Taming the Wicked Wolf (A Date with a Demon #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Emilia

“That’ll be seven hundred dollars.”

I stop fishing my wallet out of my purse and look up at the bookstore owner, Martin.

He’s an older man, well-dressed and probably in his mid 50s, with gray eyes and short, wavy salt and pepper hair. He’s attractive in almost a Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer sort of way. Almost.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean, seven hundred? You told me it’d be four hundred when we spoke on the phone less than two hours ago. That’s a,” I run through the math in my head, “seventy-five percent increase.”

Martin stops, leaning against the doorframe leading to what I can only assume is his office from the small metal desk and computer set up behind him. “Things change. There were three more inquiries after I hung up with you. One gentleman was even planning to take the red eye to pick the book up in person.”

Of course, the man who can afford to take the red eye is a gentleman. As if I didn’t just drive 45 minutes, plus traffic and have to deal with the ridiculous parking downtown. I guess money talks and I should feel appreciative that he’s even giving me the opportunity with other much nicer offers on the table.

“Let me see it first.”

He gives me a nod and disappears into his office.

It’s a nice bookstore, everything considered. One of those hole-in-the-wall hidden gems you stumble upon on a rainy afternoon, as though the gods themselves are trying to brighten your day. It smells like aged leather and the slightly sweet scent of yellowed pages.

The aisles can barely fit two people, the shelves stacked nearly to the ceiling with little concern for the paneled fluorescent lighting. Instead of feeling sterile, it’s atmospheric. You could probably catch dust motes dancing under the air vent deeper within the stacks while looking for a first edition of a comfort book.

I would love to spend the entire day here, just searching endlessly for new favorites, under different circumstances.

Martin returns, book under arm, placing it onto the wooden counter between us, “Shades of the Occult by Michael Albert Hughes. First and only printing in 1985.”

I pick it up, turning it over to inspect the spine when I notice a weathered gray stamp on the top edging that reads ‘Riverside Public Library’.

“Is this a library book?”

“Ex-library copy, yes.” He stammers, reaching up and adjusting his glasses.

The original dust jacket is nowhere to be found, leaving the gold leaf detail on the naked hardcover on full display. The cover chases away any doubt that this is, in fact, the book that I have been searching for.

Besides the scrolling title, the design has a partial ritual embedded in the background. Most people would mistake it for meaningless embellishments, but I recognize the runes as those used in old protection spells.

A book with built in security, though I doubt it would hold up.

“You never mentioned this being a library copy over the phone.” I set the book back down on the counter.

“If that’s a problem,” he reaches for the book and I stiffen.

It should be a problem, but is the first copy I’ve seen pop up since I started searching six months ago. A stolen library book is, what, a misdemeanor and a hefty fine? It has to be one of the few remaining copies since I heard covens are snatching them up to burn.

My mother never bought into the tradition, she’s always been a solo practitioner and that’s exactly how she raised me. Neither of us has the stomach for authority figures, which is pretty ironic seeing how I married a sheriff’s son.

“No, no problem.” I sigh, setting out the four hundred dollars, as I pull out my phone to do a few financial gymnastics, “Here’s the four hundred.”

Okay, maybe there is a bit of a problem.

Since I paid rent last week, the extra three hundred is going to have to come out of my emergency fund, which means I’m even farther away from moving back home to Indiana. Not that there’s a scenario where I would leave this store without the book, I’ve already sunk at least two hundred and fifty dollars into the supplies.

With a click of a button, the money is in my main account.

When I look up, Martin is counting the cash, flipping the bills so they all face the same direction.

“Is there an ATM close by, or do you take some sort of money transfer?”

He reaches behind the counter, setting a plastic display placard with three different QR codes, including one for crypto currency.

“You take bitcoins?”

“I sell rare first editions, books much more expensive than,” he flails a hand in the book’s direction, “that.”

Part of me wants to tell him the book's true potential, namely the fact that it contains a collection of real magical spells, including several rituals that can summon a demon.

I hold up my phone and scan the code, then notice the familiar bright red spine of a Harlequin Romance, and not just one, but a whole cardboard box stacked to the brim. There was a time in my life when I would go to the store and pick up a few titles a month. Now, it’s been hell to find them outside of second-hand bookstores or in ebook form.

“How much for the romance novels?” I ask with a nod.

Martin glances over his shoulder, “Oh, those , I’ll throw them in for free.”

I can’t help but smile to myself as I complete the payment, he might have screwed me over with the book, but those Harlequins alone are worth at least a hundred if not more. Though for me, they’re priceless.

He grabs the box, placing Shades of the Occult on top and slides it across the counter.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you. I hope to see you again.”

Of course, you do.

“Thanks.” I say, slipping into the saccharine sweet tone I use at the bar, then hefting the box into my arms and turning to roll my eyes.

With traffic, it’s a good hour and a half back to my small apartment in Moonstone Ridge. Just another perk of being stuck in a town that doesn’t even have a Target, it takes a good twenty minutes to reach anything that doesn’t look like it belongs on the set of a Hallmark movie.

The town itself is beautiful, filled with old brick and mortar buildings straight out of the 1950s, with the classic windowed displays. Everything is here, including the idyllic Mom and Pop grocery store.

I would actually love living in Moonstone Ridge, if I hadn’t been labeled an outcast after what happened between me and Chase, but that’s what you get for divorcing the beloved sheriff’s only son.

My heart races as I turn into my parking spot, the familiar pang of anxiety rippling up my arms and settling heavily on my shoulders. I hate that it’s come to this, I can’t even return home without feeling this deep sense of dread.

The lot is still full, which is a comfort, in my despair, it makes me feel a little less isolated.

I climb out of the car, bracing the cardboard box against my hip as I dig my keys out of my purse. It takes the short distance from the car to my door for my panic to wane.

My pit bull, Poppy, whines on the other side of the door. The sound of her claws tip tapping on the linoleum floor a comfort as I let myself into my apartment. I got her from the local animal shelter a few days after moving in, she’s a great companion, even though she didn’t stop Chase from breaking in the first time.

Though this time it’s all clear. No spontaneous love letters. No bouquets of roses waiting for me on my dining room table. No need for me to call the front office and ask for them to change the locks. Again.

“You did good, kid.” I say, reaching down and scrubbing my hand over Poppy’s muzzle as she rams her head into my lower thigh.

She growls out her appreciation and disappears into the kitchen, returning with her stuffed toy, squeaking out a staccato melody as I walk across the room to set the books on the coffee table.

Chase will never let me go. He ignored the divorce papers, forcing the judge’s hand in the matter. He still tells me he’s going to ‘win me back, one way or another’.

I’m not going to wait for him to surprise me again.

I am summoning this demon tonight.