“Sorry, I thought you knew. You might reconsider that violent smashing practice of yours, Sabby; it doesn’t seem to be helping.”
Bulan has a point. I push away my thoughts of Grandma and the will to take another, harder look at my stalker. The hook-nosed man leans against the door and sips at his coffee, blocking anyone from entering. He isn’t wearing a cape, dressed up, or otherwise doing anything suspicious beyond exuding a sexy air that could potentially melt the historic brick wall he’s settling against. He’s nowhere near my type—I’d take Hanry over him any day of the week—but whatever he’s here for, he sure is causing a scene.
This is impressive because over the two miserable weeks I’ve been stuck here, Salem has stumbled ever deeper into the stupor of its Halloween season. You’d think the tourists would have something else to titter about than a moody Adam Driver look-alike who isn’t even in costume. That they’d have jack-o’-lanterns to carve or Wiccan candles to melt onto the stoops of their Airbnbs.
I frown. This guy better not be here to complain about Dave and Amanda’s wedding. Fighting back worry, I swing my garbage bag of old herbs and broken glass over my shoulder and walk them to the trash.
“If he’s here for me,” I say, resolved, “he should’ve come in already.”
“Indeed. Unless, of course, he can’t.” Bulan peeks over the edge of the cardboard box, his bushy red eyebrows knitted. “Fay can’t enter a room uninvited, you see, and that one has big fay energy. They can be such bitchy brats, I swear.”
“Fay? As in fairy?”
“The very same.”
Hmph. I don’t know anything about fay, but with the mood I’m in, a bitch-off sounds great. I give the stranger another ten minutes before I stroll to the door and push away the fake spider and cobweb decorations dangling over it.
“Feel free to come in,” I announce to the air. “Mr. Fairy Man.”
Acting like he doesn’t hear me, the dark and sexy character swigs back his (presumably black) coffee and glares at generally nothing and no one.
Oh god, he’sresentfulthat he’s been made to wait so long. I love this.
“Well, I’ll be inside,” I say.
More than five minutes later, he finally enters the shop. Ignoring the googly-eyed spider that drops onto his arm, he announces, “I’ve finished my coffee.” His deep voice reminds me of caramel. But after it’s returned to room temperature and gotten stiff and globby. “Where is your waste receptacle?”
“Corner, behind the antique broom collection.”
He sullenly follows my directions, then spins on me with a sharp tap of his dress heel. I may have limited experience with Salem’s paranormal underground, but how can this guy be fay? Mom filled more than half of her bookshelves with stories about fairy boyfriends and courtesans. Those fairies seemed capricious, violent, melodramatic, lascivious. This guy, on the other hand, seems as hard-boiled as a cop. Oh, shit—what if this semi-sexy guy is both a fayandsome kind of detective from, I don’t know, the Massachusetts Commonwealth Paranormal Bureau of Investigation? What if he’s here to arrest me for the vampires’ hungry antics last night? Worse—what if Grandma has magical debts in addition to normal, human ones?
“Samantha Spük,” he rumbles.
Play it cool, Sabby. Play it cool. “Can I help you?” I ask.
“You may call me Rochester. And you know why I’m here.”
“Because I invited you inside?”
The self-proclaimed Rochester doesn’t respond to my joke. In fact, he directs an expression at me that’s so cold and intense, it feels as if he’s pressing down on my rib cage.
“Calm down,” I say-wheeze. “Go ahead and tell me.”
“On behalf of my client, I wish to procure a sample wedding planning package.”
After I get over my surprise, I spare a glance at the box where Bulan is hiding. In spite of my sustained attention, he doesn’t blurt out any helpful behavioral cues. Fine. I guess I’ll power through this congealed butter-stick of maybe-fay, bitchy-sexy energy by myself.
“So,” I say to Rochester. “What if I told you I wasn’t taking more clients right now?”
Rochester, apparently not a fan of active listening, whips a bound book of parchment from his overcoat.
“These are my clients’ requests,” he says. “I will return upon the eve of the waning moon to accept your quote.”
“Bad news, Roachster. You’re going to return to an empty building. I’m leaving for New York tonight.”
I’m surprised Bulan doesn’t call me out on the obvious lie.
“If you are not here, I can retrieve your custom quote from the doorway,” says the fay.
