Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The morning air was cold enough to sting.
Ramona pulled her coat tighter as they walked the three blocks from her parking spot to Mystic Moon Books, very aware of Zara walking beside her with a swagger like she belonged on a magazine cover instead of the cracked sidewalks of downtown Fernwick.
Zara had gotten a lot of delight out of her car, opening the glove box several times, asking what every dial was for, even tuning the radio to the sad country station as some woman crooned out a mournful plea for her lover to return.
“You’re going to freeze,” Ramona said.
“I don’t get cold.”
“That’s weird.”
“Perks of being from Hell, Mortal. The temperature regulation is excellent.”
Ramona didn’t have the energy to argue. Her head still ached despite the aspirin, and the morning sunlight felt personally aggressive.
She just needed to get through today. And tomorrow.
And Wednesday. Then she’d have Thursday and Friday off, except she wouldn’t really have them off because Zara would still be tethered to her, which meant—
She stopped thinking about it. One problem at a time.
Mystic Moon Books sat on a corner between a coffee shop and a vintage clothing store, its purple-painted facade and hand-lettered sign designed to look whimsical and mystical. Ramona had always thought it looked like someone’s first attempt at a witchy Pinterest board brought to life.
She unlocked the front door and flipped on the lights.
The store materialized around them in warm yellow tones — shelves packed with books, crystals displayed in wooden bowls, tarot decks fanned out on velvet, bundles of sage hanging from exposed ceiling beams. Incense lingered in the air from yesterday, mixing with old paper and dust.
It looked magical.
It wasn’t.
“So this is it,” Ramona said, dropping her bag behind the counter. “Welcome to my personal hell. Which is ironic, given present company.”
Zara stood in the doorway, surveying the space with an expression Ramona couldn’t quite read. Her dark eyes moved methodically across the shelves, the displays, the layout. Like she was cataloging everything.
“It’s…” Zara paused. “Charming.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“I was being polite. The actual word is ‘chaotic.’” Zara reached out to touch a crystal, switching its place as she muttered something about selenite.
“Yeah, well.” Ramona started the register, the ancient machine whirring to life with a sound like grinding teeth. “Marcus prices things based on vibes and organizes based on whatever makes sense to him in the moment. Which is to say, nothing makes sense.”
“I noticed.” Zara stepped farther inside, her gaze landing on a shelf where protection crystals sat next to romance novels. “Why are the black tourmalines shelved with books about finding your soulmate?”
Ramona sighed, counting money into her drawer. “I’m pretty sure my boss thinks ‘protection’ and ‘love’ are ‘thematically connected.’”
“That’s not how organizational systems work.” Zara’s tone was bored, but her eyes were wide with interest.
“I’m aware.”
Zara moved to another shelf, frowning at the tarot decks mixed in with cookbooks. “And these?”
“He said something about ‘kitchen witches’ and thought it was clever.”
Zara huffed. “It’s not.”
“Also aware.”
Ramona pulled out the day’s checklist — a laminated card Marcus had made with tasks like “Sage the corners!” and “Greet customers with warmth!” complete with hand-drawn smiley faces. She resisted the urge to hold it over the nearest candle.
“Okay,” Ramona said, turning to Zara. “Remember. You’re a customer. Just browsing. Don’t talk to anyone who comes in. Don’t touch the register. Don’t mention Hell. Don’t—”
“Mortal.”
“What?”
“I’ve existed for three hundred years. I think I can manage pretending to browse a bookshop.”
“Fine. Great. Just…” Ramona gestured vaguely. “Stay out of trouble. Light the candles.” She handed a lighter to Zara, but Zara raised one eyebrow. She flicked her wrist, and all of the display candles in the store lit at once.
Ramona opened her mouth to say something but paused, shaking her head instead.
Zara’s expression might have been amused.
“I’ll do my best.” She drifted toward the back of the store, hands clasped behind her back, examining books with the focused intensity of someone conducting an audit.
Which, Ramona realized, she probably was.
A demon from Hell’s corporate structure had just been unleashed in Mystic Moon Books.
This was going to be a long day.
The first hour passed quietly. A tourist couple came in, buying a book about manifesting abundance.
An older woman browsed the tarot section for twenty minutes before leaving empty-handed.
A college student asked if they had “anything real,” and Ramona had to give her standard response about “helping people connect with their spiritual practice” while internally screaming.
Through it all, Zara browsed. She moved through the store with methodical precision, occasionally picking up a book, reading the back, setting it down. Clearly making mental notes. During a lull, she approached the counter.
“Question,” Zara said, leaning back against the counter as she gestured toward the store. “Why do you sell fake magic?”
Ramona glanced toward the door with a surge of anxiety. She lowered her voice. “We don’t sell fake magic. We sell… spirituality-adjacent products to non-magical people.”
“Non-magical people.” Zara tested the phrase.
“Non-mages.” Ramona straightened a display of amethyst clusters that didn’t need straightening. “The human witching community decided a long time ago it was best if the non-mages don’t have to interact with what they don’t understand. When we tried, it resulted in, well, a lot of burnt stakes.”
“So you hide.”
“We coexist. Separately.” Ramona moved to restock some candles. “Some covens have a trusted few who know — family members, close friends. But mostly we keep our worlds apart. It’s safer for everyone.”
“Safer,” Zara repeated. “That’s kind of sad, Mortal.”
“Yeah, well.” Ramona didn’t want to get into the politics of it.
The debates at Thornwood Coven meetings about exposure versus secrecy, tradition versus progress.
“The non-mages get their crystals and tarot cards and books about manifesting. We get to practice actual magic without being killed or studied in a lab.”
“And where do actual witches get their supplies?”
“There used to be a few shops. But most closed.” Ramona shrugged. “It’s mostly online these days. There’s still one that I know of in Thornwood near the academy. And you can get anything shipped if you know where to look.”
Something shifted in Zara’s expression. Her eyes lit up — actually lit up, with a gleam that made Ramona nervous. “A business opportunity,” Zara said.
Ramona raised an eyebrow.
“But the demand clearly exists—”
The bell above the door chimed. A middle-aged man in loose linen capris entered, heading straight for the essential oils. Ramona gave Zara a pointed look that said this conversation is over and went to help the customer.
But as she explained the properties of lavender versus eucalyptus, she could feel Zara watching her. Assessing. Cataloging.
It made her skin prickle.
Around eleven, during another quiet stretch, Ramona found Zara standing in front of another display, staring at it with the expression of someone witnessing a crime.
“Problem?” Ramona asked.
“This sage bundle,” Zara said slowly, holding up a small bundle of white sage tied with purple string, “costs twelve dollars.”
“Yeah?”
“And this book”—she picked up a paperback about crystal healing—“costs eight dollars.”
“Okay?”
“The sage bundle is three plant stems tied together. The book is two hundred pages of printed information.” Zara looked at Ramona. “Your pricing structure makes no sense.”
“My boss prices things based on what he thinks people will pay.”
Zara looked personally affronted by that philosophy. “That’s not a pricing structure. That’s chaos with a cash register.”
“Welcome to my life.”
Zara set down the sage and the book, shaking her head. “And the inventory system is… Do you even have one?”
Ramona glanced back toward the register. “There’s a spreadsheet. Somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” Zara looked like she might launch into a panic attack at any moment.
“Marcus updates it occasionally. When he remembers. Which is never.”
“How do you know what needs restocking?”
Ramona shrugged. “I look at the shelves. If they’re empty, I restock them. If we don’t have it, I make a note of it.”
Zara stared at her. “That’s not a system.”
“I’m aware.”
“This place shouldn’t function.” Zara ran a hand hastily through her hair, clearly stressed.
“And yet here we are. Functioning.” Ramona moved past her to help a customer who’d just walked in — a young woman looking for birthday candles, the regular kind, because apparently Mystic Moon Books was now also a place people came for emergency party supplies.
When the customer left with the same candles Ramona usually recommended for cord cutting, Ramona turned back to find Zara examining the discount bin with a look of pure horror.
“These books aren’t even organized by category,” Zara said.
“They’re five dollars each. People dig.”
“But if you organized them — by genre, or author, or even just alphabetically — people would buy more because they could actually find what they’re looking for.”
“Probably.”
Zara pinched the bridge of her nose — a gesture that looked eerily similar to what Ramona did when dealing with Marcus. “We have one hundred and seventeen different departments just for processing soul contracts. And somehow, this”—she gestured at the store—“is more chaotic than Hell.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
The bell chimed again. This time, Ramona’s stomach dropped.
Marcus.