Saturday afternoon is busy at the La Boite Magique. I'm fairly certain that we're going to need to replenish our inventory for touristy items, especially. I never knew there was such a market for occult items in New Orleans, but I suppose it makes sense. It's part of the lore here. But it wasn't only the tourists who filled these walls today.
I spent the day honing my skills of feeling sups. Either the entire supernatural population was in this store today, or there is far more here than I could've ever imagined. Most of the witches felt like a temperature, varying levels of warmth and comfort, while Vampires and Werewolves felt like a pull and push, respectively.
Miriam was quick to point out that it's important that I only use my newfound ability for identification purposes. Not all Vampires are friendly, not all werewolves should be feared, and not all witches are warm and comforting.
"Jo, the witches are a powerful group. There are some who practice alone. There are some that are in covens. There are some that practice Voodoo, or Santaria." she paused, giving me a look that conveyed how serious she was. "For those in power over those groups, how kindly do you think they are going to take to a werewolf of vampire/God hybrid? And there may be some that would prefer one to the other."
This caused me to swallow over a lump in my throat. "Which side are you on?"
She gave me a warm smile. "I'm on your side, baby girl. At this point, I think I might be the only one."
I file the memory away so I can focus on the task at hand. I'm refilling some of the bowls of stones we keep at the forefront of the store. Obsidian, Quartz, Tiger's Eye, and the like. Miriam has a wide selection and they seem to appeal to clients on both sides of the spectrum. One of the best sellers, certainly.
My mother used to collect rocks. Not just pretty rocks, or powerful rocks, just any rocks that struck her fancy. We used to make weekends of it. We'd pack an easy lunch in our old wicker picnic basket; just some cold cuts and fruit, and set off towards the mountains in our old beat-up Volvo. We lived near the forest, it was basically our backyard in Montana, so it was a trip we made often.
I still remember a time when we were lounging beside one of the prettiest rivers. We had laid out the old blue tattered blanket with pink flowers we kept in the trunk for this purpose and sat down. Mom was in her favorite blue gauze sundress with off-the-shoulder straps, and her wicker sun hat. It was a breezy day, and I remember the way her strands of auburn hair danced across her sunkissed nose. It's so vivid I can almost feel the wind if I focus hard enough.
The water was clear and cold as it lapped at my toes, and the rocks that we would find there were smooth from years of tumbling downstream. Mom loved the ones that had stripes all the way around them. She called them "wishing stones."
"See this stripe around the rock? If it is a single band all the way around and it's unbroken, it's a wishing stone. You close your eyes and run your finger around the rock while you make a wish. Then you throw it back into the water or give it to someone else and your wish will come true, but you have to make the wish for someone else. Not for yourself."
My house was full of wishing stones, and I don't think a single wish of ours came true. If my mother's did my life wouldn't reek of unfulfilled potential in art. If mine did, well, I'd still have a mother.
It seemed innocuous at first. She was a little more tired than usual, she started dropping things and complaining of muscle cramps. Then suddenly, six months later we were walking out of the doctor's office with an ALS diagnosis and a two to five year life expectancy.
I was sixteen at the time, and I just didn't accept that I was going to lose my only parent. I was convinced that she was somehow going to beat the odds and live a nice long life like others have.
I had never lost anyone in my life, so my personal experience with death was nil. But my mother, my strong protector and gentle nurturer was infallible in my mind. She was going to be just fine and I'd have her in my life for years to come. Obviously, that's not what happened.
Five years and one month later - two weeks after my twenty-first birthday, I buried my mother and I was left with no one. I looked to everyone that became a part of my life for the strength and stability I needed, but it only led to me being taken advantage of by people looking to use me.
I had abandoned an art scholarship and come home when things got bad for my mom. I always said I would go back but then Jason, my boyfriend at the time, moved in with me. He sat on my couch, ate my food, and drank my beer. He helped me spend my small inheritance from my mother on bullshit that didn't matter. I knew he was bad news. I knew he didn't really love me. Didn't really care about my life, but I couldn't give him up. He was all I had.
It took me getting my inheritance from Ray to realize that I didn't have space in my life for users. If I were to bring Jason along with me, he'd take everything I had for himself. He'd make all my moments his own. I left him the same time I left Montana. To be honest, this is the first time I've even thought about him since I got here. If that isn't a sign, I don't know what is.
Although I'm lost in thought, I feel him before I see him. I feel the push. Coming out of the backroom with a basket full of amethyst I find him standing near the rocks. Arms folded, chest puffed. His green eyes full of authority, looking like he had just come off a beach somewhere with his leather flip-flop sandals, worn jeans, and t-shirt.
"You can't touch me here, you know."
He scoffs. "That's not why I'm here."
"Well if you were here for shopping I think you would probably be browsing by now. What do you want, Vehric?"
I stop directly in front of him. Close enough that he could reach me if he wanted to, but we both know that he won't. He can see the power display for what it is. I prop the basket I'm carrying between my hand and my hip as I hold his gaze expectantly. His nostrils flare and he takes a few deep breaths. He's smelling me. Gross.
"Well, it seems that someone's been in your ear. I wonder who it could possibly have been."
I cock an eyebrow at him, already tired of this game. "You're obviously not here to shop, so can you at least move. I need to get to the shelf behind you."
He turns his head, looking at the shelf, making a show of deciding whether or not to comply with my request. Eventually, his manners win out as he shifts slightly to the side, giving me a small berth with which to do my job. I don't let my irritation show as I slip between him and the shelf to start restocking the various sizes of amethyst.
"He's not on your side, you know."
I snort, and respond without turning to face him. "And you are?"
"You're my mate."
My eyebrows press together in poorly veiled confusion and this time I want to read his face as he explains, so I turn. His lips quirk up at the corners, knowing he's won a small concession. "Your what?"
"My mate. Wolves' mates are decided by the moon. Only one mate is given to each wolf, and we mate for life. You are my mate."
I let the words wash over me, overwhelming like a rising tide. "I'm not your anything. And the fact that you want to take me and keep me as your own isn't winning you any points."
"I don't want to keep you. I want to worship you. Love you. Lead my pack with you by my side. Have children and a life. A happy life."
The tension in my face eases slightly, and I roll my lips between my teeth while I consider his words. "I don't even know you."
He gives a slight side smile. "But you could. If you would come with me."
I allow my mind to mull over the possibility. He's extremely handsome, well built, and fun to argue with. Definitely a dominant personality, but I can hold my own where I need to. I imagine a life with him. What our children might look like, and feel my reticence towards him fading with each moment I spend near him. He uses the opportunity to gently take my unoccupied hand, carefully as though I'm a horse he might spook.
"Spend some time with me. Get to know me. You're meant to be mine."
I pull my hand from his, remembering myself. "I don't belong to anyone but myself. And I don't know you, at all."
His gruff personality returns at that moment as his brows dip and he sets him mouth in a hard line. "And you know Azrael?" He scoffs hard, turning toward the door. "Mimi has my number. Call me when you change your mind."
When the door opens, he holds it there a moment, looking back at me with determination set in his features. "If you think Azrael's been so honest with you, ask him about your uncle. Ask him what really happened to Ray."
He left, letting the door close behind him. The remnant of the bell's song still hung in the air as the implication settled over me.