“I’m aware.”
Zara moved to another shelf, frowning at the tarot decks mixed in with cookbooks. “And these?”
“He said something about ‘kitchen witches’ and thought it was clever.”
Zara huffed. “It’s not.”
“Also aware.”
Ramona pulled out the day’s checklist — a laminated card Marcus had made with tasks like “Sage the corners!” and “Greet customers with warmth!” complete with hand-drawn smiley faces. She resisted the urge to hold it over the nearest candle.
“Okay,” Ramona said, turning to Zara. “Remember. You’re a customer. Just browsing. Don’t talk to anyone who comes in. Don’t touch the register. Don’t mention Hell. Don’t?—”
“Mortal.”
“What?”
“I’ve existed for three hundred years. I think I can manage pretending to browse a bookshop.”
“Fine. Great. Just…” Ramona gestured vaguely. “Stay out of trouble. Light the candles.” She handed a lighter to Zara, but Zara raised one eyebrow. She flicked her wrist, and all of the display candles in the store lit at once.
Ramona opened her mouth to say something but paused, shaking her head instead.
Zara’s expression might have been amused. “I’ll do my best.” She drifted toward the back of the store, hands claspedbehind her back, examining books with the focused intensity of someone conducting an audit. Which, Ramona realized, she probably was. A demon from Hell’s corporate structure had just been unleashed in Mystic Moon Books.
This was going to be a long day.
The first hour passed quietly.A tourist couple came in, buying a book about manifesting abundance. An older woman browsed the tarot section for twenty minutes before leaving empty-handed. A college student asked if they had “anything real,” and Ramona had to give her standard response about “helping people connect with their spiritual practice” while internally screaming.
Through it all, Zara browsed. She moved through the store with methodical precision, occasionally picking up a book, reading the back, setting it down. Clearly making mental notes. During a lull, she approached the counter.
“Question,” Zara said, leaning back against the counter as she gestured toward the store. “Whydo you sell fake magic?”
Ramona glanced toward the door with a surge of anxiety. She lowered her voice. “We don’t sell fake magic. We sell… spirituality-adjacent products to non-magical people.”
“Non-magical people.” Zara tested the phrase.
“Non-mages.” Ramona straightened a display of amethyst clusters that didn’t need straightening. “The human witching community decided a long time ago it was best if the non-mages don’t have to interact with what they don’t understand. When we tried, it resulted in, well, a lot of burnt stakes.”
“So you hide.”
“We coexist. Separately.” Ramona moved to restock some candles. “Some covens have a trusted few who know — familymembers, close friends. But mostly we keep our worlds apart. It’s safer for everyone.”
“Safer,” Zara repeated. “That’s kind of sad, Mortal.”
“Yeah, well.” Ramona didn’t want to get into the politics of it. The debates at Thornwood Coven meetings about exposure versus secrecy, tradition versus progress. “The non-mages get their crystals and tarot cards and books about manifesting. We get to practice actual magic without being killed or studied in a lab.”
“And where do actual witches get their supplies?”
“There used to be a few shops. But most closed.” Ramona shrugged. “It’s mostly online these days. There’s still one that I know of in Thornwood near the academy. And you can get anything shipped if you know where to look.”
Something shifted in Zara’s expression. Her eyes lit up — actually lit up, with a gleam that made Ramona nervous. “A business opportunity,” Zara said.
Ramona raised an eyebrow.
“But the demand clearly exists?—”
The bell above the door chimed. A middle-aged man in loose linen capris entered, heading straight for the essential oils. Ramona gave Zara a pointed look that saidthis conversation is overand went to help the customer.
