Ash & Ink (Memories in Ash #1)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Aisling dropped her sword in her horror. Nearby, her dragon roared with fury. Across the battlefield, the giant cat…
“Wait. What the fuck? Cat?” I mutter as I go back and re-read the last paragraph I’ve written.
It’s three in the morning and I’ve already worked a full day, but this is the only time I have to work on the novel that I am desperately trying to churn out.
Clearly, I’m a little wiped if my heroine and her dragon are battling a cat the size of a fucking mastodon.
I lean back and rub my eyes. I’ve spent way too long tonight going back and forth over whether or not I should be jumping on the dragon-train that is currently all the rage in fantasy literature. I’m still not completely sure if I’m going to keep it in or not. Are dragons over done? Maybe.
But Aisling’s dragon is a particularly sarcastic blue dragon with iridescent scales that she just merged with for the first time. Total. Badass.
That’s it. I’m keeping it. Bitches love dragons.
The alarm is screaming at me entirely too early for my liking.
Rolling over, I viciously jab at my phone until the atrocity stops.
My eyes feel gritty as I shuffle to the bathroom, then the whole five steps to the kitchen for that life-giving elixir known as coffee.
My apartment is the size of most people’s kitchens, but it’s what I’ve got for now.
Taking the coffee with me back to the bathroom, I start the shower.
In this place, I have enough time to finish my first cup and even pour a second before the water is up to a warm enough temperature for me to enjoy.
I usually like to use my shower time to try to plot out my story, but I’m too tired this morning.
Instead, I shower in a hurry and rush through my usual get-ready-for-work routine.
I throw my rainbow-colored hair up into a messy bun, slapping on some foundation and black winged liner.
It feels very early aughts, but I like the way it brings out my dark eyes.
Digging through the floordrobe—because I cannot be bothered to actually put my clothing away—I shimmy my way into a pair of torn black jeans and a t-shirt that says “the answer to everything is in a book”.
Thankfully, given where I work, my full sleeve of book tattoos is a non-issue.
I unearth my ancient Chucks from underneath the writing desk jammed in the corner of my apartment, and deem myself as-good-as-it’s-gonna-get.
My apartment isn’t in the greatest neighborhood, but it isn’t the worst either.
It’s within walking distance to the bookstore that I work at, which is the majority of its appeal.
That, and the fact that the rent is under $300 a month, but I only have that perk because my boss owns it and is willing to rent it out to me.
When I had first stumbled upon the quaint neighborhood of Willow Creek, I remember thinking it was a hidden gem nestled amidst the bustling city.
The cobblestone streets were absolutely charming, lined with quaint shops and cozy cafes, and it exuded an old-world charm that just transports visitors back in time.
On my very first visit, the air was filled with the aroma of freshly baked pastries from the local bakery, and the sound of laughter echoing from the children playing in the central square.
The neighborhood's architecture is a delightful blend of Victorian and Georgian styles, with colorful facades adorned with intricate details and wrought iron balconies.
Each shop has its unique personality, from the antique store overflowing with vintage treasures, to the artisanal chocolatier tempting passersby with its decadent creations.
Back then, I had wandered the area for hours, window shopping, treating myself to a coffee from the local shop. I had realized that this area was more than just a collection of shops; it was a community where neighbors knew each other by name and shared a sense of belonging.
I had sat on a bench as the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the cobblestone streets and Willow Creek had transformed into a magical wonderland.
The shops and cafes lit up with twinkling lights, creating a festive atmosphere that invited visitors to linger and enjoy the evening.
As I sat and inhaled the smells, taking in the groups of people meandering down the sidewalk, I couldn’t help but think about how lucky one would be to find that a place like this was their place.
Then, Betsy had sat on the bench next to me and my life had changed forever.
Before I even knew what was happening, she was leading me to a well-maintained apartment building and showing me into an apartment she had available.
By the next morning, myself, and my meager belongings not only had an apartment, but had a job too.
Taking my time walking to the store, I take in a deep breath.
I love this time of year. The flowers and plants outside of the various businesses that I pass are starting to scent the air, but the humidity and heat haven’t really cranked up yet.
It’s sunny and gorgeous, and I savor the fresh air and my time in the light.
I’ll be inside the majority of the day, although I know Betsy—the owner of Wanderlust—couldn’t care less if I step out to breathe during the day, especially if we’re slow.
Pulling out my keys, I approach the tall brick building, home to the smell of cozy pages to get lost in.
The sides are covered in ivy, giving it a witchy, cozy appearance that I’ve always adored.
The wide front windows sparkle in the morning sun.
Unlocking the heavy wooden door, the bell above it jingles cheerily as I let myself in.
Founded by my boss, the beloved Betsy, in the heart of the city, Wanderlust Bookshop has become a beloved fixture in the community.
Betsy's vision was to create more than just a place to buy books; she wanted a welcoming spot where people could lose themselves in stories and find kindred spirits.
Over the years, it has hosted numerous literary events, book signings, and writing workshops.
She definitely won the lottery when she bought the charming old building.
Books are lined up on deep, floor to ceiling cherry wood shelves, a feast of different colors and sizes.
The old wooden floor, creaky under my sneakers, is covered in worn rugs in rich, deep colors.
There are crystals and bowls of tumbled stones set out on various surfaces.
Each floor has its own fireplace, surrounded by comfy chairs and love seats that are covered in mounds of throw pillows and various blankets.
Annemarie’s cafe takes up a large portion of the second floor. She has a fancy espresso machine and makes amazing coffees, as well as a variety of pastries and baked goods daily. She really has a gift in the kitchen and people tend to flock in on her working days to indulge in tasty treats.
Betsy’s goal was for Wanderlusts’ cozy reading nooks to invite visitors to linger for hours, while large windows let in streams of natural light during the day, and it worked.
The shop's eclectic decor reflects Betsy's whimsical personality, featuring vintage typewriters, mismatched furniture, and walls adorned with quotes from famous authors.
I take a deep breath. Oh, that smell. There’s nothing like it.
There’s the remnants of the sandalwood and amber incense Betsy enjoys burning, the coffee from the stand in the back corner, and the amazing baked goods that Annemarie baked on-site overnight, but above all of that, is the smell of stories.
That smell of the new, the old, the previously loved, books.
It must be like catnip to reading nerds like me because it always relaxes me in a way nothing else does. For me, this place is absolute magick.
I place my things behind the counter, tucking them under the antique cash register that Betsy insists on.
She’s convinced that it adds to the overall ambience and charm.
I can’t say she’s wrong, but it took me three years of working here to convince her that electronic payment methods weren’t going away and we needed to invest in something (literally anything) else.
So, in addition to the antique register, we now have a tablet with the ability to take card and touch payments.
I start the music for the day, choosing something with strings, and head to the stock room to begin processing the newest arrivals.
This is usually my favorite part of the day.
The debut books that authors have slaved over, often after months or years of work and possible rejection.
I can only imagine the terror and exhilaration of sending these babies out into the world.
The indie-published authors who took a huge plunge to do it on their own.
The internationally known best-selling authors who have dozens of hits under their belts.
They’re all here, together, for this small space of time; worlds and creatures and true crime and myths all together, all equal.
It gives me hope that maybe someday, I’ll be stocking my own book on these shelves and agreeing to a signing for Betsy.
I’m so busy daydreaming about what it’d be like to write, finish and publish an actual book that I’m surprised when Betsy sticks her head in the door. She jingles some keys at me. Oops. Not just any keys. My keys. Shit.
“Casie! You left these in the door. Again.” she sings at me.
This is hardly the first time this has happened.
Betsy is well versed in my ADHD. I often leave my keys in the door, misplace the store’s phone, get hyper-focused on stocking shelves, and I may or may not have once locked a patron inside one night after closing because I forgot the gentleman existed.