Myra’s Mystical Emporium
Augury, Alchemy, Astrology,
And all Implications of Same
The hair on the back of my neck is still standing with awareness. I use the reflection in the glass to check out my surroundings. Nothing.
Red? You okay? Yer anxiety is climbing.
It’s good to hear his voice. It’s the first Kyle has spoken to me since our fight about whether or not him being trapped inside me is intentional. It’s not, but there are so many things he wants to experience that my lack of magical mojo is cramping his style.
I don’t blame him for his frustration. If I’d been alone since the extinction of my species fifty years ago, I’d be raging horny and excited to dive into a new life, too.
“I’m sorry, what?” Sloan looks both baffled and amused. “Why are ye tellin’ me yer ragin’ horny?”
I blink and feel heat surge to my cheeks. “I didn’t. I’m not. I was thinking about Kyle and didn’t mean to talk out loud. I’m not horny and I’m not anxious. I’m fine. Both of you focus.”
I push through the entrance and the brass bell over the door jingles as the door strikes it. A high-pitched cheery chime announces our arrival.
An icy chill runs the length of my spine. I don’t know what’s triggering my Spidey-senses, but I feel it to my depths.
Something wicked this way comes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Come in. Come in. I’ve been expecting you two. Welcome. Like it says on the sign, I’m Myra, and this is my beloved establishment.” We follow the woman’s voice deeper into the shop and find her standing at a long, wooden display counter near the back wall.
Myra is a spry old girl in jeggings and a smock shirt. She’s beautiful, as I learned most fair folk are: tall with vertically slit eyes as electric-blue as her funky hair. The playful style is cropped on a severe angle from shaved and short on the left side of her head, to shoulder length on the right. Her skin is pale, almost silver, but when I look closer, it’s cracked with darker tones beneath. The effect reminds me of the bark of a birch tree. It’s odd but cool.
I have no idea what she is other than fascinatingly pretty. “Been in business in this location nearly forty-five years now, so you can put stock in my practices and discretion.”
Forty-five years?
I study the interior of the space and believe her. I might even give it a cool century. As Sloan would say, the architecture and finishes have character.
Despite looking like a quaint curio shop from the road, Myra’s Mystical Emporium has a cavernous interior and makes the Disney library that Beast gave Belle look rinky-dink.
The overhead lights are off, which is fine in the bright daylight of late-summer because the ceiling is entirely crafted as an artisan piece of stained glass. The colored panes cast elongated shards of green, gold, ruby, and indigo across the spines of more books than I’ve seen in any public library.
Bookcases line the walls on each level of three stories, from the pocked hardwood floor beneath my sneakers to the domed ceiling high above. Wrought iron railings and platform walkways allow catwalk access to the second and third levels.
“Um, wow. This is so weird.”
“What’s weird, duck?”
“I’m a local. I’ve gone up and down Queen Street a thousand times and never noticed this place. How did I miss it?”
Myra smiles. “That’s not weird, that’s magic. Only the people who need my wares find me. Until today, there was nothing you needed from me. Now there is. So, here you are.”
It seems to be a poor business model to exclude window shoppers and only be accessible by those who specifically need something, but who am I to argue?
“Now, tell me what you need.” Her smile is honey-sweet. “Is it a matter of life and death, or simply desire? My offerings vary based on the need of my patrons.”
“I’d like to sire my book.” Sloan holds out his leather-bound book of druid spells.
Myra takes it and brushes a hand over the tree of life emblazoned on the cover. “Oh, he’s beautiful. Confident. Content. He has the utmost respect for the way you handle him. Well done, young man.”
Sloan dips his chin. “Is he willin’ to produce a copy?”
Myra strokes her hand over his cover again. “Yes. Come around the counter, and the three of you can pick one of my lovely ladies in waiting.”
I’m only half-following the gist of the conversation when she opens a shallow drawer, and I look at the covers of a dozen more leather and suede books. “Do any strike your interest, Fiona Cumhaill?”
I startle at the sound of my name. Sloan shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I interpret that as a “don’t ask.” Fine. He doesn’t seem alarmed and isn’t tensing up to call on his powers, so I let it slide and direct my attention back to the books.
The moment my gaze washes over the selection, I’m drawn immediately to a midnight blue book with the triquetra symbol on the cover. “Ooo, this one is beautiful.”
“She is at that.”
I hesitate to pick it up, but Myra nods for me to go ahead and I do. The suede is ultra-soft, and it feels like it almost purrs under the stroke of my fingers. “How much is it?”
Myra frowns and tightens her hold on Sloan’s book. It’s now vibrating in her hand. “Who are we to put a price on true love, duck?”
I’m about to argue that while that’s a sweet notion, my brother won’t be pleased with me if I fall in love with something pretty that blows the bank.
Myra beats me to it. She takes the blue suede book—Ha! Blue suede, maybe my Elvis infusion isn’t over after all—and sets it and Sloan’s book in a deeper, empty drawer.
The moment his book is released, it flips my book’s cover open and—“Are they…”
“Oh, yes.” Myra grins. “A very good match.”
Sloan meets my bafflement and frowns. “In the fae world, books aren’t mere inanimate objects. They’re made of all-natural materials, paper, hide, string, and glue. Like all things in nature, they have a life and magic of their own. They have awareness and desires.”
I eye the happy couple and laugh. “Wow, they’re really going at it. And Kyle accused me of cock-blocking him. You gotta let your boy out a bit more, surly.”
“Grow up, Cumhaill.”
“Come. It’s best not to interrupt.” Myra shuts the drawer, and we leave the books to their cavorting. “Anything else I can help you with?”
I’m still distracted by the rustle and bump going on at a steady clip in that drawer. I hold up my finger. “No seriously, how does this get me my spellbook?”
Sloan rolls his eyes. “Do ye honestly need me to spell it out fer ye?”
“Um… Yep, I think I do.”
He exhales and drops his chin to his chest. “Well, when a male book and a female book take a fancy to one another—”
I chuckle, finding this entire situation hilarious. “I’m good on this first part.”
“Well, when my book reaches its end, he’ll spill into yer book and all his wisdom will fill her pages.”
My jaw drops, and I clap my hand over my mouth to try to contain my amazement.
Sloan looks at the closed drawer and frowns. “He’s a great deal lonelier than I realized. We might be here for a while.”
I giggle and shake my head. “Well, your book better treat Beauty like the treasure she is. She deserves a skilled and giving lover. Is this a one-time thing or do we need to update their relationship status?”
He shakes his head. “Yer so incredibly strange.”
While the bump-and-grind continues behind Myra’s counter, Sloan and I gather a pretty brass singing bowl painted with blue symbols, several embroidered medicine bags, a marble mortar and pestle, and a reference text on natural herbs and remedies.
“Ye’ll need a cauldron once ye start with potions.”
“I have a big corn pot. Can that work?”
Sloan winces. “Druids do not make magical potions in
old corn pots. Get a cauldron.”
“Fine, Mr. Snooty Pants.”
He carries our basket to the counter and unloads our purchases on the wide wooden surface. “Have ye any druid ink or know of a ritual artist who can ink spells?”
Myra tilts her head this way and that. “I might. I’ll have to check with her and see if she’s open to take on any new clients. Tell me your number, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Do you want me to write it down?”
“Oh, no, duck. If I teach you one thing in this life, let it be this. Never write your details and leave them behind for others to find. That’s how you get yourself killed.”
I scratch my head and wait to see if she’s screwing with me. Nope. Okay, so don’t leave my deets with people—big checkmark beside that one. Instead, I recite the digits of my cell number. “And you’ll remember?”
“Haven’t forgotten a number in a hundred and ninety-four years.”
I wouldn’t have pegged her as any older than Gran and Granda. “One-ninety-four! Wow. You’re killing it, Myra.”
That wins me a glowing smile for the entire time it takes her to bag everything and tally the bill. I point my key fob toward Molly, and she beeps unlocked.
Sloan takes everything out to the car while we wait for the enchanted spellbook marathon sex to come to its climactic, info-spilling end.
Geez. Between horny bears, delivering basilisk sperm, and now banging books, my life has taken on a bit of a tone.
I’ll have to ask Da what that’s about.
“You’re a lucky girl,” Myra says before Sloan comes back. “You know what they say about a book’s stamina and his owner.”
Oh, gawd. It continues. Okay, can’t resist. “No. What?”
The bell above the door jingles and we both clam up.
The sudden silence is shocking.
I look over the counter, and all remains quiet. “Hey, they’re done. Good timing.”
Myra opens the drawer a little at first, then fully. “Yes, they are. Hello, you two.” She lifts them out of the drawer and sets them one atop the other on the counter. “Shall I wrap them together or will they part ways now?”
“Together, please. They can ride out the afterglow on the trip home.” She sets them on a large swatch of beige muslin and folds the fabric over them before tying a red silk ribbon around the center. I accept the cloth bundle and hug them to my chest. “I’m glad you two had fun, but it’s time to go.”
My thanks are on the tip of my tongue when I remember Gran’s and Granda’s lesson about that. “You’ve been kind and so very helpful. I look forward to coming back soon.”
“You are most welcome to return. Until next we meet, Fiona, namaste.”
I turn toward the door and reach into my pocket for the keys—
The hit comes from behind, a blunt strike to the back of my head and left shoulder. I stagger sideways and drop the books to bring my hands up to catch myself against the wall.
Instinct more than thought allows me to drop out of range before the next hit lands. Groping fingers brush past my face as I roll and scramble behind the next shelf of books.
“Get out of my—” Myra’s silence and the heavy thunk on the wood floor strikes me cold.
I haven’t got time to worry about her yet. I’m back beneath one of the sliding ladders and hustle to the next section. My mind is fuzzy. I think it’s from the rush of adrenaline more than the hit.
Red, what’s wrong?
Bad guys. Under attack.
Let me out.
I run to the end of the next aisle and duck behind a tall display case. Please, let me be recharged enough to do this. My heart is hammering, but I close my eyes and try to release my bear. Nothing happens. Dammit!
“Come out, come out, wherever ye are,” a man with a thick Irish accent says. “Tell us how ye called the mark, little girl, and we’ll let ye live.”
Called the mark? He knows who I am? How?
I thought this was a magical bookstore shakedown, but it’s more than that. This is about me.
The store holds more ambient magic than anywhere I’ve been since I came home, so I pull in some of the power. I cast my voice to protect my hiding spot.
“I didn’t call the mark. How do you know it appeared?”
I rise enough to peek through the glass of a display case. A hard-bodied, curly-haired brute is edging my way. I need a weapon. Granda and Sloan have been working with me on defending myself with whatever is close at hand.
The Spanish cutlass in the display case will do in a pinch.
“I know a lot of things, Fiona. I’ve been watching you.”
“There are laws against that.” I ease the blade out of the case and make sure not to knock it into anything. “Why me? I’m not that interesting.”
It’s not Brute in front of me who’s talking, but I don’t know where Bad Guy Two is. I slink around the far side of the display cabinet and slide between the shelves of Mythical Creatures and Occult Symbology.
Now that I have a weapon, I swallow the panic choking me and text Sloan. 911.
My sneakers make no sound on the hardwood, and I am almost back to the cash counter when I see Myra. She’s bleeding from what looks like a magical wound on her shoulder and isn’t moving. When I look closer, her shirt rises and falls in a shallow rhythm.
Skull Trim is standing over her.
Dammit, that makes three of them.
“Fiona, run!” Sloan portals into the middle of the store and goes straight for Skull Trim.
There’s nowhere to run. Brute’s in front of me, and Bad Guy Two is coming fast from behind. Before I’m trapped, I rush forward and swing between the end of two aisles.
I slice the cutlass through the air as I round the corner.
My hold on the grip is tested as I hit something solid. I don’t stop to see what it is. I roll to my knees and scramble behind an antique harvest table.
The hiss of a man is a good sign, the crash of body to floor even better. I think I’m good until heavy footsteps thunder behind me. Bad Guy Two has a gun.
And it’s pointed at me.
Think like a druid. I throw up my hand, expecting a basic shield to divide him from me. It doesn’t come.
Dammit. I lash out with the cutlass.
A shot rings out, and the world both explodes into fast-forward at the same time everything around me seems to stop.
I fall forward with the sword in my hand, and whether it’s fate or a fluke, we collide. The cutlass finds purchase, lodges in his belly, and twists out of my grip.
The world spins, and I’m on the hardwood, my legs pinned beneath his weight. Brute makes his reappearance, and I scramble against the floor with my hands.
Sloan shouts something and sweeps his hand toward me. His words are lost in the thundering rush of blood barreling through my eardrums, but suddenly Bad Guy Two’s gun is in my hand.
I aim like Da taught me. Point and squeeze.
Bang. Bang.
The look of shock on the man’s face is almost comical. He falls against the corner of the table, then flips backward onto the floor in a weighty crash.
I keep my aim up, waiting and listening.
“Duck? Are you alive?”
I scramble through the blood; my sneakers once again destroyed from struggling for purchase in a plasma slip and slide. Gross. The fae world has a high yuck factor.
“Myra? Are you all right?”
I collapse more than lower myself, but she’s already sitting up. “I’ll be fine. Your man and the third one grappled onto one another and vanished.”
“Damn it.” I pull myself up to stand and search the empty aisles of the store. He probably thought transporting Skull Trim away would keep me safe. Stupid man. “Sloan’s a wayfarer. They could be anywhere.”
“Go, duck. Get home or somewhere safe.”
I look toward the two men I’ve either killed or almost killed and shake my head. “I can help. My father’s a cop and a
druid. He’ll know what to do.”
Myra places her hand over mine, and I’m washed with a calming rush. “I know what to do. You don’t live almost two centuries and not come up against a bad one now and again. Go on now. Gather your things and get somewhere safe. If your man comes back for you, I’ll send him along.”
“But the bodies—”
“—are fine where they are. Finders keepers, as they say.”
Finders keepers? “That might apply to dropped money or a trinket, but I don’t think dead bodies are on the list.” The words slip off my tongue without thought, and Myra’s gaze narrows. Something slips in the veil of my perception, and I see and feel an aura of power I missed before.
Damn. I know nothing about this woman, and here I am pissing her off and defying her wishes in her store. “You’re sure?”
In a blink, she appears as she had—colorful and fun. “Of course. Off you go now.”
Yep. That’s my cue. My bloody sneakers squeak on the floor when I stop to pick up my book bundle from where I threw it minutes before. “It’s okay, you two. We’re going home now.”
Fae, witches, vampires, monsters, and who knows what else. What have I gotten myself into?
And where the hell is Sloan?
“Come on, Molly.” I ram my key into the ignition and bring her to life. I set the books on the seat beside me and buckle up. “Let’s get out of here.”
A glance in my rearview and my blind spot has me gunning it to squeeze into an opening that, in truth, isn’t big enough for me to try for.
There’s a squelch of brakes and a long, roar of a horn behind me. There is no neck-snapping jolt or crunch of steel-on-steel, so I unclench my girlie parts and offer what I hope is an apologetic gesture. “Sorry.”
“Damn. Damn. Damn,” I mutter while pulling around a taxi easing to the side so I can make the light. It flips amber as I enter the intersection and I cruise through the—
I’m still worrying about Sloan and what kind of creature Myra is when that crunch of steel-on-steel I was worried about hits out of nowhere.
A Gilded Cage (Chronicles of an Urban Druid Book 1) Page 19