Chapter 10 Consequences, Schmonsequences #2
Arriving at the shop begins with disappointment.
I don’t find a cash-filled envelope slipped underneath the door, in the mail slot, or taped onto the ceiling, dangling down like a bat.
I’m left with no recourse but to text Amanda and Dave, sending a message or two.
Or five. Maybe add another zero. Who’s counting?
The answer, of course, is me, because it’s my job to keep track of money! Especially the kind that vanishes in unseemly ways.
“What do you want to do next?” Bulan asks after I’ve moved on to more productive tasks than texting. “Besides taking out your feelings on poor Rosie’s herbs.”
“This works great for me,” I reply. “The sound of smashing glass helps clear my mind.”
“I see,” says Bulan.
“You haven’t asked me why I’m still here,” I mention. “You knew I was planning to leave the moment Grandma Rose ascended to the heavens, didn’t you? That I was going to get on a train this morning?”
“Ah, yes. What happened?”
I drop my arm, the violent impulse evaporating at the empathy in Bulan’s voice.
“I’m still here. And that isn’t acceptable. I need to go back to New York to work. To live. If I’m stuck in Salem, I’m going to go broke. I could starve.”
“Oh no! That would be terrible,” says Bulan. “I’m sure Rosie wouldn’t have wished that.”
“She clearly did.”
“There must be some sort of misunderstanding. It was ‘seven tides, twice passed’ that you were waiting for, correct? Perhaps the wording of the will was more nebulous than you realized.”
“Grandma was terrible at riddles, but she loved wordplay,” I say, frowning. “Maybe I should look at the will myself. See if there’s some kind of misunderstanding in what she said.”
“That sounds like an excellent next step!” says Bulan.
And who would trust Baldy’s interpretation, anyway? I should’ve asked this a long time ago.
As I sweep the last armful of broken herb jars to the trash, I catch sight of a strange figure darkening the doorway outside. He’s a well-dressed man with a deeply unpleasant expression. The smolder of it makes me jump in place, like an agitated gazelle.
“Bulan,” I say once I’m level-footed. “We have another creepy visitor.”
“Getting into position!” he calls out.
Deftly avoiding the glass on the floor, Bulan rolls into an emptied box and hides. Why did he do that? The sight of this random stranger has wormed hope back into my heart.
“Get out of there! He could have my payment from the vampires.”
Muffled by cardboard, the head replies, “I doubt it. He would’ve left it at the door, rather than staring at you for the past hour.”
I don’t know how to process this. “What?”
“From across the street. He was hiding behind that green Prius.”
“No, I mean, ‘what’ as in ‘why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ ”
“Sorry, I thought you knew. You might reconsider that violent smashing practice of yours, Sabby; it doesn’t seem to be helping.”
Bulan has a point. I push away my thoughts of Grandma and the will to take another, harder look at my stalker.
The hook-nosed man leans against the door and sips at his coffee, blocking anyone from entering.
He isn’t wearing a cape, dressed up, or otherwise doing anything suspicious beyond exuding a sexy air that could potentially melt the historic brick wall he’s settling against. He’s nowhere near my type—I’d take Hanry over him any day of the week—but whatever he’s here for, he sure is causing a scene.
This is impressive because over the two miserable weeks I’ve been stuck here, Salem has stumbled ever deeper into the stupor of its Halloween season.
You’d think the tourists would have something else to titter about than a moody Adam Driver look-alike who isn’t even in costume.
That they’d have jack-o’-lanterns to carve or Wiccan candles to melt onto the stoops of their Airbnbs.
I frown. This guy better not be here to complain about Dave and Amanda’s wedding. Fighting back worry, I swing my garbage bag of old herbs and broken glass over my shoulder and walk them to the trash.
“If he’s here for me,” I say, resolved, “he should’ve come in already.”
“Indeed. Unless, of course, he can’t.” Bulan peeks over the edge of the cardboard box, his bushy red eyebrows knitted. “Fay can’t enter a room uninvited, you see, and that one has big fay energy. They can be such bitchy brats, I swear.”
“Fay? As in fairy?”
“The very same.”
Hmph. I don’t know anything about fay, but with the mood I’m in, a bitch-off sounds great. I give the stranger another ten minutes before I stroll to the door and push away the fake spider and cobweb decorations dangling over it.
“Feel free to come in,” I announce to the air. “Mr. Fairy Man.”
Acting like he doesn’t hear me, the dark and sexy character swigs back his (presumably black) coffee and glares at generally nothing and no one.
Oh god, he’s resentful that he’s been made to wait so long. I love this.
“Well, I’ll be inside,” I say.
More than five minutes later, he finally enters the shop.
Ignoring the googly-eyed spider that drops onto his arm, he announces, “I’ve finished my coffee.
” His deep voice reminds me of caramel. But after it’s returned to room temperature and gotten stiff and globby. “Where is your waste receptacle?”
“Corner, behind the antique broom collection.”
He sullenly follows my directions, then spins on me with a sharp tap of his dress heel.
I may have limited experience with Salem’s paranormal underground, but how can this guy be fay?
Mom filled more than half of her bookshelves with stories about fairy boyfriends and courtesans.
Those fairies seemed capricious, violent, melodramatic, lascivious.
This guy, on the other hand, seems as hard-boiled as a cop.
Oh, shit—what if this semi-sexy guy is both a fay and some kind of detective from, I don’t know, the Massachusetts Commonwealth Paranormal Bureau of Investigation?
What if he’s here to arrest me for the vampires’ hungry antics last night?
Worse—what if Grandma has magical debts in addition to normal, human ones?
“Samantha Spük,” he rumbles.
Play it cool, Sabby. Play it cool. “Can I help you?” I ask.
“You may call me Rochester. And you know why I’m here.”
“Because I invited you inside?”
The self-proclaimed Rochester doesn’t respond to my joke. In fact, he directs an expression at me that’s so cold and intense, it feels as if he’s pressing down on my rib cage.
“Calm down,” I say-wheeze. “Go ahead and tell me.”
“On behalf of my client, I wish to procure a sample wedding planning package.”
After I get over my surprise, I spare a glance at the box where Bulan is hiding. In spite of my sustained attention, he doesn’t blurt out any helpful behavioral cues. Fine. I guess I’ll power through this congealed butter-stick of maybe-fay, bitchy-sexy energy by myself.
“So,” I say to Rochester. “What if I told you I wasn’t taking more clients right now?”
Rochester, apparently not a fan of active listening, whips a bound book of parchment from his overcoat.
“These are my clients’ requests,” he says. “I will return upon the eve of the waning moon to accept your quote.”
“Bad news, Roachster. You’re going to return to an empty building. I’m leaving for New York tonight.”
I’m surprised Bulan doesn’t call me out on the obvious lie.
“If you are not here, I can retrieve your custom quote from the doorway,” says the fay.
I shrug. “I could use more help with the recycling.”
With us in terse agreement, the self-proclaimed Rochester drops his stack of nonsense parchment onto the table. Then he exits, slamming the door on a plush spider. Rude.
Once he’s out of sight, I beeline for Bulan’s hiding place.
With a slightly manic air, I say, “Get out. Come on. We’re going to find Baldy and get to the bottom of this tide thing.”
“Sabby, don’t be hasty,” says Bulan. “Are you truly not considering that job?”
“Of course I’m not!”
“While you two were talking, I was thinking about last night’s wedding. Against great odds, you managed a fantastic event. It was a rip-roaring success!”
Time for a friendly reminder. “Remy nearly died.”
“Sure. From behind the scenes, the wedding wasn’t seamless,” Bulan allows. “But by daybreak, the guests were raving about the party—”
“As they drained the blood from half the rabbits of Essex County. Or decimated that butcher shop. Either way.”
“—and catering quirks aside, the guests truly enjoyed the intrigue and spectacle of your decorations! They had a great time. As did Dave and Amanda.”
But not enough to pay me. I place him on the table and sling my bag over my shoulder. “What’s your point?”
“I know you’ve noticed how many members of the Community have visited you, Sabby, including this most recent fay.
Now that you have your first big success under your belt, your business could take off tremendously!
And some clients might pay their deposits up front, if you asked!
You said you were worried about starvation. Perhaps this could ease your fears.”
Bulan waggles his eyebrows, as if that might be the final argument to convince me. It does not. I’m not particularly susceptible to facial hair.
Feeling the weight of stress bearing down on me like a pianoforte, I abandon Bulan with my bag on the table and pace my prison cell, aka Grandma’s apothecary.
I refocus on the room and my reality with a miserable and near-defeated sigh.
The circumstances are against me: I’m trapped in Salem, I’m hungry, I need to pay rent to Jane, I have no idea what I’m going to tell EFG, and I have shudderingly begun to make a reputation for myself here.
“I need to make a phone call,” I say begrudgingly.