“Excuse me?”
She presses on. “And the interest rate?”
“Ten percent.” Also not my standard rate, which is five. I’m being petty, letting her assumption about my ethics get under my scales. But even as I name the higher rate, I’m already regretting it. There’s something about her—the way she holds herself, or the lingering sadness beneath her bravado—that makes me want to wrap around her rather than punish her prejudices.
Why is this little human having such an effect on me?
“Fine,” she says, lifting her chin before I can take back my unfair offer. “Where do I sign?”
I hesitate, then turn to retrieve my ledger, trying to ignore how her scent has shifted from anxiety to a complex mix of relief andworry. As I slide the paperwork across the counter, she leans forward to sign, and a strand of hair falls across her face. My fingers actually twitch with the absurd urge to brush it back.
“Aubrey Garrett,” I read from her signature, testing the name on my tongue. It suits her somehow—simple but with an underlying charm.
She nods, then looks down at her hands. “Sorry if I’m acting weird. I’ve just never met a naga before.”
“Many haven’t. Most of us are rather reclusive.”
“So…” she begins, seemingly gathering courage. “What’s the deal with nagas? Do you all tend to run shops, or is that just your thing?”
I smile, despite myself. “No. Though we do tend toward… collecting.” I gesture at the items around us. “We’re naturally drawn to objects of value or power. Some nagas become museum curators, others antiquities dealers. I simply prefer a more direct approach.”
“Dealing with desperate people pawning their precious family heirlooms?” The words are bitter, but Aubrey’s tone is light, almost teasing.
“Among other things.” I count out her money, hyperaware of how her eyes follow the movement of my hands. The bills seem insufficient somehow, empty paper in exchange for something that clearly means so much to her. Regardless, I slide the stack ofmoney across the counter, watching as she tucks it away. “There are the usual collectibles and similar fare, but I also handle a great deal of magical, cursed, and haunted objects as well.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” She glances around the shop again, this time with more genuine curiosity. “So, your magical items are, like, really magical, not just stage-show stuff?”
“Of course.” I find myself warming to her interest, my tail shifting to a more relaxed position. “That compass in the display case? It points to whatever it is you’ve lost, though it is known to interpret what is ‘lost’ in a rather ironic fashion. The cursed deck of cards beside it shuffles itself, but it’s notorious for cheating at solitaire. And that bookmark—” I nod toward a delicate silver piece on the counter, “—can summarize the boring parts of any book you’re reading.”
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected. “You’re joking about the deck of cards.”
“I never take cursed objects lightly.”
“Says the man with a Furby casually on display.”
As she grins, I notice how the tension has slowly bled from her shoulders. She’s lovely when she smiles—it transforms her entire face, bringing light to those expressive eyes.
But when she absently reaches to fidget with the bracelet that’s no longer there, I catch sight of the pale band of skin on herwrist. She must’ve worn this bracelet constantly, probably for years. The sight stirs something uncomfortable in my chest.
I’ve seen countless desperate customers in my years of business. It comes with being a pawnbroker—people don’t come here in their finest moments. It’s to be expected.
So why does her situation affect me so differently? Why do I have the irrational urge to return the bracelet and find some other way to help her?
Pushing aside these troubling thoughts, I reach for my ledger and begin filling out the necessary paperwork. “I’ll need to document the transaction,” I say, perhaps more formally than necessary. “And provide you with a ticket for your item.”
I slide the claim ticket and receipt across the counter, noticing how her fingers tremble slightly as she takes them. “Keep these safe,” I warn. “Without them—”
“No bracelet, right. Got it.” She tucks the papers carefully into her wallet, then looks up with forced brightness. “Well, I should probably go. I have work in an hour, and I need to deposit this money, and…” She bites her lip again, and I’m unreasonably fascinated by the gesture. “I guess I’ll be back here in a month, with any luck.”
I nod. Thirty days. I gave her thirty days, when I usually offer ninety. And a higher interest rate than normal, all because her assumptions about pawnbrokers pricked my pride. Now,watching her try to maintain her brave face while clearly worried about meeting the deadline, I feel like a complete serpent.
“Of course,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “Though you’re welcome to visit sooner. I have other Furbies in storage…”
She laughs. “I think you’ve mistaken my horror for interest.” She adjusts her purse strap, still hesitating. “Anyway, thank you. For being… I mean, I know this is just business, but you’ve been really…” She trails off, gesturing vaguely.
I incline my head, fighting an inexplicable urge to reach across the counter, to offer some form of comfort. “It’s my pleasure, Miss Garrett.”
“Aubrey,” she corrects quickly. “Just Aubrey.”
