Page 18 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
MOONDUST MERCANTILE
Charms, Curios, Antiques
The letters looked sun-faded and freshly painted at the same time, like the place couldn’t decide how long it had existed either.
She stepped inside, mostly chasing the promise of air conditioning. The bell over the door gave a choked little jingle. Inside, it smelled like sandalwood, old paper, and something faintly metallic.
It was dim and cluttered. Crystals swung in the window like pendulums. The shelves were jammed with desert junk: vials of coyote teeth, bone-handled knives, bundles of herbs wrapped in copper wire. A half-melted wax skull sat beside a jar labeledDefinitely Not Bees. Nothing had a price tag.
A faded wooden placard above the register read:
Yes, I read tarot. No, I will not tell you if he’s coming back.
Behind the counter sat a woman with sun-leathered skin and wild gray hair streaked with hot pink. She wore a long denim duster over a tank top that read:PROBABLY A WITCH. Her rings clacked as she shuffled a deck of battered cards. A half-drunk mug of something deeply suspect steamed beside her elbow.
A buzzing phone lit up under the counter. She glanced at it, sighed, and texted back with one hand.
“Ah,” she said, without looking up. “The granddaughter returns.”
“Is there anyone here who doesn’t know me on sight?”
The woman smiled, thin and knowing. “Not since you came back.”
She looked up. Her eyes were dark and amused, sharp as broken glass.
“I’m Opal,” she added.
“Nora.”
“I know. The desert’s been whispering about you since you pulled into town.” She paused, cocked her head. “Or maybe that was just the mailman. People around here gossip loud.”
“I knew your grandfather.” Opal gestured to the lone stool in front of the counter. “He used to sit right there every Thursday, drink instant coffee, and argue with me about metaphysics and water rights. Orin was the only person who could call me full of shit and get away with it.”
She leaned forward, gaze flickering down toward Nora’s pocket, where the obsidian pulsed warm against her thigh.
“You’ve still got it,” Opal said. “Brave or stupid. Could go either way.”
Nora’s spine stiffened. “The stone?”
“It’s not just a stone. It doesn’t show itself to just anyone.”
She slid a photograph across the counter, yellowed with age, a frozen moment in desert heat. A group of women stoodbeneath a gnarled Joshua tree. Behind them, half-lost to light and blur, loomed something too tall, too wide, and not quite man-shaped.
“I’ve seen this before,” Opal said softly. “This cycle. This pull. One to guard, one to bloom.”
Nora looked at her sharply. “What does that mean?”
Opal didn’t answer right away. She just looked at the photograph.
“Most people think it’s a myth,” Opal said. “An urban legend. But it’s older than the stories. And he’s not waiting for belief. He’s waiting for someone who stays. He doesn’t mark just anyone.”
“Why me?”
The woman tapped the photo with one ring-heavy finger. “Because you came back. Because the land remembers. Or maybe because he does.”
Nora’s pulse jumped, a hot rush under her skin.
“He was meant to watch,” Opal said, her voice low. “But the land changed him. Turned him wild.”
