Chapter Text
The roads were clear this early in the mornings. It was the time of year where it was that strange space between being night and dawn with the world being a soft blueish purple with areas of cream or pink depending on the fog and cloud cover the early rays of sunlight were trying to burn through. No hint of the sun yet, still hidden behind the horizon. The marine layer still sat heavy on the ground, giving everything a soft haze—rounded edges.
He took a deep inhale through his nose, imagining he could smell—taste—the sea, and blew out sharply. Hands tightened on the steering wheel before loosening and shifting the car into a lower gear as he slowed. The trees on either side of the road gave way to storefronts with large picture windows, streetlights still lit in the early morning. There were a few cars parked along the curb on the street running through town. A lull in the music on the radio allowed him to hear the soft shush of tires on damp asphalt before it was taken over by the station coming back to life.
Shifting gears again, he slowed and directed his car into the alley between two shops and into the cracked and rugged small lot running behind the row of shops. The lines were faded and the parking blocks were chipped. Fading yellow grass and small weeds grew through the cracks. Trees on the edge of the lot had dropped their leaves all over the ground in varying shades of green, yellow, rust, and red. The dumpsters stood like sad, hulking figures in the early morning shadows, leaning against the faded paint of the backs of the buildings. Some of the doorways were lit by warm, yellow-orange light, sending out a stretched swatch of brightness across the greyed asphalt; the rest of the doorways remained dark and vacant, shadowed.
He shut off the car and sat there for a moment, listening to the engine of the Camaro tick as it cooled in the early morning. There was nothing to hear outside of his breathing. He wished he could stay in the quiet bubble of pre-dawn. Life seemed easier. It felt like he had all the time in the world to just exist, to breathe. It had less expectations of him. But he couldn't stay there forever because the sun always rose and with it came people and life and work. Palming the keys he threw open the door, unfolding himself from being seated so low. He grabbed the warm thermos from the cup holder and the half empty backpack from the passenger seat. The slam of the car door was loud in the quiet morning. The only other sounds were the occasional shush of tires on the road and sounds of life from cracked or opened doorways as businesses headed towards opening hours. The beep of the Camaro locking was the last loud noise he issued into the air as old asphalt ground beneath the soles of his boots as he trekked towards one of the darkened doorways. The shop keys were cold against the palm of his hand, but the handle was colder still as he yanked the door open. The small bells hanging above the doorway inside softly jangled as the door moved away and then back towards them.
The inside of the shop was fairly dark. The only light was coming from the large windows up front letting in the soft light of early dawn. It left everything else backlit and in shadow, large imposing towers of books turned into strangely outlined shapes. If he stood still he could be a shadowed tower too, hiding in the dark until daylight fully dictated he had to open the door for business. Not that it mattered, it was always quiet and empty in the morning and he was able to have that time to himself, just breathing in the smells of the herbs behind him and the decay of old books that permeated the rest of the shop. Resuming his forward momentum, he managed to make it through the narrow aisle from the back to the front without dislodging any books or knocking into any shelves. He tossed his bag behind the counter and set the thermos on the glass top of the counter, metal clinking softly in the silence of the store. He drank his coffee in the companionable silence as the terminal and computer booted up for the day. The glow from its artificial light made him squint a bit as he logged in and clicked around. With a heavy inhale through his nose he turned on the light and illuminated the shop. The overhead lights were the least artificial things he could manage to find, but it left him looking like a hipster, or minimalist—it depended on which sister he asked. They didn't have the high pitch buzz of tube lights, and they weren't the newer radiant LED lights; they were closer to the warmth of sunset or vintage lightbulbs. It was the closest he could get to having natural light in the store when natural light was absent. If he wasn't stuck between two other shops the building would be nothing but windows and would open and close with the sun, normal business hours be damned. Well, sometimes. He wouldn't want to work until 9 or 10 at night in the summers just because the climb of the sun was at a different angle. Guess normal business hours for a not normal business would have to continue.
He moved to the front and unlocked the door before pocketing the keys for the rest of the day. While at the front he straightened books and poked at the soil of some of the potted plants on the window ledge and hanging from the top of the windowsill. The plants were his concession for not being able to be out in nature more. If he could plant trees inside, he might. For now he'd have to deal with potted mint, asparagus fern, spider plant, oxalis, and jasmine. He'd tried succulents and a Christmas cactus but neither seemed to fare well and he gave up. He moved through the tight aisles, adjusting items as he went and turning books that he could to face the aisle. The books that were on the staircase to upstairs were adjusted as well, turning to face the books so the spines faced outwards instead of inwards. The upstairs shelves and tables earned the same puttering and readjustments.
Stomping down the worn black stairs, he moved back behind the counter and turned on the radio. The soft noise of alternative music filtered out through the speakers and filled the once silent space. Coffee. Then he turned to face the wall of glass vials and jars, the small bins of bagged items. He turned anything that didn't have the label facing outwards. Somewhat briefly made a half assed mental note to himself that he'd need to restock some of the items before the end of the week. He briefly checked the small day timer under the counter and tried to make a better mental note that he'd have to do restocking and ordering before the end of the week if he wanted to make sure he had enough stock before Halloween.
He sat on the padded stool and scratched at his beard before picking up his thermos and drinking more coffee. Yesterday had been pretty quiet. He kind of hoped today would be quiet, too, but he also wanted to see more foot traffic; fall was always the best season for people to come look at what he had here. It was part bookstore, museum, apothecary, occult, whatever store. About half of his business came from people buying online, but fall saw people specifically seeking him out because it was "spooky season" or because they were amateur witches and occultists. Sometimes on pagan days he'd get an uptick in people coming in for supplies. Weekends he might get a bunch of new age witches coming in hunting for crystals and sage.
It wasn't his idea of a job, but he took it anyways. It used to be his aunt's before she decided she'd had enough and wanted someone in the family to take it over. Having just finished college, he was apparently the perfect fit. He begged to differ. He was familiar with the occult—he was the occult—but it didn't mean he wanted to invite people to try to guess that about him; he'd had enough excitement with supernatural hunters. He'd had enough with the supernatural. But everyone else had jobs or had moved away or some of his siblings were too young. So it fell to him. He tried to get his uncle Peter to take it over, but the man had just walked away laughing. Bastard. His aunt had also argued that he'd spent enough time working for her during the summers that he knew enough; he didn't really count reorganizing entire genres of the store, cleaning, and building bookshelves to be resume worthy. What he couldn't argue with her on was the fact he'd studied History and English Literature, which she proclaimed made him the best fit regardless of whatever other trivial arguments he had.
The morning was spent drinking coffee and reading. He'd recently started Encounters at the Heart of the World: A History of the Mandan People. Cal wasn't big on Indigenous or Native American studies and his last semester had left him wanting a broader narrative. He had a few orders trickle in online, sending him off through the stacks looking for the titles so he could box them up and ship them out later. Mostly fantasy titles, but a couple looked to be witchy in nature; one was a bestiary of sorts. There were a handful of calls of people looking for specific things like what herbs did he have for banishing this, that, or the other—depends on what you're trying to banish; did he have any cursed objects—probably; did he sell anything toxic or poisonous—yes, and only to those over 18 willing to sign a waiver; did he have real witch items—yes, his aunt had bought witch artifacts for people to look at and everything else was relatively 'witchy'. Yoga let out and some of the women wandered in before lunch and bought incense.
Over lunch and into the early afternoon he had a good stream of people come in and buy books and other odds and ends. He sold a few tinctures and oils. More incense. Candles and crystals. Someone said they were a collector and wanted to buy one of the museum artifacts; he said he'd consider selling it. It'd sat there for as long as he could remember and was doing nothing but collecting dust in the glass cabinet. He'd have to call his aunt later and ask her what she thought; even though this was technically his store now, he still felt uncomfortable outright changing anything or getting rid of all the artifacts she'd spent decades and thousands of dollars on.
And then school was out. And teenagers filled his store. Most of them loitering, poking at items and making fun of stuff; others used the outlets and chairs—or the floor—to do homework or whatever it was they were doing. The town wasn't small enough that he knew everyone here, but it wasn't so large that every person wandering in was a stranger, so many of the kids that wandered in were regulars—in gawking, loitering, or purchasing. Regardless, they tried his patience. Some stood at the counter asking him a million questions about what certain herbs did, how did someone make a magic potion, can someone do magic, is this creature real, are witches real, how do you know if you're being haunted, why do you sell this stuff, do you give tarot readings, are crystals real, and on and on and on. He preferred the ones that kept to themselves.
Eventually, a lot of them filtered out—either curiosity satiated or finally bored. There were a few stragglers stealing power at the outlets, reading books, or just walking around looking. By that time it was early evening. The light mirroring the softness of the early morning. Muted colors as the sun slid under the horizon but still leaving enough light to illuminate as if through a fog or a film. He'd been busy ringing people up and answering questions that he'd missed the radiance of the sunset reflecting off the windows of the shops across the street.
The front door jingled softly over the sounds of the radio and murmuring voices. He looked up from the tome he'd been reading for the better part of the day, calloused finger marking his spot with the sound of skin sliding against paper. Hair having fallen out of place, it tickled his forehead and brow and he brushed his other hand through it, tucking it back against the side of his head as he watched the newest customer wander it. It was a man, somewhere in his mid twenties. And he was the most hipster looking man he'd seen in awhile—dark slouchy beanie, skinny jeans, somewhat groomed short beard, potentially tattoos peeking out under the cuffs of his rolled up sleeves. He grunted under his breath as he watched the man tuck a phone into his back pocket and glance around, mouth open, eyes looking for something.
"Can I help you find something?" he finally asked from behind the large L-shaped glass counter.
The eyes swung over to him. He took a giant step forward and began gesturing with his hands. "Uh, yeah. I'm actually looking for grimoires."
"The ones in the museum or ones to purchase?"
"You have a museum?"
He rolled his lips inward a bit and blinked a little bit slower.
"Most of the store is one big museum. But there's items—artifacts—that we keep in store only."
The guy nodded a few times, hands on the back of his hips. "Cool, cool. Yeah just the ones you can purchase," he gestured outward with one of his hands before returning it to his hip.
He gave him a quick glance from feet to beanied head before meeting his eyes again. He jerked his head upwards. "They're upstairs. Shelf's labeled. Holler if you need help."
"Thanks man."
He watched the hipster storm up the stairs and disappear into the stacks and out of view.
He called out a few 'see you later's to a few of the teens that wandered out and into the now almost dark of night. There were one or two still sitting around. He glanced at the clock on the computer. They still had an hour or so before he'd have to shoo them out. He gravitated between watching one teen read between the aisles, listen to another typing on their laptop somewhere out of sight, and listen to the hipster flipping pages and thumping through books upstairs. A few last minute shoppers, or browsers, came through distracting him from shopper watching. A woman wandered around for awhile, always within eyeline and kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, before purchasing a blank journal; she kept looking at him from under her lashes as he rang her up, smiling and trying to drag him into small talk and probably a question about drinks. A man that smelled similar to wolf came in, seemed to consider between two books, before bringing one to the counter that looked to be something on the moon; he briefly scanned some of the words on the back of the jacket before nodding at the man, receiving one in return. Then he went back to reading and half heartedly listening to the last few souls in the shop.
Ten minutes to close he left the counter and began to wander to straighten up a tiny bit but also to tell the kids to scram.
"Hey. You got a few minutes," he told the one reading between shelves.
She nodded, took a picture of the page she was on, and stuffed the book back on the shelf where she presumably had pulled it from. He walked away as she finished gathering her things. He heard the bell tinkle as she left as he sought out the computer typer. They were also on the floor wedged between a tall bookshelf and the shorter one that went under the windowsill. They had on large headphones and were focused on typing, eyes moving back and forth. He stopped a few feet away, bent over, and waved, trying to get their attention over the top of the screen. Their head jerked up and they pulled their headphones off.
"Few minutes until close," he shared, standing upright again and moving away.
A soft 'thanks' followed him as he headed back up front. He stopped in front of the counter, looking up the stairs, listening. He couldn't hear anything. He was pretty sure the hipster was still up there. He finished peeking between aisles downstairs and then stomped his way up the stairs. The bell tinkled behind him on his way up the gently creaking stairs.
He saw feet before he saw the rest of the body. And then he stopped short at the mouth of the aisle. There were open books all over the floor, some with lined sheets of paper stuck in them. There was a small stack that had seemed to topple over. The guy was slumped over on his side, one arm twisted awkwardly under his body and the other clutching an older looking piece of paper. It looked like there might be an open book or two under his body.
He rolled his lips inward and sighed heavily out through his nose before stepping closer. He moved to kick the guy and stopped. The beard was gone and the guy looked somewhere between ten and fifteen years younger.
His head tipped backwards and he blinked up at the dingy, off white ceiling and the hipster-minimalist warm yellow light in his peripheral. He placed his hands on his hips and squeezed tightly. Deep inhale in through his nose, and the most long suffering sigh out through his mouth. He dropped his head down, bearded chin nearly touching his chest, and he looked at the man again.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Derek spoke to no one but himself and the body passed out amongst grimoires and chicken scratch notes.