The Retail Witches: An Urban Fantasy Witch Novel (Retail Witches Series Book 1)

by Les Goodrich

  “What kind of a mess?” asked Brit.

  “The kind you don’t want to clean up,” said Jordan and the two turned to Tanner.

  “What’s up? Where do you want us?” asked Brit. The two girls stood facing Tanner.

  The person who opened the store set the plan for the day and assigned himself to the register, then delegated the rest of the day to whomever came in next. It was a good system and it allowed each person to lead sometimes and follow sometimes and so everyone stayed, relatively, fair minded about the job. Carol ran the store no matter when she came in, but sometimes even she would say, “Where do you want me?” The environment was smooth and successful.

  “Brit, if you could change the second shelf from those Mabon cards and books and citrine crystals to something with a bit more full-moon-Friday-Halloween-on-the-way vibe, that would be great.”

  “Samhain,” both girls said but Brit said “So-Ween,” and Jordan said, “So-When” but they both looked at Tanner.

  “Yes Samhain is on the way. Can you just do the shelf.”

  “Sure man,” Brit said and Tanner turned to Jordan.

  “Just help me and float around the store until lunch. When I go you can have the register. I’ll make sure to do as much as I can so you have an easy close.”

  “Good deal,” said Jordan and she set out to float.

  “Wait,” Tanner stopped her short. “I have something for you,” and he took his little magickal solar-crystal burner from his bag. It was the size of a cereal bowl and made of brass and copper with tubes concealing wires from the small solar panel on the side and two golf ball sized bright yellow crystals mounted under a spiral wire rack on top. He placed it on the table.

  “Wow thanks,” Jordan said. “What is it?”

  “It’s a burner. I infused the crystals with the Sowulo rune. The Sun rune. The little solar panel collects the energy and the crystals focus it. You charge it in the Sun for a day and it will last for a week. It’s all charged up now. Lift this lever and it will boil water without gas or electricity. You can use it to make coffee without blowing the store up. You’ll need a little kettle or a pot.”

  “Wow thank you Tanner. That’s really nice of you,” Jordan said.

  “My pleasure.”

  Tanner was back from lunch and he counted out of the register drawer and deposited the earnings. Jordan counted the drawer and they both filled in the amounts in the book and Tanner proceeded to do a few closing jobs, mainly cleaning bathrooms and making sure any cabinet supposed to be locked was locked and all of that.

  As two high-school girls exited the store a customer held the door for them then came in. Khakis spotted with rain newly started. Long sleeve white tee shirt. Navy canvas fishing jacket. Messenger bag.

  Jordan looked from the register. “Welcome to Avalon Spellshop. What brings you in today?”

  “I’m doing some research for an article about paganism and maybe magick if it relates or will fit. I just wanted to stop in and see what you have.”

  “We have tons of books and Brit is back there somewhere. Ask any of us if you have a question.”

  “Thanks,” the guy said and he moved through the store.

  He passed Brit and they said, “Hi.” He looked from shelf to shelf and he paused to look over books on the main floor shelf. The Pagan section. A Hindu section. Buddhist. A Wiccan section. A Witchcraft section.

  Brit stood at the register and faced Jordan, who leaned forward.

  “He’s cute,” said Jordan. “Nice height.”

  “He’s alright. I didn’t really see his face,” Brit said and moved back into the store.

  “You have a Wiccan section and a Witchcraft section?” he asked as Brit dusted by within sight.

  “Yeah. Are you looking for a certain book?”

  “No. I just thought they were the same thing.”

  “Kind of. Most wiccans are witches, but not all witches are wiccan.”

  “How many kinds of wiccans and witches are there?”

  “You could fill this building with the books written on Gardnerian Wicca alone. There are probably a dozen more wiccan variations with immense and ancient followings. Like Dianic, which is more Goddess centered. Saxon Witchcraft. On and on. Basically it divides by region which makes sense. But there’s no shortage of witchcraft traditions.”

  “So you seem to be informed. Can I ask you a few questions for the article I’m writing? Not to quote you or anything. Just like an anonymous source.”

  “Sure,”

  He took out his iPad and opened the note app.

  “The article is for the Blog Now and Then which features articles about things people do now, that people also did long ago. Like fishing is one. Or architecture. And a million other things. But the article I’m doing is about witchcraft. Or pagan magick. Or both. I don’t know. I didn’t realize how complex the subject could be. Glad I came in here. Maybe you can help me narrow this down.”

  “You can do it,” said Brit and the guy’s worries vanished. “How long is the article?”

  “Seven hundred to a thousand words.”

  Brit thought for a second. “You do an intro about the old days. Witches before Christians. Skip that whole burning thing. We all know that happened. Write the body about it going from then to now. Gardner. Buckland. The guys who modernized it. And a closing with statistics about the growth rate of wiccans and neo-pagans today. Something like that.”

  The guy was silent. Then he said, “I should have just recorded that,” and he and Brit laughed. She repeated it and he noted the bullet points and asked if there was anything else in the shop to help him.

  Brit showed him a pagan booklet published on stapled copy paper priced at one dollar. She said it was the story of a Florida witch who had helped establish a pagan school in the fifties. He bought the booklet and a package of blank note cards and went to pay Jordan.

  Jordan rang the sale, tendered his debit card, and handed him the receipt. She looked at his arms. Strong. Tan. His face. Cute. A bit sneaky. Sneaky in a way she bet Brit never considered. Not a bad guy, she thought.

  “What’s this article about?” she asked.

  “It’s about witchcraft. Pagan magic.”

  “And you’re gonna write an article about that. After talking to her. For five minutes,” Jordan said and Brit walked up.

  “It’s just about something people still do today that they also did a long time ago. It isn’t for or against it. It’s not about whether it’s real or not.”

  “But do you believe it’s real?”

  “I never gave it much thought before this article.”

  “So after any thought at all. Do you believe it’s real?”

  “Witchcraft and magic?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a healthy skeptic. I don’t know much about what you, if you say you’re a witch, believe. Or what anyone else believes. But I’ll believe in witchcraft and magic when I see it. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Jordan said and she added, “well spotted that I’m a witch and don’t you forget it. As for this one,” and she looked to Brit, “we’re not sure anyone knows these days.”

  “Thank you for the ideas,” he said to Brit.

  “Sure. Good luck on the article.”

  “Thanks. Hey can you guys tell me how to get to,” and he dug in his messenger bag and brought out a black business card with glossy red text. “The Poison Apple. I know its on Cuna Street. Just not how to walk there from here.”

  “You don’t wanna go there,” said Brit immediately.

  “Yeah I do. For the article. It’s another shop like this.”

  “It’s not a shop like this,” Brit said.

  The guy looked to the business card and read it out loud, “The Poison Apple. Gothic Clothing. Hexes. Tattoos.” He looked up. “See, hexes, witchcraft, whatever.”

  “I’m not kidding. Don’t go there,” Brit insisted.

  “Why not?” the guy asked.

  “Yeah,
why not?” asked Jordan and shot Brit a look.

  “It’s a dangerous place. You can’t trust them,” said Brit.

  “She’s actually right,” said Jordan with a twist of one mouth corner. “The best case scenario is you’d be wasting your time there. They’d never tell you anything helpful anyway. You’d just be asking for it going in there poking around, asking about spooky witches, like a complete civilian.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t believe in any of this.”

  “Do you believe in mud?” Jordan asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter if you do, or if you don’t. If you fall into it, you’re still gonna get dirty.”

  “Can you tell me how to get there or not?” he asked and Jordan answered, after she raised her eyebrows briefly in a fine expression.

  “The street to the right out here is Charlotte. Take it north to the end. That’s Cuna. Pass the coffee house on the corner across from the fort and its down that brick road on your right. An old two-story wooden clapboard house with porches on both stories facing the street. Vampire clothes hanging outside on the porch rails. A bunch of scary shit inside. Don’t let them give you a tattoo.”

  The writer tilted his head, said, “Okay,” and left with a wave.

  “Dumbass,” Brit said and Jordan shook her head.

  Other customers filled the day steadily but nothing too crazy. Tanner took his lunch at noon and Brit and Jordan were scheduled to take breaks before he left for the day at three p.m. The day went well and the only issue happened when a customer’s credit card was declined, but the person shrugged it off and paid with cash and all was well again.

  Brit went to lunch first at two. When she got back at two-thirty Jordan went. Jordan had brought food so she really just went for coffee. She grabbed her fleece jacket, zipped it on, took her phone and the small leather backpack that was her purse from the front table, backed out the door, and said, “Later pimps,” and the door closed in front of her as she continued to walk backwards out onto Aviles and head north. When she reached Saint George Street she did turn around and walk forwards and she let her backpack ride forward a bit so she could slip her phone into an outside pocket. It was her turn to buy but she wanted a more traditional taste than what she liked from Monster, so she went to Coastal Coffee.

  Jordan cruised along the overcast streets in the cool air of the then-passed rain and she pulled her phone out again and read a text message from her friend Claire about going to hear a DJ she knew or knew about. She read a text from her mom. She texted Brit to ask if Tanner wanted coffee but he did not so she put her phone back and walked on. Her head was up and she scanned the faces and demeanor of the people she passed. Tourists. Families. Other retail kids she knew or didn’t know. Ahead and walking toward her, she saw the girl who worked at the hat shop and who wore a different hat every day. A straw cowboy hat that day. The girls passed and Jordan said, “Hi.”

  “Howdy partner,” the hat shop girl said and she raised her to-go coffee cup and Jordan nodded at the cup.

  “That’s where I’m going,” she said meaning coffee and not necessarily the place from which that coffee had come. The other girl understood and she said, “Right on,” and the two passed and each girl blended back into the crowd, at least as well as a cowgirl and a witch could blend in Saint Augustine, which in fact was exceedingly well.

  Coastal Coffee was built between two retail shops and it had a tiny two stool coffee bar, a counter, and just enough room for one barista to work between a pastry case up front and an espresso bar on the back wall. There was a door on each end of the shop and customers came in and out of both. The Coastal Coffee logo, and the signs outside, were like a pirate flag but with the skull shaped like an espresso cup and the crossed bones below it were crossed spoons. Jordan walked under the sign above the south door and into the aroma of roasted coffee and espresso steam. She breathed it in and smiled wide.

  One man was at the small bar drinking something, but he was standing not sitting. The barista, Mims, was handing off a drink at the register to a female fort tour guide and the lady took her drink and left by the far door.

  “Jordan!” said Mims when she turned around.

  “Hello Mims,” Jordan sighed happily and the man looked up to the barista, then looked at Jordan. Kept looking at Jordan.

  “Hi,” Jordan turned and said to him.

  “Hi,” the man said and kept smiling but looked back to his coffee then out the window and Jordan turned to order.

  “What can I get for you today?” Mims asked.

  “I need a medium hot mocha for Brit. And a large iced coffee for me.”

  “Cream, sugar, and a shot in yours?”

  “You know it,” said Jordan and she looked to the far door where a couple in their thirties were coming in and shaking off the damp day as they looked around the shop. They moved along the wall filled with coffee cups, mugs, and insulated tumblers, all black, and all with the Coastal Coffee logo. The store was small and they stopped to watch as the man at the counter left, and Jordan moved to the bar but did sit. The barista made Jordan's drinks and said hello to the customers.

  Jordan watched the couple and she thought the guy was handsome and the girl was cute and they looked happy and she was glad they had found each other. She thought they might be on their first vacation or weekend away together and she thought about the last guy she had dated and she was glad to not be on any trip with him. Mims handed Jordan her iced drink first then started Brit’s mocha and turned to help the couple as the milk steamed.

  Mims took their order and smoothly finished Brit’s drink at the same time and handed the Mocha to Jordan at the bar.

  When the couple had their drinks they said thank you and bye and headed back out the far door. As soon as the door shut Jordan saw a blur of motion across the espresso bar drain tray and the espresso shot glass from one of the drinks was lifted and darted away by a wicked-fast, hand-high, faerie girl. Jordan was surprised but not shocked and she looked to Mims.

  “Did you see that?” Jordan asked. This type of question was second nature to witches and magickal people around town because you never knew who knew what, and it was just easier to act like a civilian sometimes.

  “Oh I saw it. That’s Prisma. And Prisma has had enough coffee today! Hasn’t she?” Mims announced to the otherwise empty shop.

  They heard the clinking of glass somewhere behind the espresso machine and then nothing.

  “Prisma is an espresso faerie. We’ve had her for a few years. She just showed up. She bounces off the walls half the time. She’s not too wound up today and that’s fine by me. I mean look how little she is,” Mims reasoned. “What do you think a few ounces of espresso does to her?” Then Mims added, with some volume, “She’s an espresso crema fiend!”

  Prisma slowly brought the licked-clean espresso shot glass back around the corner of the machine and slid it onto the drip tray. Mims snatched it up and the faerie jumped back.

  “Now I have to wash this,” Mims said and took the shot glass to the sink.

  Prisma turned toward Jordan and put her hands on the hips of her short shorts made from a coffee bag. Her tight little shirt from straw wrappers. Wings more like a dragonfly than a butterfly. Huge anime eyes. Red hair.

  “How do you do?” said the faerie, “I’m Prisma.”

  “Hi there, I’m Jordan.”

  “And you’re a witch. Right?”

  “Yes,” said Jordan.

  “Prisma!” turned Mims scolding her for rudeness.

  “It’s her aura,” Prisma said.

  Jordan said, “Can only witches see you?”

  “Only witches look,” said Prisma, “and kids,” and she flew up toward the top shelf on the wall beyond the register. She got halfway to the shelf, darted a hard right without slowing, and as if to fly into the trees across the courtyard, flew full speed into the window glass. Barely startled, she shook it off, zipped back up to the shelf top,
and lounged in the corner behind a neatly ordered row of coffee mugs to watch the shop.

  “She can’t get the hang of windows,” said Mims and Jordan drank some of her iced coffee and they talked. Mims had studied witchcraft for not quite a year but she knew some town witches and she wanted to learn more but she was busy with school and work and she was always going to come to Avalon Spellshop but she rarely did. Jordan liked her and loved her coffee. Mims always wanted to talk about witchy stuff when Jordan came in, so they talked about Samhain being so close and the full moon so soon. Jordan was standing to leave when the door behind her, the door she had entered, opened.

  As Jordan turned toward that end of the small store she came face to face with Datura, the dark, wicked Shadowclan witch from the Poison Apple. Older than the creepy Darkspell girls, Datura was the same height as Jordan, about five-seven, and within a year in age. Her hair was short and shiny black and her features were angled. Her makeup was pale and her lipstick black. Her body slim and strong. Her shoulders wide. She wore a smart, black, red pin-stripped suit with fitted slacks that stopped just below the knee. Her flexed white calves stood above black patten leather Christian Louboutin spike heels that flashed their bright red soles.

  Jordan looked at the shoes. “You walked all the way from your store in those? You’re tougher than I thought.”

  Datura pressed closer to Jordan and leaned to look down at her but they were the same height so Datura simply twisted her mouth as if she were looking at some bothersome but harmless puppy. Jordan stood her ground and the two faced each other and the room grew cold. Datura smiled thinly but there was no friendliness in it. Jordan rolled her eyes and shifted her elbow back until it touched the handle of her blackthorn wand where it stood just visible at the corner of the backpack flap.

  “Hello Jordan” Datura said and she lowered her eyebrows. “How are sales today?” she added with some oddity.

  “Rocking,” said Jordan and Datura made the slightest movement to one side so Jordan made the slightest motion to the other side and neither fully yielded but they passed and Jordan left and Datura came in to order.