Page 1 of Taming the Wicked Wolf

ONE

Emilia

“That’ll be seven hundred dollars.”

I stop fishing my wallet out of my purse and look up at the bookstore owner, Martin.

He’s an older man, well-dressed and probably in his mid 50s, with gray eyes and short, wavy salt and pepper hair. He’s attractive in almost a Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer sort of way.Almost.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean, seven hundred? You told me it’d be four hundred when we spoke on the phone less than two hours ago. That’s a,” I run through the math in my head, “seventy-five percent increase.”

Martin stops, leaning against the doorframe leading to what I can only assume is his office from the small metal desk and computer set up behind him. “Things change. There were three more inquiries after I hung up with you. One gentleman was even planning to take the red eye to pick the book up in person.”

Of course, the man who can afford to take the red eye is a gentleman. As if I didn’t just drive 45 minutes, plus trafficand have to deal with the ridiculous parking downtown. I guess money talks and I should feel appreciative that he’s even giving me the opportunity with other much nicer offers on the table.

“Let me see it first.”

He gives me a nod and disappears into his office.

It’s a nice bookstore, everything considered. One of those hole-in-the-wall hidden gems you stumble upon on a rainy afternoon, as though the gods themselves are trying to brighten your day. It smells like aged leather and the slightly sweet scent of yellowed pages.

The aisles can barely fit two people, the shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling with little concern for the paneled fluorescent lighting. Instead of feeling sterile, it’s atmospheric. You could probably catch dust motes dancing under the air vent deeper within the stacks while looking for a first edition of a comfort book.

I would love to spend the entire day here, just searching endlessly for new favorites, under different circumstances.

Martin returns, book under arm, placing it onto the wooden counter between us, “Shades of the Occult by Michael Albert Hughes. First and only printing in 1985.”

I pick it up, turning it over to inspect the spine when I notice a weathered gray stamp on the top edging that reads ‘Riverside Public Library’.

“Is this a library book?”

“Ex-library copy, yes.” He stammers, reaching up and adjusting his glasses.

The original dust jacket is nowhere to be found, leaving the gold leaf detail on the naked hardcover on full display. The cover chases away any doubt that this is, in fact, the book that I have been searching for.

Besides the scrolling title, the design has a partial ritual embedded in the background. Most people would mistake it formeaningless embellishments, but I recognize the runes as those used in old protection spells.

A book with built in security, though I doubt it would hold up.

“You never mentioned this being a library copy over the phone.” I set the book back down on the counter.

“If that’s a problem,” he reaches for the book and I stiffen.

It should be a problem, but is the first copy I’ve seen pop up since I started searching six months ago. A stolen library book is, what, a misdemeanor and a hefty fine? It has to be one of the few remaining copies since I heard covens are snatching them up to burn.

My mother never bought into the tradition, she’s always been a solo practitioner and that’s exactly how she raised me. Neither of us has the stomach for authority figures, which is pretty ironic seeing how I married a sheriff’s son.

“No, no problem.” I sigh, setting out the four hundred dollars, as I pull out my phone to do a few financial gymnastics, “Here’s the four hundred.”

Okay, maybe there is a bit of a problem.

Since I paid rent last week, the extra three hundred is going to have to come out of my emergency fund, which means I’m even farther away from moving back home to Indiana. Not that there’s a scenario where I would leave this store without the book, I’ve already sunk at least two hundred and fifty dollars into the supplies.

With a click of a button, the money is in my main account.

When I look up, Martin is counting the cash, flipping the bills so they all face the same direction.

“Is there an ATM close by, or do you take some sort of money transfer?”

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