“What other kind is there?” she asks blankly.
“The electrical kind.”
“What, like static electricity?” Dusty wrinkles my nose. “Because that happened to me the one and only time I wore Uggs and pressed the button for an elevator. Let me tell you, that shit stings, my hair was standing on end for an hour.”
“No I mean as in several volts, Bride of Frankenstein, kind of…It’s Alive!electricity.”
“Yeah… no thanks.” Dusty tosses the book across the room.
“That’s really mature, Dusty, but it’s not like we have a lot of options.” I push myself off the sofa and walk across the room. Well, I try to walk across the room, but it ends up being more of a sassy hip-swaying strut. I shake my head and breathe out slowly. I can’t wait to have my body back to myself.
“Do you mean they just wired that guy to the mains and zapped him?” Dusty asks in horror.
“Kind of. I mean, electricity was a shiny new toy back then. They thought it could be applied as a cure for most medical ailments,” I reply. “They were electrocuting people for having ingrown toenails.”
“Bloody Victorians,” Dusty mutters. “You’re not actually serious about recreating that, are you? Because even I can tell that would be an epically bad idea.”
“No,” I answer with a frustrated huff as I open the book once more. “But I could really use some help right now.” I lift the book and something flutters from the pages and lands on the floor. As I lean down to pick it up, I frown in confusion.
“What’s that?” Dusty asks, turning it over in my hand.
“It’s a blank business card,” I respond as I stare at its shiny holographic surface. “I found it… I was outside the bookshop, and I ran into a stranger. This fell from his pocket.”
“Why did you keep it?” she asks. “It’s got nothing on it.”
“That’s just it. I didn’t, at least not intentionally,” I muse. “I shoved it in my pocket, meaning to throw it away, but I forgot. I haven’t worn that jacket since then. It’s still in my room, so how did this card end up inside the book, in my desk drawer, at the mortuary?”
“I’ve given up trying to figure out this weird shit.” Dusty flips my hand negligently.
I tilt the card in the light and watch in surprised fascination as a silvery swirly script appears before my eyes.
Harrison Ames - Witch.
For all your magical needs.
I turn the card over and sure enough, on the back there’s now an address which is in Islington, not that far from here.
“This is it, Dusty!” I exclaim excitedly.
“Really?” Dusty raises a perfectly sculpted brow. “What’s he going to do, chant and burn some sage? I think we need something a little more substantial than some New Age hippie in tie-dye.”
“There’s a lot of stereotyping in that sentence.” I shake my head. “Look, what have we really got to lose at this point?”
“Oh, I don’t know, your dignity?”
“That went out the window with you holding my penis and peeing for me,” I answer. “Anyway, this is technically my body, I’ve got seniority, and I say we’re going.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “But don’t come crying to me when he tries to sell you tarot cards and incense sticks.”
Grabbing my jacket and keys, I head out of my flat eagerly. Last night we’d had to come up with a lame excuse once again for Danny to not come over. It had been awkward enough when Dusty was in charge of my body and I was on the outside looking in, but with both of us currently crammed in here, it would have got a little cramped in the bed with Danny too.
I miss him like mad. I’ve kind of been ignoring messages from him because I just don’t know what the hell to say. We had a real moment the other night when we decided to move in together and add another layer to the relationship we’re building, then all of a sudden, from his perspective, I start ghosting him. Which is ironic given the situation.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself climbing out of an Uber outside the address on the card. It’s a small shop, like really small, tucked away from the main High Street. Taking a breath, I open the door and step through. The space is tiny but bright and clean. Instead of the type of dust-covered clutter Madame Vivienne has in her place, this one is meticulously clean with glass display cabinets lining the walls. I wander along them slowly and mentally catalogue the contents. One contains expensive-looking amulets and jewellery along with deep bowls filled with gemstones of every colour. The next case is filled with tarot cards and runes, another holds some extremely old and rare books. There’s also wicker baskets filled with fragrant dried herbs.
I’m so caught up in all the fascinating objects I almost miss the handsome red-haired man sitting on a chair in the corner and watching me, the same man I’d run into outside the bookshop in Whitechapel.
“Oh, hello.” I smile nervously. “Um, Harrison Ames?”