Waxing
Chapter One
The smell of sandalwood filled the store. Out of the corner of her eye, Liz watched the incense stick burn down. She liked the way the ash lengthened and dropped off. It was more entertaining than incense cones, smoldering away unseen in a tiny enclosure. Sticks weren’t especially cat-proof, but for the moment Morgana seemed happy to sun herself in the window.
Wednesday mornings were slow. People with real jobs were typically at work, and most college students were in bed. Liz’s schedule tended toward the nocturnal, but getting up a couple hours early to come into the store meant more money and time to read in relative peace.
The bell tinkled to announce a customer. She glanced at the man, who went directly to the bookshelves. She dismissed him and turned back to her book, but after a few minutes the floorboards creaked.
“Excuse me?” the cause of the creak said, and smiled a little too broadly. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
Liz smiled back without warmth. She knew his type. He was flirting, but only because he’d flirt with any woman as a matter of course. Since he was good-looking, he probably got away with it most of the time. “Sure. What do you need?”
“I’m doing research on werewolves. I’m a horror writer,” he said, though she hadn’t asked for an explanation.
Two could play the stupid flirting game. Liz was not going to be intimidated by well-proportioned and aesthetically pleasing facial features. “What horror writer doesn’t know about werewolves?”
That threw him for a couple of seconds. “The sort that’s mostly written about serial killers.”
She mentally paged through the inventory. There were several werewolf and shapeshifter books out on the floor. So either he just wanted to flirt, or…
“I’ve heard this place has some interesting stuff in the back room.”
She nodded.
“I was hoping you had something a little more useful back there. No offense, but that selection–” He shrugged again.
“It’s basically Borders inventory,” Liz said. “And moves frighteningly well.”
He smiled, as if acknowledging some bond between them. She grabbed the backroom keys from their hook while her customer sized up the place.
“Prices non-negotiable?” he asked, reading the sign by the cash register.
“You’d be amazed at the number of people who think they deserve a discount on their athame because it’s ‘just perfect.’ They’re generally the same people that pronounce the M in Samhain.”
“Ah.”
She led him past the cases of jewelry and trinkets and unlocked the door. He wasn’t as tall as she’d first thought, no more than three or four inches taller than she. Of course, she didn’t really want to start measuring anyone’s worth based on physical characteristics, not on general principles and especially not when she couldn’t fit back into her size 14 jeans.
“Dangerous stuff back here?” he asked with that smile.
She shook her head. “Not particularly. I, at least, am not seriously concerned that a freshman could actually summon a demon using any of these texts.”
The room was filled with bookshelves, and a few racks of bottled ingredients. She loved the smell back here, although at least one of the other clerks described it as “rank.”
“Some of them look pretty heavy, though. They might be able to bludgeon you to death.”
“That’s why I don’t turn my back on most customers.” She smiled back. “These aren’t one-of-a-kind books, but they also don’t have ISBNs.”
“Is that the test? You can’t have a genuine grimoire with an ISBN?”
“Well, I personally wouldn’t trust a magical tool I ordered from Amazon.” She shrugged.
“Luddite.”
Liz supposed she’d think it was a nice smile if she also thought it was sincere. “Hardly. But there is something to be said for handling the merchandise beforehand. And most people who know what they’re talking about are not writing for a particularly wide audience. Here, this is the lycanthropy section.”
“Amazing Dewey didn’t take it into account.”
“Don’t get me started on libraries. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Background information on the nature of the condition,” he shrugged. “Werewolf-specific poisons and curses, stuff like that.”
She nodded. Her co-worker Chloe took a kamikaze approach to research very much at odds with this man’s. Of course, thanks to her job at the magic shop, Chloe’s basic knowledge of the occult was better than most people’s.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“Sure.” He grinned again. “No bludgeoning, I promise.”
Liz lit a fresh incense stick and settled behind the cash register once more. The backroom didn’t get much traffic, though a few regulars came in periodically. A horror author was a new one. Chloe would get a kick out of it.
Three-quarters of an incense stick later, he emerged.
“These look like a good place to start.” He placed a pile of books on the counter and waited, as though interested in her approval. Or possibly merely waiting for her to perform her clerkly duties.
“You’ll be inspired to do horrible things to your poor werewolf.”
“Yeah, I’m never easy on my characters…Derek Connor, by the way.”
She made a note to check out the name and see if he really had published anything.
“Liz.”
The backroom inventory didn’t have price tags; she checked the listing under the counter.
“Another way to intimidate the college kids?”
She shook her head. “If you need to ask, you shouldn’t buy it.”
“That seems sort of classist. What about witchcraft for the masses?”
“The masses can do just fine without crystal wands and pewter goblets.” She shrugged. “The expensive toys aren’t for the serious practitioner.”
His total rang up. Liz blushed to see a number in the thousands.
“These books are toys, then?”
“I think I’ve got a decimal point issue.” She reentered, came up just shy of two hundred dollars and tried for a suave recovery. “Rule of thumb–unless it’s a particularly unusual or powerful grimoire, pricing’s comparable to technical books.”
“Lycanthropy for Dummies?”
“That is not a technical book.” She ran his Visa. “A dummy should not try to learn things like Oracle, and a real programmer should have some pride.”
“Are you a computer person?”
“I’m a snob,” Liz said, “and I hate posers.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“I am comfortable taking apart my PC, and I at least used to speak C++.” She tore off the printout and watched him sign with a jagged, illegible hand. “But mostly I’m smart enough to know when an expert should take over.”
“Wise beyond your years?”
“You could say that.”
He pointed at the book she’d been reading–Montaillou, a study of medieval heresy in the south of France. “For class or fun?”
She supposed the yellow “Used” sticker on the book’s cover did scream college bookstore, and she really shouldn’t feel offended that he thought she was an undergraduate.
“Fun,” she said.
Maybe he was drawing conclusions based on observations, and not just jumping to them. In any case, she was probably being unfair. She conceded it was probably partially due to the fact it had been a while since she’d last gazed affectionately into a pair of chocolate brown eyes. Just because she was in a bad mood didn’t mean that anyone who spoke to her had to be an asshole. Some people were just friendly and liked to make conversation.
“I’m reading things I didn’t get around to reading when they were actually assigned.”
“Good?”
“Fascinating.”
“Does it make you want to live in the fourteenth century?”
The book’s cover showed a bland picture of sheep grazing on a hillside, with the author’s name and the subtitle “The Promised Land of Error.” No references to the fourteenth century. Either he was making a very lucky guess, or he was familiar with the book.
“I like my flushing toilets and lack of religious persecution.”
His eyes went to the silver pentagram at her throat. “In that order?”
Liz shrugged. “I go to the bathroom more often than I pray.”
Derek stepped through a curtain of heat into the garage workshop.
He scented Carmen first, then Chris and Emily.
“How goes it?” Chris asked.
“Fine. Where are Jared and Savannah?”
“Late with lunch,” Carmen said. “Where were you?”
“Just out for a walk.” He’d stashed the books upstairs in the apartment, and had no intention of telling the others.
Chris withdrew the half-completed sculpture from the glory hole, a great glowing orb. Em, playing gaffer today, poured hot glass onto its surface and snipped away the excess with a pair of shears. Chris moved quickly to get it back into the furnace to equalize the temperature–the shears had cooled the area they touched. Carmen added a few strokes to the sketch of her next piece.
Glassblowing was the perfect art in so many ways, requiring skill and cooperation…
Cooperation. Derek thought of the books upstairs, and felt that he had betrayed…someone. Perhaps himself, perhaps the others, perhaps some greater ideal. He should tell them, ask for their help. They were supposed to help, supposed to be loyal.
He hadn’t exactly been able to count on loyalty lately.
Chris withdrew the sculpture once more and blew into it. The glob on the side expanded, though the shape of the orb remained unchanged.
“What’s this one called?” Derek asked, and instantly knew he’d made a mistake.
“It’s untitled,” Carmen informed him. Her tone made him feel better about hiding the books. “If you can’t look at it and intuit a name, then it’s hardly worth slapping on a meaningless label, is it?”
“You’ve got a point,” he said, knowing he should turn around and leave, now, without another word. “But think how silly–how meaningless–a row of sculptures labeled ‘Untitled’ will look.”
Chris and Emily were watching. This was not what he needed now.
“This is not about language,” Carmen snapped. “Just because you’re in the middle of a drought, don’t expect the rest of us to stop working.”
He used to want her when she got angry, but not today. Not for a while. “Seems to me they’re doing all the work.”
Carmen’s mouth went thin. “Get out.”
“No.”
“It’s my workshop! I said out!”
Two half-finished pieces sat on the table. The glass was blown and cooled, waiting for her to add colored foil inside and out. Don’t do it.
“Are you challenging me, too?”
Carmen was on her feet, trying to stare him down. “I’m telling you to get out of my goddamn workshop.”
He lashed out with his arm, sweeping the sculptures from the table. Shit. He watched them fall, as if in slow motion, wishing he could move fast enough to catch them before they struck the floor and shattered.
Carmen didn’t so much as glance at the shards. She almost came at him; he saw the muscles ripple, heralding a Change, and then stop. Idiot. Make a bad situation that much worse. He’d never expected Carmen to surpass him in the impulse control department.
He turned on his heel and stalked out. He longed to slam something and settled for kicking a folding chair against the wall.
He rounded the corner and almost ran into Jared and Savannah, smelling of take-out and sex. They both stepped out of his way quickly. Savannah said something; he growled and kept moving. His instincts told him to run, to leave behind these…
“Annoyances,” he said aloud. “Just annoyances.”
His instincts told him to run, but he couldn’t run fast enough…certainly not in his current state. Logic dictated that he give himself–and Carmen–a chance to cool off; then he could apologize. She wasn’t blameless, but in this case he’d been more at fault–considerably more at fault. There was nothing wrong with admitting that. He was a mature adult, he could say “I’m sorry” when he should. It didn’t make him any less…
Except it did. To be wrong was to be weak.
Still angry, he unlocked the outside door to the apartment building. He was a civilized, mature adult. And to prove it, rather than running through the city he was going to sit down and read the books he’d bought. He was going to read, and think and forget about Carmen.
Derek flipped open the first book, managed to read the first two paragraphs of the introduction and was on his feet again pacing around the living room. Bitch. He half hoped she’d storm upstairs looking for a fight. A good old-fashioned screaming match might do some good; they’d kept quiet for too long.
He was losing her–hell, he’d probably lost her already. He imagined that a life without Carmen wouldn’t be so bad, but the actual process of losing, that was not something he was enjoying.
And the timing was bad. The others would correctly interpret it as an indication he wasn’t in control anymore.
He stared at the books. One problem at a time. He had to prioritize. Carmen…Carmen got to be priority number two. If she knew the situation, she’d understand.
No, she wouldn’t. If she knew the situation, she wouldn’t bother.
That evening, Liz found a single message waiting on her answering machine.
“Liz, I don’t know if you’re at work or screening, but please get back to me this time…”
Carole. She deleted the message, plugged in the countertop grill and dug around in the freezer for a veggie burger. Of course, if I really cared about calories, I wouldn’t pile on the cheese, she thought vaguely. And I wouldn’t have ice cream sitting next to the veggie burgers. I’d do a liquid diet, join a gym, get a tapeworm…how dare she call me?
Now she wished she’d listened to the entire message. It would be nice to have something new and specific to be mad about. She was tempted to call Carole and yell at her, but she knew she always sounded stupid when she lost her temper. At heart, she was a WASP; repression was good for her soul.
A nice white Anglo-Saxon pagan, Alex had said. It had been funny the first time.
Liz wanted to think about Alex even less than she wanted to think about Carole. She stalked into her bedroom, tossing aside the clothes on her dresser until she found the box she was looking for. Inside was an amethyst pendant.
She should flush it down the toilet. Or send it back to Carole.
Certified mail, so she’d have to go to the post office to sign for it. Or she could see if she could manage an elegant little curse. Nothing too serious, just an excuse to do some of the occult lab work she never got around to doing. Just enough to let Carole know that she wasn’t forgiven…
She sighed and closed the box. Not today. It was becoming a mantra, like she was in some twelve-step program. One day at a time, she didn’t talk to Carole, didn’t destroy the pendant…
“This is ridiculous,” she said to the box. “I will not live like this. I made a break. My choice, and it’s done. If Carole has a problem with that, then it’s Carole’s problem.”
She slammed the box down, resolving not to touch it again.
© 2005 Megan Powell
Published by Zumaya Publications