Page 50 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

She points one long-tipped nail upwards. “Need to report this. Whoever is running around down here using dark magic messed with the wrong spirit guide in training. This is definitely against the rules, and someone up there needs to know about it. You”—she jabs a finger in my direction—“do not let Tris out of your sight until I get back.”

I nod in silent agreement and then, in the blink of an eye, Dusty is gone.

“Do you have the photos I asked for?” I ask Tristan.

He grabs his backpack from where it was propped against the cash desk and retrieves a folder, which he hands to me. It contains the close-ups of the symbols etched into my mother’s skin. I’m definitely going to have to show these to my grandfather to see if he recognises them.

We look up as the bell jingles and the front door opens. “I thought you locked that?” Tristan says.

“I did.”

A huge man built like a solid wall of muscle steps inside and closes the door behind him. He’s got to be maybe seven feet tall and wears a long dark overcoat that hangs open despite the cold weather. His skin is almost golden, and his eyes are dark, as are his beard and his hair, which falls thick and full to his shoulders.

There’s something almost feral about his looks, but they’re completely at odds with his calm, purposeful demeanour. He walks towards us as if he has all the time in the world.

“I’m sorry, this shop is closed,” I say firmly, reaching for Tristan’s wrist and drawing him safely behind me.

The wolfish-looking man pauses and looks down at the remnants of my circle, then continues his slow pace towards us. My magic pools in my fingertips, coiled beneath the surface and ready to defend us. He stops dead in front of us, looking first at Tristan, then at me, then straight at Bruce.

His eyes trail down to Bruce’s tiny eighties-era rugby shorts and those tree-trunk thighs before turning back to me. He leans in and sniffs loudly.

“A witch.” His voice is deep, like seriously deep, almost a growl, and I swear there’s almost a hint of amusement and recognition in his eyes, which is ridiculous because we’ve never met before. I’d certainly remember if our paths had crossed.

Then his dark gaze slides to Tristan. “And what are you?”

“A Sagittarius,” he squeaks.

The stranger’s lips curve, and a loud rumble of laughter bursts from his mouth. “You must be Tristan Everett. I have to say, Hadley was spot on when he described you.”

Tristan blinks at him in response. “You know Mr Hadley?”

My stomach clenches at the mention of the Crawshanks family solicitor. If he’s involved with this man, it only reaffirms my suspicions that Mr Hadley and his firm know way more than they should about the supernatural nature of my birth family because everything about this hulking man in front of me screams, not human.

“My name is Lucien.” He holds out a huge hand, which Tristan shakes, looking slightly dazed as he stares up at the huge man. Then he turns and offers his hand to me, which I eye warily. Everything about this man that has my hackles up.

“Harrison,” I introduce myself cautiously as I shake Lucien’s hand.

The moment his skin touches mine, I suck in a sharp breath. It’s really hot, almost like he’s running a fever, and a wealth of images slam into my mind, smoke and ash and flame. But curiously, I don’t sense danger from him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely dangerous, but he doesn’t seem to mean us any harm. If anything, I get a sense of protection blanketed by pure amusement.

It’s beyond perplexing.

I snatch my hand back as Tristan nods to Bruce.

“That’s Bruce,” he introduces them.

“Love the shorts.” Lucien winks at Bruce.

“I’m sorry, but why are you here?” I ask rather bluntly.

“I heard about what happened.” Lucien’s gaze drops to the open file and its scattered contents. “Bet you’re having trouble figuring out what language that is.” He nods to the photos.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because, my friend, that is a dead language. There are very few who would recognise it, even fewer who can translate it.”

“What is it?” Tristan asks. “Can you read it?”

“Me? No.” He shakes his head. “But I know what it is.”