Turned out the postcards were pretty interesting, some of them old enough I thought they’d be worth picking up for sale to a local collector. I sorted out five in the best shape and then, when I was pretty sure Lu wasn’t watching any more, I moseyed over to the books.
It was a risk. Most people didn’t know a valuable book when they had their hands on one.
Books were fragile, easily destroyed. But they were a compulsion for me. I liked them. Back when I had been living, I’d done what I could to learn as much as possible about what made one rare.
I dragged my finger across some older hardbacks and tugged at a few of the smaller volumes. I needed to find something better, worth more than whatever my shark of a wife was tracking down.
The books weren’t older than the early fifties, and none of them were collectible. I was about to turn away when I spotted a little gold bookmark tossed in with some hat pins, several broken watches, and a silver sewing kit.
Easy money would be the silver sewing kit. It was intact except for the original thimble, so I picked that up.
But it was the little bookmark that was my ticket to the motel hot shower of my dreams. The bottom of it was shaped like a trowel with a break in it for sliding over a page.
The top was a woman’s hand holding a crystal ball. That little bookmark was magic. Enough magic, I hesitated to touch it.
“It’s just a little magic,” I whispered, wiping the sweat off my forehead with my arm. “Nothing to be afraid of, Brogan. Magic, magic like this, won’t do you harm. Pick it up, pay, and collect that hot shower.”
I knew I was being ridiculous. I wasn’t afraid of magic. But I couldn’t force my hand forward, couldn’t make my fingers do as I said.
Magic, some kind or other, had carved a piece of my soul out of me and deposited it in Lu. Magic, some kind or other, had done the same to her.
Magic wielded by a powerful monster we had yet to kill.
And now, magic wielded by a god had given me a place back in the living world.
No matter how I tried to convince myself that magic in small doses couldn’t do those sorts of things that destroyed a man’s life, a part of me knew magic was magic: destructive no matter what size package it came in.
The bell above the door let out one small clank.
I waited for the second clunk indicating the door had closed, but after an extended silence, I lifted my head.
A girl stood in the doorway. Her hair was thistle-down white and silvery blue, bunched in waves below her ears and chopped into heavy bangs above her eyes. Her face was round, soft, her frame stocky.
I placed her at eight, maybe nine, her clothing layers of color: purple leggings beneath a loose blue dress over green sandals.
But it was her eyes that caught me. They were dark, large, and frightened, darting quickly from one side to the other as if she expected danger from every corner.
As if she expected harm.
I straightened, leaving the bookmark where it was, and moved out into the aisle. I was closer to the back of the shop than the door. I might not be as fast as I’d been as an undead, but if anything came at her, I could reach her quickly, pull her out of the way, shield her.
The teens in the back of the shop squealed at something they’d found. The girl in the doorway flinched and pulled the hand that wasn’t holding the door up in a fist against her chest.
Her gaze was everywhere again, before it settled on me.
Even in the grimy light, those eyes were a brown so deep, I felt like I was looking into the rich, soft shadows of a loamy forest.
“Oh,” I said, an exhale of wonder.
She appeared to be a child, yes, but she was not young. A very old soul, or perhaps a very old being, stared back at me from those eyes.
Not a monster, but something that was not exactly human either.
Fae, angel, or some other magical creature? Why did I feel as if I knew her, as if she were as familiar as day and night?
Before I could gather any kind of answer, the man behind the cash register caught sight of the girl.
“Out!” he shouted. “I’ve told you before. Out of my shop.”
