Michelle Krys: Hexed

She crosses the small shop, heels clacking on the wood floors, but stops in her tracks when she gets a better look at me. Her gray eyes pass over every inch of my face, like she might find the answer to her question there. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I run my thumb under the strap of my bag.

Mom knows me too well to believe me, but she lets it go for now. “Okay … ,” she says cautiously. “Well, I better get going. It’s my turn to host the Wicca Society meeting and the house is a mess.”

I cringe and refuse to meet Devon’s eyes. He’s been to the shop tons of times (in fact, he’s intimately familiar with the storeroom), but I’m just as mindful of all the laughable things he’s seeing now—the ritual candles, the silver chalices, the altar cloths, the pentacles that hang from the low ceiling—as the first time he came.

“Will I be okay leaving you two alone?” Mom asks, which makes Devon laugh and me turn forty-two shades of red. “I’m kidding, but, Indigo, could I speak with you for moment?”

Mom’s eyes flash to Devon. He, unlike Paige, can take a hint, and pads off to the black cauldron on display in the center of the room.

Mom watches to make sure he’s not paying attention, then leans in toward me. “I don’t mind your boyfriend coming over, it’s just …” She looks at Devon again. He has moved to the bookcase and is running his finger over the spines of the books.

“What, Mom?”

“Just don’t let him near the book, okay?”

I don’t have to ask what book she’s referring to. The Witch Hunter’s Bible. To me, it’s just one of many weird books in the shop, but ever since Grandma gave it to Mom on her deathbed, Mom has been sort of obsessed with it—witness the backyard hole-digging incident—I know better than to be anything but completely serious when I answer her.

“No, Mom, I won’t let him anywhere near the book, as I’ve told you already a billion times.”

“I’m serious, Indigo. If that book gets into the wrong hands—”

“I said I won’t. Jeez, what happened to the good old sex talk?”

“Ha-ha,” Mom deadpans. But my answer has satisfied her. She shoulders her bag. “All right, then, you kids be good. I’ll be back before late.”

“Bye, Ms. Blackwood,” Devon says, strolling over.

As soon as Mom leaves, Devon slackens his perfect posture. “There’s some really screwed-up shit in this place, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” I say dryly, walking to the chair behind the counter.

Devon follows. He picks up a dagger from a nearby display and turns it over in his hands. “What’s this for?”

I shrug, like I don’t know exactly what it’s for. Which I do. “Ceremonial tool. Or something like that.”

He casually checks out the price tag and does a double take. “Two hundred dollars? Who would spend that much on some crappy old knife?”

“Any number of weirdos. It’s L.A., remember?”

He laughs and puts the dagger back (in the wrong spot, I note), then leans his forearms on the counter and gives me a mischievous smile.

Most times I’d consider stealing from young children to snag a little more alone time with Devon, but right now I just wish he’d leave. I need to think, or whatever it is people do when they witness a death. But I’m guessing it’s not suck face.

“I think the storeroom needs stocking,” he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“We have that math test tomorrow,” I say.

“And?” He leans across the counter and kisses me. I don’t want to hear about how I never want to “do stuff ” anymore for the next week, so I kiss him back for a good solid minute before pushing him away.

“ And I don’t want to fail. And you can’t fail,” I say, poking him in the chest, “or else you’re not allowed to homecoming. Remember what your dad said?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you didn’t want to kiss me.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. All I want to do is kiss you.”

This earns me a grin, which unexpectedly blooms into a full-on smile.

“What?” I ask.

“How much do you love me?”

“Uh, tons … ,” I say carefully.

“Like more than you ever thought possible, right?” He looks barely able to contain his glee.

“Sure. Now what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” he says, reaching into his back pocket. “Simply that I got us these two front-row seats for the Jay-Z concert tomorrow.” He brandishes two crisp blue tickets.

I know I’m supposed to react better than to blink at him a bunch—I know this because the huge smile wipes right off his face like he’s just been doused with a bucket of ice-cold water.

“My dad got them off this investor he works with. The concert’s been sold out for months. I thought you’d be excited.” He scuffs the toe of his shoe against the floor.

“I am excited. really, I am. Just, what about the game tomorrow? Scouts are coming, and you know Bianca would send a lynch mob after me if I didn’t show.”

“It’s not till after the game,” he says. “We’d miss the opening bands, but they always suck anyway.” He’s in serious mope-mode now.

“Well, then it’s perfect!” I say, forcing a cheery tone. “And I love you so much it’s disgusting and should be illegal.” I grab a handful of his shirt and pull him in for a deep kiss. When I feel absolved, I murmur “Thank you” against his mouth and then push him back across the counter. “Now get out of here.”

He gives me a dazed smile. “I should get going. Told the guys to order for me. Jay-Z! Woo!” He drums his hands on the counter before turning to leave, rap lyrics accompanying him out of the store.

Sighing, I dig my hands into my pockets. The rough edges of crumpled-up paper catch my finger.

The note.

I pull it out and flatten the edges, which are stained with dried blood. What I see makes my breath catch in my throat.

The Black Cat. 290 Melrose Avenue.

The dead guy was coming to our shop.

Isit cross-legged at the kitchen table, mechanically eating a bowl of cereal while watching the tiny TV perched on the countertop. It’s practically on mute, because for some reason that I suspect involves alcohol, Aunt Penny’s asleep on our couch.

In the time I’ve spent not sleeping—obsessively flicking between local news stations, hoping to learn more about the death I witnessed—I’ve come to a couple of conclusions: one, the guy committed suicide, like Paige guessed, probably by jumping out a window; two, the note with Mom’s shop’s address was purely coincidental, and three, I’m a complete idiot for thinking otherwise.

Seriously, what does it matter if he visited the shop in the past or planned to visit in the future?

It doesn’t. I’m an idiot. I’m talking Lloyd-and-Harry kind of dumb. But it’s not surprising that I’d jump to radical conclusions, having been raised to believe aliens, witches, and vampires exist.

Still, I watch the news, hoping to find out more. You know. For closure.

“Hey, hon.”

Mom strides into the kitchen wearing a threadbare bathrobe and slippers, with a virtual bird’s nest of hair piled on top of her head. It’s the closest to looking like a normal mom she’ll get all day.

“Turn that down a bit,” she says. “Aunt Penny’s sleeping.”

She pulls a pack of Virginia Slims from the carton she keeps in the freezer so they stay fresh—because aren’t fresh cancer sticks what we all want?—then sinks into a chair across from me, lighting the cigarette pressed between her lips. Her eyes narrow on the TV as she exhales. “What, no MTV?”