Chapter Four #2
She could spew small talk until her voice cracked when it suited, but in this moment, she would not. Instead, Alora rolled her eyes, determined to keep her back to him. That was, until she noticed a suspicious plant vining up the wall.
“Is that...” She stepped closer, enough to see the tiny blue thorns and the just-as-small blue flowers on an otherwise deep green vine. “It is! That’s a Dirededron. A Grave Digger! Did you know if you jostle it the spores will settle in your lungs and kill you in a terrible way?”
The shopkeeper’s expression remained lazy and unconcerned, the sight of which irked her endlessly.
This was why dust encased the place, why no labels were printed, and why no more than two lamps showcased the shelves.
He swirled the contents of his mug. The smoke drifted upward.
“It’s a good thing I don’t jostle it then. ”
Alora could only stare. She took him in, standing there. His black trousers and black boots, his back to a rickety-looking staircase leading to somewhere above, and a doorway which must lead to either storage or a back entrance or both. Her eyes narrowed. He lifted one dark eyebrow.
“What?”
She raised her chin. “Nothing.”
“You certainly aren’t staring as if it’s nothing.”
A scoff left her lips even as her neck warmed. “It’s only that I am used to paying attention to the contents of a room. I know when something fits in a space. And when it doesn’t.”
“Cheers to your accomplishment.” He raised his cup. But while his tone had once again turned dry, his eyes seemed to skewer her in place.
“You don’t fit here. Where is the real owner of this establishment?”
“I am the owner.”
“A joke, surely. You couldn’t be further from someone I would imagine bent behind a counter dallying in ledgers.
No matter that the place is in desperate need for rearranging, among other things.
” She had a hundred ideas to turn this shop into something if not admirable, then at least passable.
A good cleaning to start. And more lighting.
Perhaps sconces, with adorable patterns etched into blown glass…
“And where do you imagine I belong? I’ll ignore the jab at my configuration, for your sake.” He reclined against the staircase, ankles crossed, studying her as closely as she did him. Aside from his eyes, which glittered as they speared her, he was devoid of color, endlessly dark.
It unnerved her. “In a shadowed alley. Maybe in possession of one of those heirloom daggers stealing others’ hard-earned money.”
She was only half-serious, but his lips lifted. “Nights can be very long. Who says I don’t entertain both lifestyles?”
Alora ground her teeth, refusing to let him bait her. But sometimes her refusals weren’t enough. She latched on. “You admit to being a pickpocket?”
“A pickpocket? In Enver? Where strangers clap one another’s shoulders with a smile, and ladies sing “good mornings” from their balconies? Hardly satisfying; they’d probably wish me well.”
Alora, who’d most definitely sung aloud while watering flowers atop her terrace, blushed. A color which deepened when he made a great show of examining her person, from her boots to her head. “If I were a betting man, I’d say you smile at everyone.”
She laughed, incredulous, then preened. “Yet you’ve not received one. You should be disappointed as I’ve been complimented on my smile many times.”
The proprietor reached once more for his cup. “You’re smiling at me right now.” Alora, realizing her error, clacked her teeth together. “And you’re right. I would have been dreadfully disappointed.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’ve not mocked you once, Miss Whoever-You-Are. You’re misreading me. In fact, it’s been you who has repeatedly judged—”
A soft chirp cut off whatever further comment the supposed shop owner was about to say. Instead, Alora caught the widening of his eyes and the sudden stillness of his form before she turned to find the sweet barshet sitting placidly, watching her, from several feet away.
“Don’t,” demanded the shopkeeper.
Alora opened her mouth to protest that she'd not planned to do anything but stilled when she saw his expression. The quiet horror she found there caused an icy burn to form in her own chest then. When the barshet chirped again, hopping forward, Alora shuffled back. Her hips met the counter with a jarring thud she didn’t pay attention to.
Should she really be so terrified of such a creature?
She wanted to ask if she should run, but he’d told her not to speak, and she didn’t know how fast it could move. How fast it could claw its way down her throat. It wouldn’t really, would it?
Goddammit! Why had she chosen this shop?
The barshet gurgled, and Alora watched as it began to fall within itself, flattening to the floor. What was happening to it? Was it dying?
A sharp curse left the proprietor a moment before arms snaked beneath hers, hauling her up and over the counter. A mere second later, a distinct splat was heard from the opposite side.
Quick breaths pulsed against her back as she was enveloped by the scent of vetiver. It was quite nice, despite the circumstances.
“It almost had you. It should be stunned now.”
She could hardly register the strong pair of arms wrapped around her from behind, nor the feel of the shopkeeper’s broad chest against her back, before they were gone.
“Wait!” she cried out, as he abandoned her for the back of the shop.
Alora clapped both hands over her mouth immediately upon realizing her mistake.
A familiar chirp sounded behind her, and she screamed.
The barshet, not so stunned apparently, slithered onto the counter.
It gazed up at her adoringly. Perhaps too much so?
Alora replaced her hands over her mouth, determined to keep it from leaping down her throat.
With one foot behind the other, she backed carefully away.
The creature would not be deterred. She observed in horror as it made to sink into itself as before. Any moment now and it would spring—
A frying pan smashed onto the countertop.
Alora screamed again, though it was muffled by her hands, and leapt backward, slamming her back into the staircase hard enough to bruise. The shopkeeper released the handle. Green goo oozed from its side, dripping from the counter’s edge.
“Is it dead?” Alora whispered, hoarse, hands clutching her throat.
“Likely.” Glancing her over, he turned back, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe up the mess on the floor. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said, even as her back throbbed. She supposed it was nice he cared to—
“Good,” he replied, from his crouched position. “You owe me one hundred evergolds.”
***
Horrible man, she seethed, tossing her satchel onto a chair before easing into the one beside. As if I'd pay him for the experience of nearly losing my voice to a creature he has no business keeping.
“Hello, dear. Would you like the usual?”
Alora glanced up to the familiar apple cheeks and short gray curls belonging to Ellie Turkens.
“Yes, thank you. But also, I was wondering if you knew of a book cataloguing rare creatures. I recently learned of one today, a barshet, and am curious to know more.” Like what the proprietor of Potions and Peculiarities meant by “likely” when asked if the creature was dead.
“Hmm, let me do some investigating. Be back shortly.”
Alora watched Ellie go, disappearing beyond shelves of books to ready her order.
If anyone could find her information on a subject, it would be Ellie Turkens.
The woman had begun El’s Books and Nibbles back when she was younger than Alora, and she was at least eighty now, though you'd never guess given her energy.
Alora let her mind drift as she studied the plants nestled in crannies and hanging from the ceiling.
Small butterflies and several bees flitted about them, as Ellie often left the back door open in invitation.
She wondered if they’d weathered the storm inside, or if they’d come in recently now that it’d moved on.
She desperately needed the tea to be strong today. She’d love the largest cup Ellie owned, the one with blue flowers preferably—Alora’s favorite color—and a single cube of sugar to cut the edge. Yes, that would be perfection.
“Oh!” Alora gasped, said cup materializing at her fingertips.
She glanced around, but thankfully there was no one seated near her.
There was a man perusing the shelves, but he was behind her and thoroughly engrossed in his finds.
Her breath shuddered still; Ellie would be back soon.
How would she ever explain having retrieved her own cup of tea?
Not two heartbeats later, she heard the familiar laugh of the bookshop owner.
As panic built, Alora could do the only plausible thing.
She downed the contents of her cup in three swallows.
Tongue scalded, chest afire, she hardly managed to toss the cup into her satchel where it clattered loudly when Ellie Turkens appeared at her side.
“Here you are, dear. Black tea, nice and strong today, to beat back the disruption the thunder leaves on our energies, and a warm tomato and cheese— Oh, sweetheart! Whatever is the matter?”
Alora brushed the tears from her eyes, leftover from downing hot tea like a draft horse, and gifted the proprietor a watery smile. “It’s nothing, Mrs. Turkens.”
“It isn’t nothing if you’re tearing about it. Tell me, child. Are you hurting?”
Only her tongue, but Alora couldn’t very well explain that. “I met a very rude man today.” Let Ellie think her common reaction to distasteful people was sorrow rather than anger.
“Ah,” clucked the old woman. “Now you know what you do with rude men, don't you?”
Alora shook her head.
“Poor darling. I’ll tell you now. You pull out your favorite color, freshen your lipstick nice and slow, and while they’re distracted, staring right at your pretty mouth, you say: Piss off!”
Alora laughed, unable to help herself. And Ellie Turkens, her lipstick pink as petals, grinned back at her. “You’ll be fine, dear. Drink your tea.”
Slightly worried over what another cup of black tea would do to her nerves, Alora dutifully took a sip.
It was leagues better than the one she’d imagined.
Partly because it wasn’t scalding hot and pouring down her throat, but also that Ellie Turken’s tea was incredibly enchanted, her blends well on their way to becoming legend.
Steam wafted upward in the shape of dahlias.
“And here is your book. I hardly remember what a barshet is, but it should be in there. Let me know if it isn’t.”
Alora finished half her sandwich before diving into the text. It was a brown book, Rare Creatures of the West, and it did, indeed, catalog the barshet, its bat-like eyes illustrated to peer up at her from the page.
THE BARSHET
Characteristics: Cartilaginous endoskeleton with gelatinous covering, usually yellow or green in color. Notable by one to three horns atop its head. Hermaphrodites. Enjoys water. Brings luck if squeezed in a number synchronous with its horns.
Warning: attracted to voices. Preference unknown but appears to be specific to each creature. If motivated, will attempt burrowing toward sound, often killing the host in the process.
Avoid leaving in direct, hot sun. Will melt and perish.
Alora glared at the page as she chewed. Either the proprietor of that horrid Peculiarities shop was ignorant, or he’d lied to her.
Likely he lied and the creature was happily back in its cage.
To think he called her out for judging. Why, she’d been correct on every score!
She swallowed another sip of tea, regarding the red floral pattern of the cup.
She didn’t think she’d ever been so impulsive, not since she’d learned to control her imaginings in her teenage years.
First the candlestick, then the almost-chaise, and now the tea.
People admired those with vivid imaginations.
They made for many creative types. Most of which ended up in this far west, whimsical town of Enver, chasing various delights and utilizing their own.
But as far as Alora was aware, there were none so vivid as her own, capable of bringing into the world whatever she imagined.
It began as a child wishing for a stuffed doll, something to sleep with at night.
When her parents discovered it the following morning, asking where she’d gotten it, she’d told them she'd found it. Which she supposed wasn’t really a lie, considering she’d found it inside her own head.
It progressed from there. Her youthful imagination conjured all sorts of things she’d wished for, from favorite sweets to hair ribbons to toys.
It wasn’t until she'd brought about a living thing that trouble ensued.
A brown, flop-eared bunny, but one not quite right, a vital part missing—
Alora’s eyes lifted to a flap of wings. Ellie’s twin owls had come to lay curious eyes on the patrons. She supposed the previously dark skies must have woken them, a trickery into believing an early night had come.
“Lucille. Loretta.” She nodded a hello, the birds’ snow-white heads swiveling in unison as she rose. She’d another appointment which required a brief stop at home, and she mustn’t linger any longer thinking of dark shops and even darker rooms.
No, those were definitely after dinner musings.
She left payment for the book and the meal, tucking the volume within her burgeoning satchel.
Thinking over it for a moment, she pulled the teacup and the candlestick from the bag, placing it on the table.
Ellie believed one could never have enough teacups, and as Alora wasn’t of similar thought, it would probably get much more use in the bookshop.
And as for the candlestick— Well, she’d gotten a little overzealous in her imaginings.
Its base was solid silver and would be worth quite a lot. Also, it was heavy.