Page 26 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

Oh, okay. Close.

“Hello.” I give a curt nod.

“Hi.” Nick smiles and all I can see is Danny. He really is the spitting image of his uncle. Danny junior turns to Aidan. “I’ll message you.”

Aidan smiles and nods enthusiastically. It would be cute if my stomach wasn’t back to turning somersaults at the thought of seeing the others.

I stand by silently as Aidan watches Nick head towards the elevators. When the blond-haired boy finally disappears from sight, Aidan turns back to me.

“You coming in, then?”

“I suppose so,” I mutter, and follow him inside.

And into complete and utter chaos.

They look an absolute state. Tristan and Chan are sprawled out on the sofa, incredibly hungover and clutching onto each other like they’ve survived another apocalypse…again. Danny is passed out, mouth hanging open and snoring, on what looks like an extremely tacky throne.

I honestly haven’t seen anything that gaudy since Tristan and Danny’s friend Brandy, who happens to be a drag queen, loaned them some of her furniture after their previous flat was damaged by a storm.

I continue my thorough perusal of the scene of the crime to find a half-dressed Dusty looking like an extra from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Astonishingly, she seems just as hungover as the others, which I wouldn’t have thought possible given that she’s dead and unable to drink. Or so I thought.

When my gaze finally falls on Sam, I blink slowly. He’s wearing a tutu and ballroom dancing shoes, but what’s really striking is the full face of make-up.

I literally have no words right now.

And in the midst of all this…whatever this is, Death is standing tranquilly as he holds a peacock and feeds it raisins.

Another wave of annoyance flushes through my body, heating my face and making me grit my teeth. They’re all adults and entitled to do whatever they please, but I’ve spent all night worrying about telling them incredibly personal information about myself and my family, and they’ve been…on the piss?

Maybe I’m being unfair, but I can’t help the pang of hurt. I know I declined the invitation to join them, but whenever they manage to get themselves into these types of ridiculous situations, they end up having wild adventures together, cementing them closer as a group. I’m left standing on the outside looking in, just as I was during the eclipse.

After a great deal of noise and incoherent babbling over each other, I manage to ascertain that Death has this time tried to gift Chan the actual Crown Jewels, a couple of illegally obtained peafowl, and a pair of celebrity wedding thrones.

In addition, if I understand this correctly, they somehow managed to steal an army tank—from where, I have no clue—which they took on a joyride driven by Sam, who managed to flatten several cars, a lamppost, and a buddleia bush (which explains the devastation out the front of the building). Oh, and apparently, they were also arrested and then rescued by Death, who staged a supernatural jailbreak.

And none of them have any memory of this. Well, except for Death who recounts the details as calmly as if he were reading the weather report.

Maybe it’s best I didn’t join them, after all.

However, by the time Death is done, I have a very bad feeling. When Chan tells me they only had one glass of alcohol each from a bottle of gin they liberated from Vivienne’s stash, the feeling intensifies. Picking up the bottle, I feel the unmistakable fingerprints of magic. It’s a little hard to explain, but it’s like a weird kind of tinkle where my fingers grip the bottle’s neck, a ripple of awareness across my skin. I unscrew the lid, lean in, and give a tentative sniff, then pull back sharply, my nostrils burning.

Fuck.

I suck in a sharp breath, knowing what I need to do. It’s something I’ve avoided for months, but I can’t put it off any longer. I need answers, which means only one thing.

I have to go to my mother’s bookshop.

Glancing up at the building, I swallow hard. My stomach is a mess, like something is writhing around in there, and I don’t know whether to throw up or take some antacids.

“Prickles, are you coming in?”

My gaze tracks over to the door where Sam waits for me, a hint of curiosity and concern in his eyes.

I’m not sure if I should be grateful that the others tagged along. I know they’re just as invested in solving this mystery as me, albeit for very different reasons, but I could have done without having an audience the first time I enter what was the home of the Crawshanks family in one way or another for generations.

Unsurprisingly, I hesitate, but the little voice inside me telling me I don’t really have a choice has me taking a reluctant step over the threshold and into the shop.

A wave of dizziness washes over me and a buzzing fills my ears. I blink, and for the briefest moment, the shop floor disappears. Instead, I’m standing in a Victorian parlour with crimson-cushioned sofas and a round table covered in a lacy white tablecloth and set with a fine china tea service. A delicate clock ticks and chimes above the fireplace.