The Dead (The Thaumaturge Series Book 1) by Cal Matthews Page A

action that would get me out from under his gaze, I moved further back behind the counter. There, that was better. Better to have space between us.
    “Sorry,” he said, his smile turning apologetic. “I assumed. Because of the, y'know, the stuff you sell. And you just have a . . . weird . . . energy.”
    I didn't respond, suddenly feeling frozen and panicked. My palms left damp outlines on the glass counter, and the room started to feel too hot. Too small. I wanted to tug at my shirt collar, nervous that my stupid hickey was showing. Instead, I glanced out the picture window and saw a car with Colorado plates parked out front. The rest of them murmured quietly amongst themselves, and I wondered briefly if they were shoplifting.
    When I didn't offer anything more, he gave a brisk nod. “Okay,” he said, as though dealing with an unreasonable drunk or a skittish horse. “Well, I won't keep you. I just have a list. Um . . .” he nodded towards the paper in my hand. I smoothed it out on the counter before me.
    I scanned the list, written in pencil with careful blocky letters. It was short, only five items, but they all made me raise my eyebrows. I gave a low whistle.
    “Mugwort?” I asked. “Licorice root? Calamus root? My, what do you have planned?”
    He cocked an eyebrow at me. “I thought you weren't a Wiccan?”
    “I'm not. But I know what these are for.”
    He gave a low, amused snort. “Do you? What do you want, like an ID?”
    “Just curious is all.”
    He paused for a moment, looking me over. His eyes held no malice, just mild interest, and I waited patiently. My fingertips pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
    “Nothing nefarious, if that's what you're asking,” he replied finally, having come to some sort of decision.
    I shrugged. “I didn't mean to offend you.”
    “You didn't.” He opened his mouth to say something else, stopped to glance at his friends, and then started again.
    “Can we start over here?” he asked quietly, giving me a boyish smile that was infectious, and made me a little hazy, like I wasn't quite in control of myself. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”
    “Sure,” I said helplessly.
    “I'm Marcus,” he said, but this time he didn't offer to shake my hand. “I'm Wiccan. I'm from Colorado. I’m here with my coven.” He nodded towards the others and then looked at me expectantly. I just gaped at him, and after a few seconds, he sucked his teeth, raising his eyebrows a bit. Belatedly, I realized he was waiting for me to make some sort of statement.
    “Oh,” I said. “Hi. I'm Ebron. I, uh, I own this shop.”
    I could think of nothing else to add, nothing that could even hint at some sort of imagined exciting life. How would he react, if I added any more? I can raise the dead and my boyfriend is a vampire? That thought led me to another. Are they here because of me, as farfetched and as unlikely as it seems? Had word gotten out on some sort of supernatural grapevine? Am I a topic of discussion amongst shadowy figures in back rooms? Do people know about me?
    I banished those thoughts; they were ridiculous. The supernatural was indeed a reality on this earth - this I knew for certain, knew intimately , one might say. But I had never so much as heard a whisper from any other person involved in any sort of magical activity. Was it even realistic to call it magic? I never gave it much thought. I didn't want to know. Maybe the world was full of witches and vampires and all manner of creatures, but all I wanted was to stay in the woods and be left alone.
    The silence between us stretched, and became uncomfortable. I was really doing a terrible job at promoting my merchandise.
    He smiled again, a little forced this time. “Well, uh, okay. Can you help me with this stuff?”
    “Yep,” I said. “Sure.”
    I motioned towards the walls, each lined to the ceiling with neat shelves containing hundreds of glass jars. Running down the center of the room were wooden tables with