Page 3 of With Stars in Her Eyes

“I don’t think so? Three, but it’s just some of the samples from that jewelry supplier I want to try. Shouldn’t be heavy.”

“Menagerie Books is Samantha Powell’s store.

I think you’ve met her at a few family parties or games, and she just got married a few years ago now…

” Marshall frowned at his phone. “ Shit . I missed seven calls from my agent. I’ll show you the entrance on my way back to the pub if you want to grab the stuff now. ”

“Thanks.” After a disheartening look at my weather app, I slid my phone into my pocket. “And don’t worry about driving out to your dad’s cabin with me tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Clouds came in faster than they were supposed to. Tonight’s not the night. It’s a lot of equipment to lug out there if it’s going to be too cloudy to see the planet alignment.”

“Once the weather gets better, you’ll get your shot at it, don’t worry.”

Stifling more grumbles that felt unfamiliar in my throat, I pulled on my coat and followed Marshall outside.

Squid Tattoo Shop was located in an enormous old brick building surrounded by giant old trees that used to be St. Clare Preparatory School.

It had been converted into a mixed-use building.

The dormitories on the upper floors of the school building had become apartments, but the lower floors were retail and office spaces.

According to Marshall’s dad, the renovation had been featured in several magazines decades earlier.

Next to the school building was a large stone church that had been St. Clare Catholic Church before it had been similarly renovated—half of which was occupied by Marshall’s pub.

The other half was a plant shop I hadn’t visited yet because the lady who owned it seemed a little… well, scary, for lack of a better word.

The pub was Marshall’s post-football retirement plan, though it always seemed empty these days. I wasn’t sure if I should be worried about it. Marshall and I were living together again for the first time since college, and I didn’t want to pry too much too quickly.

The neighborhood, the set of three square blocks and the park across the street, named after the school and church, was called St. Clare Circle because of the way the sidewalk and road curved to accommodate several enormous, ancient-looking trees.

There was a starkness to the place right now because just as I moved to Kansas, a polar vortex descended.

As soon as I saw the old church and the trees, my fingers itched to photograph them, but I also liked my fingers attached to my hands thank you very much. Thus, I avoided walking anywhere in the subzero temperatures when I didn’t absolutely have to.

Marshall groaned. “Agent’s calling again. So sorry. The entrance is right around the corner.” He hustled off in the other direction with his phone on his ear.

A particularly frigid blast of wind hit me. I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders and sped up. The sign hanging down over the door swung back and forth on the hinge. It read MENAGERIE BOOKS with a few stylized animals around the letters.

A group of tweens filed out with a few parents trailing them before I could walk inside.

The roaring wind muffled their chorus of thank-yous and laughter.

I shut the door behind me, rubbing numbness from my arms as I enjoyed the quiet warmth of the space.

The inside was dimmer and larger than I expected.

It smelled like old paper and my grandfather’s office and a little like the curling steam coming off a mug of chamomile tea.

The layout hinted at a past life before the renovations as St. Clare School’s library.

Brightly colored covers created checkerboards over several long tables.

There was a magic to the floor-to-ceiling knotty-pine bookshelves, as if they were a structural part of the old building.

Each wall had its own rolling library ladder.

Twinkle lights illuminated the far space where some kind of meeting must have just taken place.

A woman emerged from the shadows, stacking cushions and chairs.

This was not the Samantha Powell I had met at Marshall’s family’s events.

And hot damn…

Who was she ?

I could ask. I could speak. It wasn’t like me to be struck into silence by anything. But something kept my mouth from opening. I didn’t have to see my reflection to know I was smiling now.

It was like a scene from a movie. The kind with an epic soundtrack playing in the background.

Oh… wait… there was an epic soundtrack playing in the background. That part wasn’t my overactive imagination.

I walked forward, aiming my steps toward the checkout desk at the center of the shop but keeping my eyes on the woman in the back as if hypnotized.

She was climbing up one of the library ladders now.

Her walnut-blond pixie cut glowed as she moved closer to the twinkle lights draping over the shelves.

Every hand movement was graceful. Every step seemed sure-footed.

She wasn’t dancing, but it was as if she was always aware of the music, feeling the nuances within every note.

She paused her shelving at a particularly beautiful strings part, and her fingers made a few small movements before curling into a tight fist.

What was she thinking?

She climbed back down and stood in the center of that open space. The one brighter light wreathed her face and cast her fea tures in shadow. I wished for my camera to capture the moment, but the only cameras I had in Kansas were back at Marshall’s.

I leaned an elbow on the counter, definitely not because watching the beautiful tomboyish Disney princess of a bookseller was making me weak at the knees. That would be silly.

A tug on my coat sleeve wrenched me from my pathetic trance. I turned, expecting to find Samantha Powell or some other bookseller who would tell me to stop gawking like a creep.

But instead, two glassy eyes stared up at me.

The eyes were attached to a head. The head of some thing with spiky orange scales and iridescent orange wings— actual wings? —and claws that sank into my arm as the creature crawled up onto my shoulder until those oil-slick eyes were inches from my face.

And because Lady Karma was a quick-ass mother trucker, I screamed.