Turning, Iris looked at the glass door and the funny charms hanging from it. When she reached forward, she could feel a certain pulsing in the air around them. Perhaps that was what Monty had mentioned. She found the sensation kind of comforting instead of shiver-inducing.
Weird.
She pushed the door inward, hearing a pretty tinkling noise as it moved.
The air smelled like ink and chamomile tea, with a faint trace of nag champa clinging to the rafters. Books were crammed into every possible space—on shelves, stacked in windowsills, even teetering on chairs. Fat candles flickered near a display labeledCurses & Cures, and tiny glowing runes danced across the spine of a book that growled as she walked by.
A few customers milled about. A tall, lithe woman with waist-length locks browsed the table featuring new queer romance reads, her hands shimmering with subtle magic. A stooped older human leaned heavily on his cane as he perused the bookmark sections. Two college-aged fae giggled at something in one of the books, their rapid-fire Spanish drifting over toward Iris.
“Please don’t tell me you came all the way to the surface to look for true love,” a voice called as the door closed behind Iris.
“Not at all,” she said, glancing over to where the voice was coming from behind a tall wooden counter. Was this witch a mind reader of some sort? Or was it a common occurrence for other paranormals to leave their homelands behind in the hopes of finding love?
“Thank the goddess. Well, if you’re here for a romance book, note I have them shelved under: Emotional Propaganda. Right next to the Unverified Folklore shelf.”
The owner of the store popped up then, a huge pile of books in her arms.
The proprietress was a short woman with long, straight, royal purple hair framing a heart-shaped face with sharp cheekbones, pretty honey-brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles in an unnatural shade of purple to match her hair.
Glamour magic.
Iris had read about it before but had never seen it up close.
“How did you know I was a mermaid before you saw me?”
Of all the creatures on the surface, Iris was most fascinated by the witches and warlocks—who practiced nature-based and ‘lower’ magics—and sorcerers and sorceresses—who performed higher ceremonial magics.
“Your smell.”
“My smell?” Iris yelped, leaning down to sniff her arm.
“It’s not a bad smell. You just have a salty, lightly citrus scent.”
“Oh, that’s the soap.”
“It’s not,” the witch corrected. “All mermaids have a citrus scent. Sometimes it’s more grapefruit, lemon, or lime. But you are definitely a lemon-lime mixture. Are you royal?”
“Wow,” Iris said. Did all paranormals have a signature scent? As far as Iris could tell, most humans smelled like whatever scented products they slathered all over their bodies. “Yes. I’m Iris.”
“Princess?”
“Second born.”
“Obviously.”
“Why obviously?”
“Your older sister would be next on the throne. Your younger sister would be kept for an important political placement. Which leaves you. On land. So, the question is … why are you here?”
Iris immediately liked this woman and her bluntness. It was refreshing. Nothing fake about her. What she thought, she said. It was night and day to Finn’s carefully constructed mask.
“I am being married off.”
“Ah, yes, nothing says ‘romance’ like contractual obligation.”
“Right?” Iris said, shaking her head.
“I’m Selene. Witch, obviously. If you didn’t feel the wards.”
