Page 6 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Lincoln stood in the center of the room, holding his bag and coat, watching her with those cunning, two-toned eyes. “Any chance you’ve got a pair of sweats I can borrow?”
“I’ll check. You good here ‘til I get back from the shop?”
“Don’t really have a choice, do I?”
She shrugged and made for the stairs. “Take a nap or something. I’ll bring take-out home, too.”
In her bedroom, Tehlor plastered her back to the closed door and breathed deeply, channeling steadiness.
Okay, well, she’d successfully moved him into her house. She could check that off the fuckin’ list. She gnawed her bottom lip and let her eyes slip shut.You don’t even know him. She cracked her eyes open and stared at her unmade bed.Bishop killed him for a reason. You have no idea what he’s capable of. It was his ease that unnerved her, though, not his capability. The way he acquiesced, how he leaned in... It didn’t make sense. Someone daring enough to integrate with a demon wouldn’t be easily subdued, and Lincoln didn’t seem to fear much. Especially not her. She tapped her fingernail against her lips.
Tehlor didn’t know him. Lincoln didn’t know her. They were perfect strangers, and she hoped he assumed the worst: that she was terrible, and wretched, and vicious. She crossed the room and walked into the attached bathroom, setting her palms hard on the vanity. Dark circles purpled her eyes. Exhaustion rattled her.
“Your ancestors conquered the land and the sea,” she whispered, staring at her reflection. “You are a daughter of Freya, child of the north, descendent of shield-maidens.” She nodded at herself. “Take no shit, bitch.”
Moon Strike Nursery lived on the outskirts of Gideon, Colorado.
Tehlor entered through the greenhouse, ducking into the warm, balmy climate. Baby monsteras and tall fiddle leaf figs brushed her puffy coat as she passed, and lush philodendrons sent long shadows darting across the floor. Soil perfumed the air. She paused to breathe in the dirt, dew, and pollen and adjusted a grow light strung above a table.
As she walked through the transparent door on the opposite side of the greenhouse, Tehlor swatted the light switch on the wall, illuminating the metaphysical shop. The owner, a grouchy retired online medium, had left a few boxes to unpack and stock, and the tarot table was halfway organized. She rolled her eyes and opened the button on her pocket, gently removing Gunnhild from her coat. She placed the rat on the counter behind the cash-wrap where a snuggle ball—like a dog bed but smaller—sat beside a potted snake plant.
Lincoln probably needs a phone.The thought froze her in place.And shampoo, and soap, and everything else a person requires to properly person.She tongued at her cheek. But first, he needed a cloaking charm. She crossed the room and turned on the open sign.
The days usually came and went with Tehlor reading about Viking history, rewatching trashy TV on her laptop, or finding something to clean. Rarely, she’d spend time with a customer, brainstorming the best crystals, deck, candle, or herb for a spiritual ailment. Sometimes she’d recommend an anti-anxiety spell to a baby witch clutching a Hot Topic purse. The last time she’d done anything interesting at work, Bishop and Colin had walked through the door, tiptoeing around each other like teenagers at a school dance.
Funny, how she’d been in Bishop’s orbit for a hot minute, selling them plants, candles, and books, but it took an exorcist and a house full of ghouls to solidify their friendship. If she could call it a friendship at all.
She flapped her lips and went to work on the tarot table, and then unpacked the boxes and stocked moon-phase journals on an empty shelf.Labradorite, she thought, musing on a stone for Lincoln,is probably the best option. Malachite would work, too. She adjusted a few rosemary bundles and turned toward the crystal table, floating her hand above each polished stone and jagged rock.
She grasped one, thumbing at its smooth, flat backing. The labradorite’s dark surface flashed purple.
“You’ll work,” she muttered, giving the jewel a once over.
The bell above the front door jingled. Tehlor closed her hand around the stone and glanced over her shoulder, met with two willowy women dressed in coats, scarves, and spendy yoga pants. One was brunette, the other blonde, both fair-skinned, smiling broadly. The pair cooed at the handmade tapestry clipped beside the door and gestured to the herb satchels and incense in the corner of the room.
“Welcome,” Tehlor said.
Of course.
If anyone needed a stark reminder that witchcraft was dictated by Urban Outfitters and Youtube yogis, Tehlor wholeheartedly recommended talking to a white woman wearing workout clothes for twenty seconds. They dropped ass-loads of money on meditation rooms, asked for the perfect prayer beads to take on their all-inclusive vacations to Nepal, and lived in million-dollar cottages in Boulder. Passenger princesses riding in tricked-out adventure vans, drinking spirulina smoothies, practicing breath work, claiming they wereReiki Masters.
Tehlor could tolerate curious teenagers and their fascination with spirit boards. She certainly took pity on people desperate for spiritual comfort. But elitist Tesla-driving housewives who crowed about warrior poses and turmeric lattes? Yeah, those customers could choke.
“This place is darling,” one of them said, feigning a surprised gasp.
The other didn’t look at Tehlor, but blurted, “Do you carry Frankincense?”
Tehlor tilted her head. “We do.”
The second woman, the blonde, unzipped her coat, revealing a simple white blouse and a gold crucifix around her neck. She granted Tehlor a quick glance, flicking her gaze around the red runes tattooed on her knuckles, traveling higher, lingering on the raindrop-shaped tunnels punched through Tehlor’s stretched earlobes. The woman raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“You’re standing in front of it,” Tehlor said.
The brunette gasped again, like a child at an amusement park, and shuffled toward the incense display.
As the pair huddled together in the corner and poked at the shelves, whispering hurriedly, Tehlor took the labradorite to the cash-wrap and calculated her employee discount on her phone. Expensive but doable. She jotted a note on her rolling tab—lab cab $63—and placed the jewel in a fabric pouch. She had a setting with a bale and clasp at home. With a bit of honey, blood, cord, and—
“Excuse me.”
