Page 118 of The Tenth Muse

I click on a random one and zoom in. It’s a strange looking thing, a Venus-flytrap of sorts, but either the image is photoshopped or it’s fake. The plant is freaking huge compared to the black haired, tattooed girl taking the selfie, the trap nearly as big as her head,–One month with Chewiethe caption reads.

I scroll towards the most recent photo, a few more weeks past the last one. The plant is almost twice its original size, reaching the woman’s hip, but its leaves are weepy and wilting. This one’s caption reads;Chewie is sick, We’re looking for a plant witch/doctor/person at The Portal.

I’m not one to believe in the supernatural but a sign from a witchcraft shop is probably the worst kind to ignore.

And maybe this is just what I need to get my father off my case.

three

. . .

Runa

“No,I’m so sorry to have to do this last minute, I hope you understand.” I’m hoping she won’t hold it against me but Mabel is impossible to book less than five months out and she won’t take kindly to me canceling her spot at The Portal.

When mediums, psychics, tarot readers and other practicing witches come to the shop for a guest spotlight, they schedule months in advance to prepare their schedule and their clientele.

Me canceling on social media’s most famous psychic the morning of her spotlight because Chewie’s just too sick for me to open today is probably the worst thing that could have happened.

People were going to be lining up just to get to see her in person, let alone the client who had booked her.

And she traveled for this.

Of course Chewie was the reason she came at all, she’s the reasonanyonehas been bothering to come by the shop, the reason I’ve had any sales at all in the last four months. This plant has been the only thing keeping me from going out of business, but now with her size, I just can’t keep her out front anymore.

The community will get skeptical, suspicious, and a man-eating, blood vomiting plant is bound to raise some red flags. The last thing I need is for a SWAT team to come crashing through my ceiling while men in suits try to steal my plant for laboratory testing.

Mabel chuckles, “Of course I understand, Runa, darling. I’m not one to stop a fated encounter. Just be sure to send my cancellation fee by the end of the week and we can reschedule at your convenience. My clients will understand.”

My stomach drops.Her cancellation fee. I don’t have the strength in me to even ask what she means about the fated bullshit.

I run to my filing cabinet, hands still stained with blood from cleaning the floors all night from Chewie’s stomach bug. Yes. I’m calling a Rolex lodged inside her throat a stomach bug, who can stop me?

Rummaging through my files, I pull out the contracts I sign with guest witches and … there it is. The same stipulation on both sides. If either party is to cancel with less than seventy-two hour notice, the person canceling will pay a fee of fifty percent of the bookings missed.

I’m pretty sure I’m the one who added that stipulation. Instead of renting out the room per day or hourly, I take a small percentage of the booking instead. Something I found to be beneficial to both sides, and didn’t require the guest witch to cough up a ton of money to reserve the space.

I groan, slumping onto the floor in pitiful desperation. Just what I needed.

“Did you hear me, Runa?” The psychic’s voice brings me back to the phone between my shoulder and ear.

“Yes, Mabel. I’ll send that over as soon as I can.” I hang the phone up before throwing it across the room in anger.

This is going to cost me a fortune.

It’s going to take me a million farmer’s market booths for the shop to cover this fee. I’m gonna be hocking rose quartz to eighteen year old college girls for the next six weeks.

Minimum.

I’m only half-considering dumping out my money offerings from Hecate’s altar for Mabel’s payment when the little bell hung above the door rings.

I thought I had switched the sign to closed.

“Hello?” A cheery voice calls from the entrance.

“We’re not open!” I shout back, stumbling over buckets of man goop I’m still cleaning off my bedroom floor.

I don’t hear another set of bell chimes to indicate the intruder’s leaving, instead I hear footsteps coming closer. Scrambling to move and meet them in the store in an attempt to keep Chewie hidden, I trip over an ankle bone and land flat on my face.

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