Page 39 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

10

Ifeel guilty.

It’s been a few days since the restaurant and the onset of a strange, supernaturally charged storm that hasn’t let up for one moment, and I still haven’t responded to Tristan’s rambling voice note.

The rain hammers at the kitchen window as I pick up my mug and take a sip. With the storm howling while I’m cosy and warm inside, wrapped up in my pyjamas and cardigan, my mind drifts. Before I consciously register the path of my thoughts, I’m mulling over dark eyes and a sexy smile.

I huff angrily at myself. For god’s sake, I’m acting like a teenager with my first crush. Turning away from the window and the moody precipitation, I go into the living room to search for the TV remote. Background noise is what I need, something to distract me from thinking about the other night.

I’m mortified on so many levels. Losing control of my abilities in front of essentially a load of strangers makes my stomach clench, but what I did in the shower after while thinking of Sam makes the tips of my ears burn and my checks heat. I still can’t believe I masturbated to the thought of a man I had only just met.

I blame all the supernatural energy I must have absorbed from the storm for my wayward erection. As for thinking about Sam, well, that was a fluke. There was obviously a lack of inspirational material, so he was the first thing I latched onto. Maybe I should read a romance novel or watch a film or something—in case it happens again.

I should have options.

Spying the remote on the arm of the sofa, I scoop it up and switch the TV on. Flicking through the limited channels I pause on the weather report.

“Three days in and Storm Nigel is showing no signs of letting up its grip on the city. Limited services have been restored to the DLR, but flooding has been severe. The Met Office is keeping amber weather alerts in effect. Londoners are being warned not to travel unless necessary. We’ll keep you updated as the storm progresses, but experts says we may be in for more extreme weather ahead.”

When Herne had told me a storm was coming, I’d thought he meant metaphorically, but this? Not only do I have no idea what could’ve caused this, but I am at a complete loss as to what its purpose is unless it’s to cause as much chaos as possible.

I wish I had someone to talk to about it. I know I’ve got my dads, but I don’t want them to worry and I certainly don’t want them drawn into this mess, at least not until I can figure out what’s going on.

Coming to London was supposed to be about meeting my mother and getting answers about who I am and who I come from, not…this. Supernatural storms, spiritual possessions, sexy dark-haired⁠—

Nope.

Cutting that thought off with a huff of annoyance, I head back into the kitchenette and rinse out my now empty cup. My mind drifts to Tristan’s invitation to stop by for coffee. Did he actually mean it, or was he just being nice after my mini freakout at the restaurant? After all, it’s been a few days now and he hasn’t followed up, so maybe it was just one of those things people say in passing that they don’t really mean, like oh, we must do lunch sometime or I’ll call you when I’m free or yes, of course I want to be your friend…

I sigh. Sometimes I hate being me.

Perhaps I should go get dressed. I don’t need to open the shop today. The customer appointments I had have all been cancelled due to the weather, and I can’t imagine I’ll get many walk-ins, not with the rain hammering down and no sign of it letting up anytime soon. But regardless, I don’t like being idle. It just gives my brain more time to annoy me by stewing over every random thought of Tristan and his odd assortment of friends.

Intending to head to my bedroom, I turn around and let out an embarrassing eep when I find myself face-to-face with a statuesque, and rather incorporeal drag queen.

“Holy goddess,” I gasp, pressing my hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. I stare at the ghost who’d been previously trapped in Tristan’s body.

She smirks and flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Not the first time I’ve been called a goddess, and I must say it never gets old.”

“I didn’t mean–” I break off and exhale loudly. “Dusty, isn’t it?” She nods. “What are you doing in my flat? Why aren’t you off somewhere, surgically attached to Tristan?”

“We told you that was a fluke.” She sniffs.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” Her gaze drops slowly to my pyjamas, which are, admittedly, a loud, garish lime green and covered in cauldrons and broomsticks. Her brow lifts slowly as her gaze raises to meet mine. “What?” I say defensively. “They were a gift from my dads.”

“Nothing,” she says. “I do appreciate a neon colour palette, and I’m pretty sure you could see that shade from space.”

I lift my hand to pinch the bridge of my nose. A low-grade headache, simmering at the back of my head from lack of sleep thanks to the frequent dreams, is threatening to develop into a full-blown migraine.

“Dusty. What. Do. You. Want?”

“To talk…off the record.”

“What do you mean?” I ask curiously.

“I mean, I don’t want you repeating this conversation to Tristan because he’ll just think I’m interfering.”

“Aren’t you?” This time it’s my brows lifting. “Aren’t you?”