Streamfield Shifters: Red Rover

Chapter Nine

About half an hour later, after some peering through the front windows to ensure that Jason was gone, we exited McMaster's. Kesio had listened quietly as I explained the various harnesses and the legalities surrounding the wearing of one, but didn't seem too curious beyond that. Honestly, I didn't blame him; there wasn't anything exciting about safety gear.

The line outside of the Emporium had dwindled to one person, so we hustled over and stood waiting to be let in. One of Marguerite's daughters finally ushered us in. The interior of the Emporium was small and slightly cramped but bright and colorful; everywhere you looked were little touches dedicated to Marguerite's upbringing and youth in New Orleans: gauzy fabrics in purple and green, Mardi Gras beads, post cards and framed photographs of the French Quarter. There were shelves dedicated to crystal balls of flawless pink quartz in various sizes; drawers stuffed with polished gemstones; sachets, pouches, and sticks of incense in wide-mouthed bowls; and row upon row of wands. Behind a glass case marked with protection wards were the bones of an elk, eagle feathers, and bear skulls, among others items.

I immediately went to the back of the shop where Marguerite de la Fleur reigned supreme. The elderly witch was one of the rare level nines in Streamfield, an ability that qualified her for a position on the regional High Council of Witches if she chose to take it.

Marguerite's honey-colored eyes lit up as Kesio and I approached her seat of power. Today, she wore a flower-patterned pantsuit accentuated by an airy turquoise over-robe and gold bangles. The cool breeze from the air conditioner gently blew against her braided silver hair. "Alina Michaels!" she exclaimed delightfully in her light Creole accent. "Did you bring this handsome young man to flirt with me in hopes of lowering your price?"

Her greeting caught me off-guard. As I flushed and stumbled, Kesio leapt right in and turned on the charm. He leaned over the counter and took Marguerite's age-creased hand between his own. "I am pleased to meet your acquaintance, my lady," he said, flashing the witch a roguish grin.

Marguerite blushed and laughed, rocking back and forth on her padded chair. "Handsome and Irish!" She broadly winked at me. While I privately died inside, she turned back to Kesio, slowly stroking the top of his hand with her fingers. "You surely answered her grandmother's prayers, my dear," she cooed, staring deeply into his silver eyes. "Oh, how Joy told me over and over that she hoped her darling granddaughter would find love. I bet you're rich, too!"

Oh, Christ on a cracker—why did that elf have to turn so slowly and deliberately to look at me?

"Well, yes, I must admit that I have some money," he told the powerful witch with a wink.

I leaned against the counter, desperately wanting to sink into the floor. Why was the universe treating me like this today?

"I knew it!" Marguerite slapped his hand lightly. "Old money? Have you a family castle back in Ireland?"

"Three," he replied, holding up the same amount of fingers.

Save me—someone, please. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Marguerite released Kesio's hand and clapped hers together joyfully. "Oh, how wonderful!" Pivoting in her chair, the elderly witch called out towards a curtained alcove, "Greg, dear, please bring out the Michaels' wards!"

The curtains rustled and a young man around my age emerged with a silver-grey felt sack tied with a white ribbon. He set the sack on the counter next to his grandmother and disappeared into the back. Marguerite tore her attention away from Kesio long enough to open the sack and spread the malachite wards onto the countertop.

The wards were palm-sized, a quarter of an inch in width, and roughly-cut into vague, rectangular shapes. One side was smooth, the other incised with the ancient witch rune for protection.