Page 33 of The Slug Crystal

I step forward cautiously, clutching Alex's terrarium to my chest as if the very air might transform him further, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness. I wonder if we made a mistake by coming to this shop that Jake found through an intensive Google search late last night. The shelves loom around us, they’re packed with labeled jars containing things I don't want to identify.

At the same time, bundles of dried plants hang from the ceiling like petrified upside-down gardens.

"This place takes 'authentic witch aesthetic' to a whole new level," Ben whispers, his breath warm against my ear as he crowds close behind me. "Think they sell eye of newt by the pound?"

"Show some respect," Marco murmurs, his scholarly gaze already scanning the shelves with thinly veiled fascination. " Many of these preparations have genuine ethnobotanical significance."

Jake remains silent beside me, but I feel his protective presence shift closer as we venture deeper into the shop. His hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching but ready to steady me if needed. The floorboards creak, each step announcing our intrusion into this occult sanctuary.

The shopkeeper emerges from behind a curtain of wooden beads, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun and eyes so dark they seem to absorb what little light fills the shop. Her gaze lands immediately on Alex's terrarium, narrowing with suspicion.

"Buongiorno," she says, her voice surprisingly strong for her frail appearance. "What brings tourists to my humble shop? The tourist district is three streets that way." She gestures vaguely with a hand adorned with silver rings on every finger.

Luca steps forward, offering a greeting in rapid Italian that makes the shopkeeper's expression soften fractionally. She responds with a torrent of words I can't follow, occasionally glancing at our group with undisguised curiosity.

"I've explained we're looking for someone," Luca translates, his casual elegance somehow fitting perfectly in this ancient space. "A woman named Sarah DeMarco. American, like you."

I step forward, shifting the terrarium to one arm so I can pull out my phone. "This is her," I say, showing the shopkeeper the picture Ben found on Instagram. "Dark hair, probably about my height. She sells crystals and... other things."

The shopkeeper's eyes spark with recognition, and my heart leaps into my throat. "La strega americana," she says, nodding slowly. "The crystal witch. Yes, I know this one."

"She's been here?" I ask, hope surging through me like an electrical current.

"Many times. She came for special herbs, things difficult to find." The shopkeeper's English is accented but clear. "Very particular about quality. Very knowledgeable."

Jake moves closer. "When was the last time you saw her?"

The shopkeeper's mouth puckers as if tasting something sour. "Weeks ago. Perhaps a month. She bought vervain, mandrake root, and angelica. Said she was working on something... importante."

My fingers tighten around the terrarium glass. "Did she say where she was going? Or where she was staying?"

"So many questions," the shopkeeper murmurs, eyeing me with renewed suspicion. "What is your interest in Sarah?"

"She's... a friend," I lie, feeling the weight of Alex's terrarium growing heavier by the second. "She sold me something that didn't quite work as expected." I lift the terrarium slightly. "I need her help fixing it."

The shopkeeper's dark eyes move to the glass enclosure, studying the blue snail within. For a moment, I swear Alex stares back at her, his snail body frozen in place as if in recognition.

"Interesting color for a snail," she observes, her tone deceptively casual.

Ben wanders away from our conversation, examining the cluttered shelves with exaggerated interest that I recognize as his way of investigating without drawing attention. Marco follows his lead, moving to the opposite side of the shop, his scholarly demeanor providing perfect cover for his scrutiny.

"Wait," Ben calls suddenly, his voice sharp with discovery. "Look at this."

We turn to find him pointing at a glass display case near the back of the shop.

Inside rests a leather-bound journal, its cover worn and stained with age.

But what catches my attention, what makes my blood freeze in my veins, is the symbol embossed on its cover.

It’s a snail inside a triangle, an exact replica of an image that appeared on the spell page from witchwebshop .

"That's it," I breathe, moving toward the case as if pulled by an invisible thread. "That's the symbol from the website."

The shopkeeper appears beside me, her movements surprisingly swift and silent for someone her age. "You recognize this sign?"

I nod, unable to lie with the evidence of my reaction so clearly written on my face. "It was on the website where I bought the... the thing that didn't work."

She studies me with new interest. "This journal belonged to Sarah. She left it behind when she departed, quite suddenly, I might add."

"Can we look at it?" Jake asks, his voice carefully controlled.

The shopkeeper shakes her head. "It is locked. For display only." She points to a small, ornate clasp securing the journal. "No key was left."

"We could try—" Ben begins, but the shopkeeper's sharp glance cuts him off.

"It is not for sale or for borrowing," she says firmly.

"Where did Sarah go when she left?" Marco asks, rejoining our group. "Did she mention her plans?"

"She was staying at an artist community outside the city," the shopkeeper says after a moment's consideration. "A place for creative souls and those seeking... alternative perspectives." Her tone suggests she doesn't think highly of the kind of alternatives that might be found there.

"Do you have an address?" Luca asks, his charm turned up to maximum wattage as he leans casually against the counter.

The shopkeeper regards him with amused tolerance. "I can tell you how to find it, though it is likely she is no longer there. She left without saying goodbye, which was unlike her. She always paid her respects before journeys."

Ben slides closer to the shopkeeper, his green eyes crinkling with his most disarming smile.

"Maybe she mentioned something to you—a future destination, someone she was meeting?

Anything could help us, and we'd be so grateful.

" His voice drops to a conspiratorial purr.

"I'm sure a woman of your perception notices things others miss. "

The flattery earns him a dry chuckle but little else. "Sarah kept her own counsel," the shopkeeper says, unmoved by his charm offensive. "She spoke of ingredients and spells, not itineraries. Always secretive about where she went between visits."

"But the community," I press. "You can tell us how to find it?"

She nods, moving to a small desk where she scratches directions onto a scrap of paper. "Follow this road out of the city. Look for the gates with painted vines. You cannot miss it."

As she hands me the paper, her fingers brush mine, and a static shock jumps between us. Her eyes meet mine, dark and knowing.

"Be careful what you seek, young one," she says softly. "Sometimes the path to undoing leads somewhere unexpected."

I swallow hard, nodding my thanks as I tuck the paper into my pocket. As we turn to leave, my gaze lingers on the journal behind glass, the snail symbol seeming to watch me as we file out of the shop.

The bell jingles once more as the door closes behind us, and I emerge into the Florentine sunlight feeling both closer to and further from our goal than when we entered.

Saturday, 11:46AM. The artist community materializes at the end of a dusty gravel road like a fever dream—a collection of mismatched cabins splashed with murals in colors so vibrant they almost hurt my eyes.

Twisted metal sculptures rise from the earth between buildings, their abstract forms reaching toward the cloudless Tuscan sky.

I step out of our rented car, Alex's terrarium cradled against my chest, hope fluttering cautiously in my stomach.

Sarah was here. Maybe, just maybe, someone knows where she went.

"It's like Burning Man had a baby with a Tuscan vineyard," Ben observes, shielding his eyes against the midday sun. His hair is tousled from the car ride, the breeze further disheveling it as he surveys our surroundings.

Several artists work in the open air. There’s a woman welding metal with sparks cascading around her like falling stars, and a shirtless man painting directly onto a cabin wall, his back a canvas of intricate tattoos.

No one pays us much attention as we approach, as if strangers wandering in from the outside world is a common occurrence here.

"We should split up," Jake suggests, his practical nature asserting itself. "Cover more ground. Ask about Sarah." His blue eyes scan the commune with tactical precision, already mapping out search zones.

"Good idea," Luca agrees. "I'll take the north side." He gestures to a cluster of cabins half-hidden by olive trees. His confidence makes the simple act of volunteering seem like a generous favor.

Marco adjusts his glasses, squinting against the sun. "I'll speak with the sculptors. They seem to have established a central workspace that might function as a communal gathering point."

"I'll charm the painters," Ben volunteers with a wink. "They always know the gossip."

"I'll just..." I begin, but Jake cuts in.

"I'll go with Emma," he says, the protective note in his voice unmistakable. After a moment of awkward silence, he adds, "Or we can divide the eastern cabins between us."

"I'll be fine on my own," I assure him, though his concern warms me. "Let's meet back here in thirty minutes?"