2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Ancient Magic, Modern Problems
Sundar
The bell above my shop door chimes, and instantly my senses flood with awareness. Her scent reaches me first—a mix of coffee, anxiety, and something unique that makes my tongue flick instinctively against my will.
I remain still behind the counter, organizing a collection of pocket knives, but I know exactly where she is, sensing the vibrations in the ground as she moves through my territory.
Her footsteps whisper across the aged floorboards, hesitant yet determined. Like prey that knows it’s walking into a predator’s den but does it anyway.
Intriguing.
I listen as she pauses by the haunted Victorian doll. Her heart rate spikes when the doll moves, but she doesn’t screech or drop anything breakable. Already showing more composure than most first-time customers.
When she finally stops at the Furby, taking an inordinate amount of time to look over its mint condition packaging, I can’t help myself. “Of everything here, it’s the Furby that catches your attention?”
She startles, spinning to face me, and—oh.
Oh.
She’s… lovely. Not in the cold, sophisticated way Nalini was, with her perfectly arranged scales and practiced grace. No, this human girl is warm, alive, with expressive blue eyes and a mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, even though right now it’s hanging slightly open in what I hope is appreciation rather than horror.
Her shoulder-length blonde hair curls rebelliously around her face, and a light spattering of freckles draws my attention to the gentle curves of her cheeks. She’s wearing what humans call “business casual,” but the effect is somewhat undermined by the way she’s clutching her purse like a shield up to her chest.
“I have something to sell,” she finally manages, then quickly amends, “Or pawn. Preferably pawn.”
Her voice is pleasant—slightly husky, with a hint of Texas in her vowels. I allow myself to rise to my full height, not missing how her eyes widen as I tower over her. My tail coils beneath me automatically, and I notice her gaze following my movement with… Is that fascination?
Interesting. Most humans either stare in disgust or pointedly avoid looking at my serpentine half entirely.
“This,” she says, lifting her wrist. “It’s… It’s a family heirloom.”
The bracelet is beautiful, clearly antique, with delicate gold filigree that speaks of European craftsmanship. But what catches my attention is the subtle thrum of old magic woven through it. Not powerful enough to be dangerous, but definitely more than mere metal.
Protection magic, if I’m not mistaken. But it’s extremely weak. It probably wouldn’t even protect her from a paper cut.
Odd.
I lean closer, scenting the air around her. Beyond her personal fragrance, which is distractingly pleasant, I smell the age of the gold, the lingering touch of whoever enchanted it, and—most importantly—her emotional attachment to it. It radiates from her in waves: guilt, determination, and a bone-deep reluctance that makes my hood want to flare in irritation.
But I manage to contain myself.
“Why do your hands shake when you offer it?” I ask, perhaps more sharply than intended.
The idea of someone being forced to sell a precious family piece… It offends something deep in my nature. We nagas are guardians, protectors of treasures. Part of my nature bristles at the disrespect to such an artifact, as much as I try to retain a professional demeanor.
Yet, she doesn’t respond to my question. I’m not sure whether she’s scared of me, or simply doesn’t want to part with her item.
For some reason, part of me hopes it isn’t the former…
“Perhaps,” I say carefully, softening my voice as I watch her fingers curl protectively around the bracelet, “you should consider whether this is truly what you wish to do.”
Her spine straightens. “I wouldn’t be here if I had other options.”
The defeat in her voice wars with the stubborn set of her jaw, and suddenly I understand: She’s not here on a whim. Whatever drove her to my shop has backed her into a corner, yet she faces it with a peculiar mix of resignation and defiance that I find compelling.
I lower my head slightly, bringing myself closer to her eye level. “Very well. May I?” I extend my hand, palm up, waiting.
She hesitates only a moment before unclasping the bracelet. As she places it in my palm, our fingers brush. The contact sends an unexpected vibration through my scales, and I have to consciously prevent my tail from twitching. Her skin is warm, soft, and the brief touch leaves me unreasonably aware of how long it’s been since I’ve had any physical contact with another being.
But never mind that.
The bracelet itself holds secrets, and as I hold it, it’s easier to sense the old magic woven through the metal, dormant but present, like a lullaby hummed in a forgotten language. Curious.
But what interests me more is how her scent changes as she watches me examine it—notes of anxiety mixing with something sweeter, almost like hope.
“It’s been in my family for generations,” she offers, unprompted.
I turn it over in my hands, admiring its quality. “The workmanship is exceptional. Early twentieth century, I’d estimate. The gold content alone—”
“Look,” she interrupts, “I know how pawn shops work. You’re going to tell me it’s worth way less than it is, and I’ll have to pretend to believe you because I need the money. Can we skip the negotiation dance?”
Her bluntness startles a low chuckle from me. I notice how she shivers slightly at the noise, though not from fear.
“You wound me,” I say as I shift my tail beneath me. “I pride myself on fair valuations. Though if you’re so eager to skip the ‘negotiation dance,’ as you put it…” I pause, studying her reaction. “One thousand dollars.”
Her eyes widen. Clearly, she had expected less, which only confirms my suspicion that she’s never had this bracelet appraised before. The bracelet is worth more—much more—but I hesitate to offer its full value.It’s not out of greed—I have little use for human currency. Rather, I worry that handing her too much at once would solve her troubles entirely, and she might never come back to recover the bracelet.
It’s selfish, perhaps, but I need insurance. A reason for her to return.
“That’s…” She swallows hard. “That’s very generous.”
“I assume you’ll want to reclaim it,” I say, keeping my voice neutral even as my tail coils tighter beneath me. “Thirty days. After that, it becomes mine.”
The color drains from her face. “Thirty days? That’s not very long.”
“Standard policy.” It isn’t. I usually give ninety days, but the words are already out. Something primitive in me wants to see her before then, wants to watch her storm back in with determination blazing in those beautiful eyes.
She bites her lower lip, and I’m inexplicably fascinated by the gesture. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a pawnbroker after all. You thrive off people’s desperation.”
“Excuse me?”
She presses on. “And the interest rate?”
“Ten percent.” Also not my standard rate, which is five. I’m being petty, letting her assumption about my ethics get under my scales. But even as I name the higher rate, I’m already regretting it. There’s something about her—the way she holds herself, or the lingering sadness beneath her bravado—that makes me want to wrap around her rather than punish her prejudices.
Why is this little human having such an effect on me?
“Fine,” she says, lifting her chin before I can take back my unfair offer. “Where do I sign?”
I hesitate, then turn to retrieve my ledger, trying to ignore how her scent has shifted from anxiety to a complex mix of relief and worry. As I slide the paperwork across the counter, she leans forward to sign, and a strand of hair falls across her face. My fingers actually twitch with the absurd urge to brush it back.
“Aubrey Garrett,” I read from her signature, testing the name on my tongue. It suits her somehow—simple but with an underlying charm.
She nods, then looks down at her hands. “Sorry if I’m acting weird. I’ve just never met a naga before.”
“Many haven’t. Most of us are rather reclusive.”
“So…” she begins, seemingly gathering courage. “What’s the deal with nagas? Do you all tend to run shops, or is that just your thing?”
I smile, despite myself. “No. Though we do tend toward… collecting.” I gesture at the items around us. “We’re naturally drawn to objects of value or power. Some nagas become museum curators, others antiquities dealers. I simply prefer a more direct approach.”
“Dealing with desperate people pawning their precious family heirlooms?” The words are bitter, but Aubrey’s tone is light, almost teasing.
“Among other things.” I count out her money, hyperaware of how her eyes follow the movement of my hands. The bills seem insufficient somehow, empty paper in exchange for something that clearly means so much to her. Regardless, I slide the stack of money across the counter, watching as she tucks it away. “There are the usual collectibles and similar fare, but I also handle a great deal of magical, cursed, and haunted objects as well.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” She glances around the shop again, this time with more genuine curiosity. “So, your magical items are, like, really magical, not just stage-show stuff?”
“Of course.” I find myself warming to her interest, my tail shifting to a more relaxed position. “That compass in the display case? It points to whatever it is you’ve lost, though it is known to interpret what is ‘lost’ in a rather ironic fashion. The cursed deck of cards beside it shuffles itself, but it’s notorious for cheating at solitaire. And that bookmark—” I nod toward a delicate silver piece on the counter, “—can summarize the boring parts of any book you’re reading.”
She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected. “You’re joking about the deck of cards.”
“I never take cursed objects lightly.”
“Says the man with a Furby casually on display.”
As she grins, I notice how the tension has slowly bled from her shoulders. She’s lovely when she smiles—it transforms her entire face, bringing light to those expressive eyes.
But when she absently reaches to fidget with the bracelet that’s no longer there, I catch sight of the pale band of skin on her wrist. She must’ve worn this bracelet constantly, probably for years. The sight stirs something uncomfortable in my chest.
I’ve seen countless desperate customers in my years of business. It comes with being a pawnbroker—people don’t come here in their finest moments. It’s to be expected.
So why does her situation affect me so differently? Why do I have the irrational urge to return the bracelet and find some other way to help her?
Pushing aside these troubling thoughts, I reach for my ledger and begin filling out the necessary paperwork. “I’ll need to document the transaction,” I say, perhaps more formally than necessary. “And provide you with a ticket for your item.”
I slide the claim ticket and receipt across the counter, noticing how her fingers tremble slightly as she takes them. “Keep these safe,” I warn. “Without them—”
“No bracelet, right. Got it.” She tucks the papers carefully into her wallet, then looks up with forced brightness. “Well, I should probably go. I have work in an hour, and I need to deposit this money, and…” She bites her lip again, and I’m unreasonably fascinated by the gesture. “I guess I’ll be back here in a month, with any luck.”
I nod. Thirty days. I gave her thirty days, when I usually offer ninety. And a higher interest rate than normal, all because her assumptions about pawnbrokers pricked my pride. Now, watching her try to maintain her brave face while clearly worried about meeting the deadline, I feel like a complete serpent.
“Of course,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “Though you’re welcome to visit sooner. I have other Furbies in storage…”
She laughs. “I think you’ve mistaken my horror for interest.” She adjusts her purse strap, still hesitating. “Anyway, thank you. For being… I mean, I know this is just business, but you’ve been really…” She trails off, gesturing vaguely.
I incline my head, fighting an inexplicable urge to reach across the counter, to offer some form of comfort. “It’s my pleasure, Miss Garrett.”
“Aubrey,” she corrects quickly. “Just Aubrey.”
“Aubrey,” I repeat, and I swear I catch a slight hitch in her breathing.
The bell above the door chimes, breaking whatever spell has fallen over us. An elderly monster enters—Mrs. Brindlewood, one of my regular customers, her were-dragon form barely fitting through the doorway.
“Sundar, darling!” she calls out, her scaled wings rustling as she navigates around a display case. “You simply must see what I found at that estate sale—Oh! I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
I notice Aubrey taking an instinctive step back, though not in fear—more like she’s suddenly remembered where she is and what she’s doing. “No, I was just leaving,” she says quickly. Then, with one last look at me, she says, “See you soon.”
I watch her hurry out, my tongue flicking unconsciously to catch the lingering traces of her scent. And even after she’s gone, I still feel the ghost of her presence, like warm sunlight on my scales.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Brindlewood croons, her dragon eyes twinkling. “That was interesting.”
I shoot her a quelling look, but she just grins, smoke curling from her nostrils.
“Now dear, don’t give me that face. I haven’t seen you so engaged with a customer since… well, ever.”
“She was pawning a family heirloom,” I say stiffly, already regretting every moment of unprofessional behavior I’d displayed. “Nothing more.”
“Mmhmm.” She sets a wrapped package on the counter. “And I suppose that’s why your tail is coiled up tighter than a pixie’s knot?”
I force my tail to unfurl, refusing to acknowledge that she’s right. “You mentioned an estate sale find?”
Mrs. Brindlewood grins with knowing amusement, but she mercifully allows the subject to change, and before long, the afternoon flies by, filled with Mrs. Brindlewood’s chatter and the usual business of curse nullification, artifact research, and price haggling.
When evening finally comes and I prepare to close the shop, I find myself drawn back to the morning’s transaction. My fingers ghost over her name in the ledger.
Aubrey Garrett.
My pen hovers over the page longer than necessary, and I tell myself I’m merely double-checking the documentation. But as I trace the loops of her signature, I know there’s more to it than that.
She shouldn’t have lingered in my thoughts as she did, if only because letting my guard down—even for a moment—never ended well. I had learned the hard way with Nalini that curiosity in others could just as easily turn venomous.
But then again, I sensed no venom in Aubrey, even when she took offense at my offer.
I had only sensed an unexpected warmth that somehow felt more dangerous.
Thirty days suddenly seems like both too long and not long enough.