‘I’m a squib.’
He reached past her shoulder and opened the door. ‘I’m sorry, we’re not open for tourists.’
She stayed where she was and smiled brightly. ‘Lucky I’m not a tourist, then. I live in Coldstream.’ He stared at her. ‘There are a few of us around,’ she told him gently. ‘Preternatural abilities aren’t an entrance requirement – in fact technically I wouldn’t be called a squib if I didn’t live here. Only non-magical residents of Coldstream are called squibs.’
The salesman continued to gape. Finally he said, ‘If you’ve just come in to have a nosey and not buy anything, then…’
‘There are some specific items I need, though I’m not planning to buy them.’
He puffed out his chest and Mallory started to wonder if he was related to the new waiter at Vallese. ‘That’s how shops work,’ he said, as if she were very dim. ‘We stock goods. You buy the goods. With money,’ he added pointedly.
This could go on for a while. Mallory tutted. ‘Tell Miss Cole that Mallory Nash is here to see her.’
At the name of the store manager, the man stiffened. His eyes narrowed as he released his hold on the door and it thudded shut. In a bid to soothe his ruffled feathers, she held up her hands. ‘I’ll wait here by the door. I won’t touch anything.’
If anything, her promise unsettled him even further. He delved into his pocket and withdrew a small bottle filled with powder. ‘Don’t move,’ he muttered.
‘That’s really not necessary,’ she protested as he unscrewed the lid, scattered the contents in a circle around her and started muttering an invocation.
‘I will decide what is necessary,’ he said. He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. The idiot witch had encased her within a black-salt ward: squib or not, she was trapped inside it. It was a move usually reserved for shoplifters and it was irritating as hell.
‘Miss Cole will be with you shortly,’ he told her before flouncing away.
Well, that was annoying, though it wasn’t the first time she’d been treated like a crazed intruder and probably wouldn’t be the last. There was nothing for it but to wait it out; with any luck, Alison Cole wouldn’t take too long.
The door behind her opened again and a pair of witches wandered in. When they caught sight of Mallory, their eyes widened and they gave her a wide berth as if they might somehow end up trapped inside the same magicked circle if they drifted too close.
‘It’s not contagious!’ Mallory called.
They pointedly ignored her and scurried away.
The door opened again and yet another pair of witches walked in. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ one of them was saying. ‘All of Coldstream knows that water nymphs are the best cleaners in the city but you can’t hire any of them at the moment, not even for small jobs. They’re not allowed to work and nobody would explain to me why. I practically had to drag the reason out of the last one who worked for me. Honestly! The thought that every single water nymph in Coldstream is supposed to maintain a damned vigil at Jacob’s Well until the bloody spring equinox just because of some stupid old tradition is offensive to the principles of capitalism.’ By the sound of her voice, the witch was only half-jesting.
‘It’s not a regular thing,’ her companion soothed. ‘Didn’t you say it’s only every twenty-five years? That’s not so bad.’
‘Tell that to the dust collecting in the corners of my house! Why do you think I need to come here and spend a small fortune on cleaning spells?’
The other witch laughed and they pair moved away, thankfully without glancing in Mallory’s direction.
The door opened yet again and this time a werewolf strode in. Mallory flashed him the same bright smile she’d given the first two witches and instead of striding away, he paused. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured. ‘What do we have here?’
She realised belatedly that she knew who he was; he’d even merited an entry in her precious notebook, although she’d not had the pleasure of meeting him in person.
That crooked nose, chiselled jaw and chestnut-brown hair had been the subject of considerable Coldstream gossip lately; as the beta wolf to the powerful Ferguson pack, he was known as a man with considerable strength and power.
Word on the street was that he was making moves on his alpha. Werewolf hierarchy made it all-but impossible for an underling to overthrow their alpha without experiencing considerable physical pain, but that didn’t stop the whispers that this man was prepared to suffer whatever it took to become the Ferguson alpha.
Without evidence, Mallory doubted any of the gossip was true but now that she was confronted with Liam Ferguson there was no doubt that he possessed a confident air similar to Alexander MacTire’s.
‘It’s not what it looks like,’ she told him. ‘I promise.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘And whatdoesit look like?’
She grinned. ‘Like I’m a dirty rotten thief who’s been caught red-handed.’
‘That innocent face? I wouldn’t believe it for a second.’ He leaned towards her. ‘Besides, I already know that you wouldn’t steal from this shop. What good would a bunch of spells do a squib?’ He regarded her curiously. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Ms Nash.’
She sighed ruefully. ‘If that were true, I wouldn’t be in this predicament now.’ She eyed him. ‘How do you know who I am?’
