Page 80 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

There, sitting in the middle of the alley not far from me, is a fox, an incredibly rare one that I’ve only ever seen pictures of. It’s a melanistic red fox and it’s just sitting and watching me with large yellow eyes.

Its furry face is black, the sides of its head and base of its pointed ears a deep burnished red. The very tips of its ears are black, and its body and bushy tail are a mixture of black and red fur.

I don’t know how long we remain staring at each other. Finally, it gets up and takes a step towards me, then another, but before it can reach me, it dissipates into black smoke and then disappears entirely.

I blink several times, wondering if this whole day is just one of my weird vivid dreams. I even go so far as to pinch myself and wince at the pain.

Guess the fox was real. A magical disappearing fox, because why not?

Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any stranger.

18

Iraise my hand to knock on Tristan’s front door, bracing myself for the onslaught of everyone’s euphoric emotions. Which, of course, they’re perfectly entitled to feel—I mean, they did stop a supernatural entity from coming through a magic portal into our world and thus prevented a potential apocalypse.

Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve just stayed in Devon.

I don’t really feel like I should be a part of this celebration; my role was peripheral at best. Everything is piling on top of me and I’m tired and confused.

The fact that I still haven’t spoken to my mother keeps playing on my mind. I’ve been in London for months now. I should’ve just sucked it up and gone to see her, but I just can’t. Now I’m stuck in a holding pattern.

Then there are the dreams, which are coming thick and fast now. I’m able to remember all the details down to the tiniest thing, but they’re also leaving me with blinding headaches and a vague sense of nausea. I don’t know exactly what my mother was trying to protect me from when she gave me up, but it’s become very clear that the Crawshanks family we’re descended from was caught up in some really dark magic.

Then there’s the stranger in the alley and his insistence that Sam is or will be someone important to me.

I hate being told what to do, especially by someone who didn’t even have the decency to give me his name. It’s just fucking rude.

I stare at the door with my fist suspended above its surface.

Just do it, I tell myself. You can stay an hour, just enough to show your face so they don’t think you’re completely rude and introverted.

Which I totally am, by the way.

I have no doubt Dusty will follow through on her threat to serenade me into the wee small hours of the morning with her apparently extensive repertoire of show tunes if I don’t make an appearance; after all, she’s already sprung a surprise visit on me before. I’m having enough trouble sleeping without a never-ending loop of All That Jazz.

Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I shore up my mental defences, determined not to let any stray emotions squeeze through. I’ve got my hands full trying to figure out where my head’s at without borrowing anyone else’s wild mood swings.

Opening my eyes, I knock loudly before I can talk myself out of it, and a few seconds later, my eyes widen.

In the open doorway stands a six-and-a-half foot—possibly seven in the platform heels she’s wearing—drag queen dressed in a skintight leather mini dress held together by safety pins and hopeful wishes and a sparkly leopard-print fur jacket. Her hair—which I can see is a high-quality wig—is a black bob that slashes along her jawline with a blunt, heavy fringe covering her brows, settling just above her thick, feathery eyelashes. Her blood-red lips are pursed as she blows a cloud of pina colada-scented smoke at me.

I cough lightly.

Tucked underneath her arm like a rugby ball is Tristan’s chunky cat, who seems to be staring up at the queen with something akin to absolute feline adoration.

Me, I’m a little scared of her. She looks like she’d chew me up for breakfast and spit me out.

Still, never show fear, right? I draw myself up to my full height of maybe five-nine and give her my haughtiest look.

“Another drag queen? I’m beginning to think Tristan collects you like rather sparkly Pokémon.”

Her dark, heavily made-up eyes scan me from scalp to toe and back again. “You must be Prickles,” she says, her tone even drier than mine. “Chan told us about you.”

“Told you what exactly?” My eyes narrow a fraction.

“That the hot PI has a massive crush on you.”

I sputter and feel my cheeks heat. “That’s not–we’re not–”