More Tequila Please
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I see the gray flakes fall onto my antique shop’s counter as yet another love letter turns to ash in my hands., adding to the growing pile of love letters that has become my daily routine. You’d think that after three centuries, people would stop trying to declare their undying love to the “mysterious and beautiful” shop owner.
“That’s the third one this week,” Echo pipes up from where she’s perched on my Victorian writing desk, her teenage transparent ghost legs swinging.
“At least this one had decent handwriting before you destroyed it.”
“Thanks for the commentary,” I mutter, sweeping the ashes into my palm.
“Shouldn’t you be haunting someone else’s shop?”
“And miss your daily dose of destruction? Never.” She grins, her spectral form flickering like she’s got bad reception. “Besides, I know you’d miss me.”
She’s right, but I’ll never admit it. Having a ghost as your best friend is pathetic enough without getting sentimental about it.
The shop bell chimes—the delicate sound I specially chose to mask my internal cringe at dealing with customers. I paste on my practiced smile, the one that’s kept the City of Excapta’s Rich supernatural elite throwing money at my feet for decades.
“Evelyn darling, you’re looking particularly murderous today.”
Sofia sashays in, her modern witch aesthetic somehow making my vintage furniture look outdated. She’s wearing combat boots with a flowing dress because of course, she is.
“Let me guess,” I say, “you’ve found another ‘guaranteed’ cure for my curse?”
“Better.” She plops a glowing vial on my counter. “I’ve brought gossip and tequila.”
I eye the bottle suspiciously. “It’s ten in the morning Sofia.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere, you’ve been alive for hundreds of years Evelyn, I don’t think Tequila in the morning should be a problem for you and you’re immortal..” She pauses. “Well, as much as you can without feeling love.”
I roll my eyes but grab two crystal glasses anyway. “What’s the gossip?”
“Marcus Stone is spreading rumors about you again.” Sofia pours generous shots of the glowing liquid. “Says you’re hoarding cursed artifacts that could destroy the city.”
“He’s not entirely wrong,” Echo chimes in, though Sofia can’t hear her.
I glance at the basement door, behind which my collection of potentially apocalyptic items sits safely contained. “Marcus should worry about his inventory. Last I heard, he sold a possessed mirror to the Mayor’s wife.”
“Oh, that’s old news.” Sofia leans forward, her dark eyes sparkling. “The real tea is about the sexy hunter who just arrived in town.”
Interesting Hunters usually avoid Excapta—too many powerful supernatural beings who’d love to mount their heads on walls or suck them dry.
“Apparently,” Sofia continues, “he’s different. They say he can’t feel anything. Like, emotionally void. Completely blank.”
The crystal glass freezes halfway to my lips. “What do you mean, blank?”
“Like someone scraped out his emotions with a rusty spoon.” Sofia takes a sip, leaving a red lipstick mark on the rim. “Word is, he’s hunting something big.”
Echo suddenly straightens, her form becoming more solid—something she only does when danger’s near. “Evelyn...”
The shop bell chimes again.
The temperature in the shop drops several degrees as a man steps inside, rain dripping from his leather jacket. Blood trickles from a cut above his eye, but it’s his aura that makes me grip the counter. Or rather, the complete lack of one.
For the first time in three centuries, I can’t sense any emotional energy. No hatred, no love, nothing. It’s like staring into a black hole where a person should be.
“I’m looking for information about this,” he says, placing a familiar-looking music box on my counter. The same one I’ve been hunting for decades.
Sofia chokes on her tequila. Echo whispers “Oh shit” in the most modern phrase I’ve ever heard her use. And I...
I reach out without thinking, my cursed fingers brushing against his as we both touch the music box. I brace for the usual pain, the burning sensation that comes with any physical contact.
Nothing happens.
We both freeze, staring at where our fingers meet. No pain. No burning. No turning to ash.
“Well,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “this is new.”
The hunter’s steel-gray eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I swear I see something flicker in their depths. “I’m Liam Cross,” he says quietly. “And I think we might have a problem.”
Behind him, through the rain-streaked window, I spot Marcus watching us with an expression that turns my dead blood cold.
Yeah, we are definitely going to need more tequila.
