Mind Over Magic by Lindsay Buroker
14
Morgen headedinto the Crystal Parlor with her coupon in hand. Amar remained outside, leaning against the brick wall and noshing out of the takeout box. Morgen imagined he’d worked up a good appetite during the fight and couldn’t blame him for snacking, but she found the idea of eating a meal directly after biting people unsanitary. Who knew where those Loups had been before staging their ambush? What would Amar think if she got him a toothbrush and toothpaste kit to keep in his truck along with his spare jeans?
She stepped into a shop so stuffed with shelves, racks, bins, and rotating display cases that she worried she would break something. Was there a rule somewhere that witches had to be hoarders?
A strong mishmash of scents permeated the air, something like a Christmas tree fencing with lavender stalks while adorned in charred citrus peels. Morgen hoped burning incense and candles and who knew what else wasn’t a witch requirement, though she imagined a bored bureaucrat at the supernatural permitting counter refusing to give her a license to practice until she recited all the kinds of incense and promised to burn them religiously.
She weaved through the shop carefully, hoping to glimpse items made from bone, ideally labeled with the purpose and the maker identified. Finding the information she sought without actually speaking to the owner would be preferable. Though she did feel obligated to thank the person for the incantation. Given her dearth of experience with the occult, and previous lack of belief that magic even existed, Morgen was surprised it had worked.
Throughout the cluttered display room, only crystals and gems and various types of rocks were on display. Unless they were supposed to have magical power, she didn’t see a clear link to witchdom.
An open door in the back showed a room full of bags, jars, and tubs of what appeared to be powders and seeds—they reminded her of bulk-food bins at grocery stores—but from the colors—more blues, purples, and grays than anything else—she doubted they were edible. A chain across the doorway with a sign hanging from it said the area was off-limits and to ask for help.
“I thought you might show up here,” a woman said from a corner, half-hidden by a carousel of keychains featuring agates and crystals.
Olive-skinned with curly graying brown hair, she wore a colorful ankle-length garment that reminded Morgen more of a dashiki than what Hollywood assured her was traditional witches’ garb. Maybe the black dresses and pointed hats were reserved for Halloween.
“Hi.” Morgen picked her way toward the corner.
The woman sat in a comfortable chair, reading from an old book. Nobody else was in the shop.
“I’m Morgen,” she offered.
“Yes. I am Phoebe Aetos.”
Not the Tabitha or Glinda that Morgen had half-expected, but if Phoebe didn’t have a black dress and a nearby broomstick, maybe she couldn’t be expected to have a traditional witch name. The lack of a black cat skulking through the aisles was a little disappointing.
“Are you the one who sent me the note?” Morgen asked.
“Yes. I was informed that you were about to enter a werewolf haven.”
“Informed? By the raven perched above the door?”
Phoebe smiled cryptically.
“I noticed him—or her—because another raven, or maybe the same one, tried to take my grandmother’s amulet from the house.” Morgen had tucked it back under her hoodie and didn’t pull it out. “I was surprised you knew about that when we haven’t even met before.”
“Are you making accusations? After I gave you a coupon?”
“Oh, no. Just polite conversation. I’ll take some rocks from the Chakra Collection to show that there are no hard feelings.” Morgen smiled, though she had no desire for rocks, crystals, or anything else. But it would be a small price to pay for the information she wanted.
“The fate of Wolf Wood is of concern to many,” Phoebe said. "Zeke was keeping an eye on the place for me.”
“Zeke… the raven?”
“Zeke, my familiar. He didn’t wish any of Gwen’s belongings to fall into the hands of an unschooled mundane.”
“What about an unschooled relative who apparently has witch blood?” Morgen raised her eyebrows, wondering if Phoebe could confirm that for her. Despite the numerous zappings she’d received now, it was still hard to believe that she was the heir to magical blood that allowed her to cast spells.
“That is almost as bad. We did not know who would arrive or what blood you would have.”
“If I wanted to learn about magic, would there be a good place for that?” That wasn’t what Morgen had come here to ask about, but she admitted to being the tiniest bit curious about her heritage and wished Grandma had said something about it while she’d been alive. These days, Morgen didn’t feel particularly special, and there was something appealing about the idea of having some uncommon… ability. Her sister was right that it had been a blow to her self-worth to be let go from a job that she thought had been crucial. She’d thought she’d been crucial. “Is there a school?” she added. “Or do you, ah, tutor?”
“This isn’t Hogwarts, and I’m not Dumbledore,” Phoebe said dryly.
“So, I’m stuck relying on websites and YouTube videos?”
“Grimoires are more useful, but you can really only learn witchcraft from a master. And that requires that the master wishes to take you on as an apprentice.” The dismissive look that Phoebe gave Morgen suggested she had no interest in doing so. “But you’re too old to learn. I suggest you return to your regular life, leave witchcraft to those who’ve been versed in it from their earliest days, and put your grandmother’s property into some kind of trust. You should leave it to someone who will care for it and ensure it remains as it is.”
“I’m too old to learn? Retired people go back to college to get degrees. And I’m not retired. I’m just… on sabbatical.”
“Witchcraft isn’t a college degree. You can’t learn from lectures. A master must take you on personally and instruct you in the ways.”
“Then why did you send me a note with a spell?”
“Even rubes can chant incantations if they have a proper foci.” Phoebe waved toward Morgen’s amulet. “That isn’t witchcraft. A real witch customizes and makes up her own spells and creates potions tailored to specific maladies and desires. It’s an art, and a secret and guarded art at that.”
Phoebe could say what she wanted, but Morgen was positive the internet was full of videos on her secret art.
“But you are welcome for that smidgen that I gave you. I trust you found it useful.”
Did that mean Phoebe knew about the werewolf battle? She’d probably heard the snarls and yips from here.
“I did. Thank you. I was a good student back in school. If you’d be willing to teach me a few things, I’d put my heart into it.” Especially if it gave her an opportunity to snoop around the shop and try to learn more. “I would pay you for your time, of course.”
“Are you earning a lot while on your sabbatical?”
“Probably as much as you’re earning from your booming customer base.” Morgen waved at the empty shop, though as soon as the words came out, it occurred to her that being insulting to the tutor she wanted to hire wasn’t a good idea.
Phoebe’s eyes turned as cool as the crystals lined up on the ledge behind her chair. “I’m not interested in your money.”
“Is there some other way I could help you? In trade for your time? I’m not planning to move here forever. It wouldn’t be a long-term commitment.”
“Of course, because witchcraft is something you can learn in two weeks.”
“I could come up for occasional weekends too.”
“This isn’t the National Guard.”
Morgen drummed her fingers on her thigh, searching around for inspiration, though she only ended up sneezing as some draft stirred up dust—or one of the strange powders in the back room. Maybe this was pointless.
“The only thing I can truly use right now is help in the store,” Phoebe said.
“Really? Does it get busier at other times of day?”
Phoebe hesitated. “Not so much lately, but the economy can’t stay good forever.”
“The economy?”
“Yes. During booming times, people are less likely to turn to our ways for answers to their many problems. When your home and your stock portfolio are appreciating twenty percent a year, who needs advice from the spirits within the crystals?”
Who ever needed advice from spirits within crystals? Morgen kept that thought to herself.
“My sister used to help out around the shop, but she’s been gone for months, and I can’t afford to hire outsiders.”
Was that the crystal witch’s sister that the Lobo had mentioned? Who had enslaved one of the pack? It sounded like she had passed away, so she couldn’t be a problem now.
“Besides,” Phoebe continued, “teenagers looking for summer jobs aren’t qualified to work here. They know nothing of potions and powders.”
“I hear that’s not covered in high school these days.”
“No.” Phoebe frowned at the front window. “Is that werewolf loitering outside with you?”
“Yes. He didn’t think he would be welcome in here.”
“He wouldn’t be. He’s also not welcome to rub his scent all over my storefront.”
“He’s just standing there eating salmon.”
“You should be careful around him. I trust he’s not under your control, since you don’t know how to do anything yet.”
“He’s not under my control, no. He’s just…” Morgen almost said he’d only given her a ride into town, but it didn’t feel right to dismiss Amar’s help in the parking lot so blithely. Without him, she would be chained up in some werewolf den by now, if not dead. One of those wolves had been snapping for her throat. “He’s helping me out.”
“Why? What’s in it for him?”
“My irreverent charm. He finds it endearing.”
“You’re a dreadful liar.”
“Is a knack for mendacity required to become a good witch?”
“It is not. It’s useful, however, for customer service. If someone picks out a gem or earrings that don’t look good on them, but you can smile, nod, and make the sale, you’ll do fine in my shop.” Phoebe gestured to the display cases.
Why did Phoebe want Morgen to work here? She likely knew even less about potions and powders than the local teenagers. Admittedly, Morgen could help organize the place. Maybe even enter everything into an inventory-management system for ease of tracking and re-ordering.
“Have you thought about selling some of this stuff online?” Morgen asked. “The number of people who come through Bellrock each year must be somewhat limited.”
“It is, but I don’t know enough about computers to do that.”
“I could help you set something up. Even if you didn’t want to sell online, it would help you immensely to have inventory-management software to let you know how much of everything you have and what’s selling and what’s not. Given your current organizational paradigm, I bet you run out of some items regularly and have far more of others than you need.”
“That’s not… untrue. I also have a tendency to order more of some gems and crystals because they’re high quality and genuinely useful, and people should want to buy them, even though they always go for the pretty, decorative things that have little to no power. It’s madness, really.”
“Right. Will you take my help setting up software and getting you online in exchange for teaching me?” Morgen might end up here all summer if she got involved in this project for Phoebe, but… did that matter anymore? There wasn’t anything calling her back to that drab apartment in Shoreline.
“Very well. I’ll agree to that. Come back when you are prepared to start. I’m here all hours that the shop is open and then some. In the evenings, I make my potions.” Phoebe pointed toward the back room.
“Good. Uhm, one more question before I go. I have reason to believe that Grandma’s death might not have been an accident. There was a bone clip attached to her motorcycle before it crashed. Can witches make magical tools that could cause such a thing?”
“Bones aren’t the most ideal medium, but they can be infused with magic, yes. Bring it to me when you return, and I’ll look at it.”
“Thank you. I will.” Morgen turned toward the door, but Phoebe spoke again.
“A werewolf is not a friend of a witch.”
“I’ve heard that.” Morgen paused and glanced toward the window, though Amar was staying out of sight. How Phoebe had known he was loitering, Morgen didn’t know. “But he seems all right. He rented an apartment from my grandmother, and I guess they were friends.”
“Friends.” Phoebe scoffed. “It’s more likely that Gwen controlled him with a spell or even an idol or brand. If the werewolf hasn’t realized it yet, he will one day, and then he’ll feel vengeful toward her and her kin. Werewolves are not friends with our kind.”
“Why not?”
“They are shaped and easily affected by magic but are not able to cast it themselves. That makes them bitter and resentful.”
“From what I heard,” Morgen said, choosing her words carefully so she wouldn’t offend her potential new tutor, “some witches have treated werewolves badly. You just said my grandmother might have used magic on Amar.” Morgen hoped that wasn’t true, but she had been wondering how those two could have ended up as friends.
“If they weren’t such surly bullies, witches wouldn’t feel compelled to use their magic on them. Those two warring packs were a threat to this town before the coven stepped in. Further, as women, we often have need to defend ourselves, especially against savage bullies, and we can’t be blamed for using our powers to protect ourselves and our kin.”
“By ensorcelling others?” Morgen had almost said enslaving others.
“To avoid being preyed upon? If necessary, yes. If they would leave us alone, and leave the innocent townspeople alone, we would leave them alone, but they started it. And you had better be careful. If that werewolf is pretending to help you, as you said, it’s because he wants something. Likely what everyone else wants. Access to Wolf Wood and for it and its magic to remain unchanged.”
“That’s not what everyone wants.” Morgen thought of Christian’s insincerely smiling face.
“The old world and the new have always battled over progress. Don’t cross the wolf until you’ve learned to control him. Even then, it wouldn’t be wise.”
“I wasn’t planning to cross him.”
Or try to control him.
“Let’s hope Gwen didn’t. A scorned werewolf is a dangerous enemy, an enemy who might arrange one’s death.”
“They weren’t enemies,” Morgen said certainly, though she did catch herself thinking again of the warning in Grandma’s letter about not irking Amar. Had she done that at some point? How else would she have known of the danger?
“Don’t be so certain. I promise you they weren’t friends.”
Morgen shook her head and walked out, not willing to believe her grandmother had been controlling Amar somehow. If she had, he wouldn’t be protecting Morgen now.