Okay, mysterious. What else could we need?
A block or two down the road we turn into a U-shaped bank of quaint-looking shops. Unlike some of the other buildings, these aren’t made to look like relics of the Wild West, or like modern concrete slabs like the visitor center. These look more like cabins, with wooden posts holding up the porch-roofs, wind chimes and stained glass hanging from strings. One of them is a gallery showcasing paintings and ceramics by local artists, the other sells jewelry and homewares, again made by locals, and the final shop is hard to describe. I guess I’d call it the one-stop shop for yoga-practicing hippies. I stop in shock when that’s the store Jasper heads to, pressing through the door and leaving me in the literal dust with my mouth hanging open.
A moment later I follow Jasper inside and find him talking to a frail-looking old man at the counter. His ponytail is gray, thin strands of hair pulled back from the sides but not the top of his balding head. His wrists are so slim it’s a wonder they haven’t snapped right in two, his shoulders are curved forward, and he’s about a foot shorter than Jasper. But he has kind eyes, big bushy brows, and a gentle smile. He and Jasper communicate quietly, their voices lowered as if in respect to some unseen spirits. Finally, the man nods and disappears through a beaded curtain into the back room.
“He’ll just be a minute,” Jasper says.
“What do we need from here?” I ask, looking around, somewhat bewildered.
The shelves are stocked with all manner of crystals. Dream catchers and wind chimes hang from the ceiling. An antique shelving unit to one side is laden with candles, soaps, and incense in a vast array of scents. Pillows and rugs in bright colors with intricate designs sit in wicker baskets in the corners.
“You’ll see,” Jasper says with a wink.
While we wait for the man I wander through the store, trailing my fingers over a series of small figurines made from all sorts of materials: stone, smooth and cool, crystal, glistening and unforgiving, driftwood, clay, and finally glass. I stop and survey the glass objects. These look a little like the one in Jasper’s house, the one his mother owned.
With a trickle of cascading beads the man arrives back on the shop floor with a small burlap bag. He hands it to Jasper with a courteous nod and Jasper offers his credit card. The man moves behind his antique, glass-topped counter and puts the payment through his system. I move to join Jasper, and as the man returns with Jasper’s card our eyes meet.
For a moment he freezes, the credit card held in front of him like he’s about to slip it into an ATM. His nostrils flare ever so slightly and his eyes crinkle in the corners.
A waft of something breaking through the overwhelming stink of incense fogging up the shop and I smile nervously.
“There you go,” he says to Jasper, turning his attention from me to him and handing him the bag. “You should have everything you need.”
“Thank you,” Jasper says.
“May the spirits guide your hand.”
No idea what that’s supposed to mean, but there’s something off-putting about this guy. He seems nice, but he’s giving off this strange energy—like he’s an alien in disguise or like he knows more than he’s letting on.
Jasper turns to leave but I don’t join him. I’m too busy watching the man, who shoots me one more furtive glance then shuffles back behind the counter, to his stool and the book on astrophysics I assume he was reading before we interrupted.
“You coming?” Jasper asks, and I shake myself back into the room.
“Yeah, uh, coming. Thanks,” I say to the man, who looks up from his reading, one eyebrow cocked.
Outside it hits me, the scent I couldn’t quite make out because of the incense.
“Jasp,” I say, taking his arm to stop him. “I think that guy was a wolf.”
Jasper glances back at the shop, squinting in thought. “Nah, that’s not possible. The nearest pack is over a hundred miles away.”
“What if he isn’t part of a pack?”
Jasper lifts his nose like he’s trying to scent the dude out.
“He didn’t smell like a wolf to me.”
“He could have been hiding behind all that stinky incense—using it as a decoy.”
Jasper purses his lips. “Maybe. But I didn’t sense his energy the way I usually would. You’re connected to non-Elite Pack wolves better than I am. Did you feel any wolf energy?”
I pause. Is it possible I’ve gotten so used to keeping my barriers up I missed the shop guy’s energy? Or am I imagining things? Because Jasper’s right: there was no werewolf energy coming from that guy.
“Max, are you okay?”
“Weird,” I say. “My nose must have been tricking me.”
“Come on,” Jasper says, turning to leave once more. “It’ll be getting dark by the time we get back.”
