Page 25 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

“No,” I protest. “You can’t come here.”

“Why?”

“It’s not safe.”

“Pft,” he huffs. “Harry, it’s me or your dads, take your pick. You need someone who understands magic to help you unravel the mystery of your birth family. Need I remind you that I’m a sixth-generation witch? Plus, I have a contact in London that could come in very handy.”

“Who?” I ask suspiciously.

“No one you need to worry about right now.” He breaks off, and I hear him call to someone else in the background. “Ellis, be a good lad and find out when the next train to London is, will you? Yes, I’ll need a taxi to the station too.”

“Grumps, will you just⁠—”

“I have to go, Harry. I need to pack and get to the station. I’ll call you when I get there.”

“But it’s late, and it’ll take hours. You can’t⁠—”

“Hmmm,” he muses. “Maybe you’re right.” I relax slightly but the relief only lasts a second. “I’ll be on the first train down tomorrow morning, which means I should be arriving sometime in the afternoon. I’ll get myself settled into a hotel and call you.”

“But—”

Before I can protest further, he hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone.

Shit.

7

Grumps’ words still rang in my ears when I woke up.

He has a point. If Tristan and the others are my friends, then I should tell them the truth. But most importantly, I should tell Sam.

I’ve been trying to call him all morning, but he’s not answering, which isn’t like him. I’ve also tried Tristan and even Chan, but no one is picking up and messages are left on unread. Chan alone would have messaged me back straight away. Needless to say, I’ve developed an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

I’m sure I’m just being silly. Sam did say they were having a drink in Vivienne’s honour, so they’re probably all hungover. This sense of foreboding is more likely tied to the fact that I’m about to tell them who I really am.

I can’t remember ever being this nervous. Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I exit the Tube station at Whitechapel. It’s busy at this time of the morning, so I keep my head down and pull my jacket tighter as I amble along the street.

I keep going over what I’m going to say to them, imagining how they’re going to react, each scenario getting worse until I make myself even more nauseous. Finally, I approach the flats where Tristan and Danny live.

I blame the fact that I don’t immediately realise something is amiss on my current state of anxiety. I’m almost to the door of the building when I stop dead, slowly turn my head to the side, and notice…

An absolutely bloody enormous tank.

I mean, an honest-to-god army tank and it’s…it’s huge. I’ve never actually seen one up close and certainly never in the middle of a residential area, parked on top of several ornamental buddleia bushes and a Fiat Uno. It also looks like it managed to hit a streetlight, which tilts at an alarming angle. My gaze tracks up the street to the line of crushed cars and devastation obviously left in its wake. I close my eyes and sigh.

This has Tristan written all over it.

Ignoring the tank and the bunch of irate onlookers looking at the metal pancakes that I assume used to be their cars, I turn and march straight into the building. By the time I get off the elevator and head towards Tristan’s flat, I’m less concerned and more annoyed. I mean really? Is it that difficult to answer a message or return someone’s call, especially with everything that’s going on?

I stop in front of Tristan’s front door and stare at the number, my insecurities suddenly rising to the surface. Maybe we’re not really friends. Maybe they just tolerate me—or worse, feel sorry for me. Perhaps I should just go home and figure this all out on my own.

Suddenly, the door swings open and the two people on the other side jolt in surprise.

“Oh, Harrison, hi!” Aidan, Chan’s cute little teenaged Irish foundling, exclaims.

My gaze falls on the tall boy standing next to him who’s eyeing me curiously. He looks like a miniature version of Tristan’s husband, Danny. Funny, I don’t remember Danny mentioning he had a kid, but there’s no mistaking the genetic resemblance.

“Um, this is Nick,” Aidan says, glancing shyly at him, his cheeks turning pink. “He’s Danny’s nephew.”