver hair is pulled up in a loose bun, unruly strands escaping its confines and flying about her face, playing in the soft wind.
An easy smile stays on her face as she finishes her work, her eyes alight with silent joy.
I watch her climb the stairs into her shop, a bell chiming as she opens the door and disappears.
I should move, should walk across the street and follow her, but I’m glued to the wall.
I tell myself I will wait a few more minutes, gather my courage, and then I will enter.
Any moment now, I will peel myself from the brick wall and my hiding space beside the vending machine and cross the short distance between us.
The day drags on, and I remain a silent sentry across the street.
Because the truth is that I’m terrified.
Terrified of what might await me in that store.
I hope it is my salvation, but it could just as easily be my doom.
Will she believe me? Will she scream at me to get out? Or worse, will she take me back to him?
I’ll wait just a little longer. Just a few more minutes.
The shadows stretch across the pavement.
Nearly the whole day passes, and I am no closer to being able to make myself move.
A small stream of customers filters in and out of the shop.
Some stay for quite a while; others pop in and out, excitedly looking over their purchases.
Everyone who leaves seem lighter for their time inside, like some great burden has been lifted from their shoulders.
According to the website, the store closes at sundown, and one glance at the sky shows that time is rapidly approaching.
The last customer to walk in leaves, a large brown paper bag held at their side and a contented smile on their face.
The first blooms of darkness are just beginning to win out over the setting sun, and I can wait no longer.
Swallowing hard, I pull the hood of my jacket up and walk resolutely across the street. My hands are shaking, and I ball them into fists at my sides as I try to keep my breathing even.
The bell chimes, alerting her of my entrance, and I can’t help but jump at the sound.
The smell of lavender and sage wraps around me and tries to settle the tension in my shoulders.
A water fountain splashes softly in the corner, filling the store with a faint rainlike sound.
Crystals of all types and sizes are scattered around the room on various tables and shelves, glittering like twinkling stars in the night sky.
I aimlessly wander around, walking into another room, leading myself deeper into the store. I have no idea what I’m going to say when I see her, no idea what I’ll do if she’s not who I think she is.
I hear her moving about, and I follow the sound.
I try to not feel like a predator stalking her, like the killer he turned me into.
This room is full of dark wood and the smell of leather and incense.
Books line the shelves on the walls, interspersed with bottles of liquid, beaded necklaces with blue-eyed pendants, and dried herbs.
“We’ll be closing soon,” a soft voice calls out from the back of the store.
My heart races, my throat tight, as I turn toward the voice.
One shaky foot in front of another, I come to a stop in the middle of the room.
A table sits nestled in a corner, covered in a glittering green cloth.
A large crystal ball is the centerpiece, the milky white sphere winking at me in the gentle light.
A chill slips down my spine as I am consumed with thoughts of that cursed attic, on that fateful night.
Movement catches my eye, and I turn to find her standing with her back to me, dusting the top of a shelf that she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach. She is humming a gentle tune to herself, seeming completely at ease.
“Did you need help finding anything?” she calls over her shoulder, continuing to dust the shelf. The dust glitters and winks in the fading light of the sun as it shines through the window, making her look wrapped in magic.
“I’m looking for the Bird of Fortune,” I say, my voice soft, barely carrying across the room.
She hears, and instantly freezes, a perfect statue captured in the snare of my words. Time seems to stop between us, the falling of the dust the only movement in the room. That, and my rapidly rising and falling chest. My breaths have become chaotic and uneven at her reaction to my words.
It’s her.
Slowly, with the caution of a cornered animal, she plants her feet firmly on the ground, dropping the duster as her arms fall to her sides.
We both ignore the duster rolling across the floor as she turns and locks eyes with me, and I watch the color drain from her face.
Her doe eyes grow wider as she places a trembling hand over her heart.
She sees the darkness in me, and she knows only too well who it is attached to.
Pulling my hood down, I hold her gaze. Every ounce of my being is screaming that I do not belong in this place, so free and unburdened by the vileness that sings in my veins. Swallowing hard, I refuse to retreat, refuse to run from this.
The silence lingers between us, the tension in the room rising. I am just beginning to gather myself, to speak, when she cuts me off with a soft, but no less harsh whisper.
“Get out.”
It sounds like a scream in the resounding silence.
“No, please, let me explain,” I plead, taking a step forward. I cannot go back out there, into the night where I know he is waiting.
Moving closer to her proves to be a very big mistake.
“Get out!” she shrieks, grabbing a large black crystal from the shelf behind her and brandishing it over her head like a weapon.
She storms toward me, and I take a faltering step back.
She does not stop, rounding on me in a few quick strides.
Grabbing my arm, she begins to drag me out of the store, ignoring me as I cry and plead with her, my words a jumbled mess as they tumble out of my mouth.
“Please, just listen to me— please ,” I beg, my voice catching on a sob as she opens the door and tosses me out. I turn just in time, sticking my foot through the doorframe and stopping her from slamming it in my face. I wince as she crushes my foot, pushing all her weight against the door.
“I will call the police,” she growls, trying to kick my foot out of the way. “Get the fuck off my porch and never come back here. I want nothing to do with him.”
“Neither do I!” I shout, the words echoing around us.
A beat. Two. Then the pressure on the door eases up.
“Just give me a moment,” I say, slinging my backpack off my shoulder and opening it. I rummage around, my pulse pounding in my ears as I search for my notebook. Opening it, I flip to the back to find the newspaper clippings and grab the darker, aged piece, holding it out to her with shaky hands.
She looks at me, never once flicking her fierce eyes to the paper outstretched between us. As she meets my desperate gaze, she falters for just a moment. I see my chance, and I don’t waste it. I take a cautious step forward.
“You got away from Alister.” It is not a question, and we both know it. “I need to know how you did it.”
Holding my breath, I wait, the cool evening air swirling around me. It doesn’t bother me, because I am far colder. The sun is all but down, making its final effort to light up the sky as we stand in silent battle.
The door creaks open, and she leans forward, grabbing the paper like it’s a poisonous snake, as though she’s afraid it will bite.
I study her just as intently as she studies the clipping.
She looks exactly as she did in the old advertisement.
She might not be clothed in feathers and fashion from a bygone time, but time hasn’t touched her.
Her eyes are just as big as they were inked on the page, and she’s looking at me now like she’s staring into my soul, if I even still have one.
Glancing up at the sky, seeming to become aware of the time all at once, she motions me forward. “Get inside, before night falls.”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I rush in, glad to have the door shut and locked behind me as the sun dies. Somehow, I know that he will not be able to pass the threshold of these walls. His darkness would wither in the shining light of her aura.
We stand there, surrounded by crystal and the quiet of the store, each of us waiting for the other to make a move.
“You’re Magpie,” she says at last, making me flinch at the name, but I nod in response. Somehow her already fair skin pales even more at the confirmation.
I do not give her a moment to process the realization. “And you’re his first love.”