“Arf.”
“Don’t you disturb Quoth. He’s sleeping.” I patted Oscar’s head and returned to laying out my stall. As I straightened the edges of my black-and-orange tablecloths, a familiar and terrifying voice reached my ears.
“…endorsed by the Spirit Seekers Society of Argleton, these will provide portable protection from the Dracula Killer, guaranteed or your money back…”
By Isis, save us all.
I put on my best, most patient smile, and turned around to the nearest stall. “Mum, what are you doing?”
“Mina!” Mum beamed as she set out a row of boxes on the stall next to mine. “You’re not doing bibliomancy, are you? I don’t think you’ll get much business. Heathcliff was right, it’s basically codswallop—”
“Um, no, I’m not doing bibliomancy.” I directed Oscar to lead me over to her table, where I noticed colorful shoeboxes stacked behind her stall and overflowing the trunk of her car. “I wouldn’t dream of honing in on your territory. What are these? Tarot card decks?”
“Really, Mina, I thought you had more business sense. It would be silly to sell cards that make my own services obsolete. Frankly, I’m bored of the whole fortunetelling lark. No one wants vague suppositions about the future where there’s a killer in our midst. I realized I needed to offer something special to the good people of Argleton, something no law-abiding citizen should be without.” Mum pulled away the cloth covering her stall’s sign, and I gasped.
HELEN WILDE’S VAMPIRE VANISHING KITS
“Mum, what—”
“Brilliant, isn’t it? You and Morrie gave me the idea.” Mum held out a shoebox she’d painted black and decorated with silver stars and crosses. She lifted the lid to show me inside. Nestled on a bed of dried garlic cloves was a set of thin wooden stakes that didn’t look like they could spike a pigeon, a small glass bottle with a cork stopper labeled ‘holy water,’ a couple of wooden crucifix necklaces, and a bullet painted silver. “I was up all last night spray-painting the bullets and decorating the boxes. I’ve done all different colors and designs to suit every taste. Look.” She holds up one completely decoupaged with cats. “Isn’t this darling?”
“It’s…” I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I tapped the vial of water. “Where did you get the holy water?”
Did you have to break into the Catholic church and have Quoth distract Father O’Sullivan by enduring a lecture on hairskirts while you nicked from the tabernacle?
“Oh, that was easy. Father O’Sullivan used to be my best customer back when I was doing the diet shakes…or was it the Flourish patch? Anyway, all I had to do was fill up the bathtub, invite him over for tea and scones, and get him to bless it for me in one go. I’ve got enough holy water to vampire-proof the whole village.”
“You…blessed the bathtub?”
“Mina,please.” Mum gave me a shove back toward my booth. “Not so loud. I don’t want my competitors to learn my secrets. They probably think you have to steal from the tabernacle at church.”
“But you can’t sell blessed objects. That’s been the rule since the Middle Ages, if you sell holy water, you remove the blessing and then it’s no use against a vampire.”
Mum gave me another shove. “Father O’Sullivan gave me a loophole. Technically, my customers pay for the container, and I haven’t included any additional charge for the holy water. Now, you go on off to your stall. I don’t want people to think I’m part of your dusty old book sale.”
She turned away to fuss with her Vampire Vanishing Kits, leaving me standing there with my chin in the dirt.
For the next couple of hours, I tried to forget about Mum and focus on my customers. The Witch’s Market was a smashing hit – it seemed as if the entire village was here in costumes, drinking steaming cocktails from cauldron-shaped mugs and buying witchy-themed knickknacks from the stalls. I waved to my friend Maeve, who’d traveled in from Crookshollow to help her friend Clara run a stall for her crystal and witchy store.
No one was buying books, though. A few people stopped to chat, but most of them were more interested in the Halloween-themed fete games or Richard’s cider tent, which…fair enough.
Mum, however, was doing a roaring trade. She had a line of villagers stretching from her stall halfway around the market. She beamed as she presented Richard with a shoebox she’d decorated for him with little pints of beer all over it. She sold out before morning tea time and started taking orders, promising each person she’d create a customized box for their personality.
“I can’t believe this.” I folded my arms. “She’s making money off people’s fears. Dracula is out there killing people and all my mum can see is pound signs.”
“You’re jealous.” Heathcliff had left Morrie in charge of keeping the fictional characters out of our hair, and stopped by to deliver me one of Oliver’s scones and a steaming coffee. “Decorating customized vampire-slaying kits is the most Mina Wilde business idea I’ve ever encountered.”
I punched him in the arm, but I had to admit he had a point. I didn’t like how Mum was exploiting the villagers’ fears for financial gain. But unlike literally every other get-rich-quick scheme she’d been involved in, this one was actually kind of fun. And the kits were cool. They’d actually be something I’d consider stocking in the shop…if that wasn’t a dangerous proposition to make to my mother.
“Mina, look lively,” Morrie called from somewhere across the market. He sounded out of breath. “He’s on the run.”
“What’s Morrie saying?” I was bent over, re-tying my bootlace.
“You need to see for yourself. Morrie’s run outside with his shirt buttons all buggered.” Heathcliff stifled a laugh. I didn’t want to look up, because if the Napoleon of Crime wasthatflustered, it had to be bad.
“Yoohoo, Mina,” Mrs. Ellis called out. “That naked gentleman wants to speak to you.”
I dared to raise my head just as Socrates vaulted over the edge of the bonfire, bedsheet flapping wildly. He shoved market-goers out of the way as he rushed toward me, waving my mobile phone triumphantly in the air. “He retweeted me,” he cried out with glee. “Peter Jordanson retweeted me.”
