Alexei nodded. “That could work. You going to check it out?”
“Yeah. Maybe we can nail down their location. In the meantime, can you talk to Georgia? Presuming Traeger’s right about the ‘clubhouse’ being out in the woods, the clan needs to get people out there looking, searching.”
Alexei nodded. “Fat chance, but I’ll ask.”
“We’ll meet you back at the cabin,” Connor said. “Be careful out there.”
“Same to you,” Alexei said, then slid his gaze to me. “And be careful with that damn sword.”
* * *
* * *
We walked back to the cabin to get the bike for the drive into town. Connor rolled his neck and shoulders as we walked, as if fighting back tension.
“Are you okay?”
“Frustrated,” he said. “Shifters are allowed to live their lives without worrying about politics, drama. But there comes a point where it just seems they’ve stuck their heads into the sand. It makes me . . . punchy.”
“Would you like to spar? I’d give you a fighting chance.”
Connor snorted. “I’ve already seen what happens when we spar, brat. And we’ve got work to do.”
I couldn’t really disagree with that.
The drama notwithstanding, it was a beautiful night for a drive. Clear and just breezy enough. We took the old main road toward town, then veered away from the shore into the set of tidy blocks where the courthouse and post office stood. The Crystal Inferno sat at the end of the road, the slender bookend in a row of buildings that included a bar and a bank.
The store name blinked in neon letters, a crystal ball among them. It lit in stages: bottom, middle, top. Bottom, middle, top, the neon buzzing quietly in the darkness. It was late, but the store was still bright despite the hour, either for the thrill of humans dipping a toe into the occult in darkness or for the Supernaturals who apparently shopped here. Crystals hung from strings in the windows that flanked the door, and the shelves were well stocked.
“Ready?” Connor asked.
“Yep. We playing humans or ourselves?”
His smile was a little bit feral. “Oh, ourselves. Feel free to be scary if you need to.”
Jude hadn’t been far off. There was plenty of hippie in the Crystal Inferno, from guides to joining the world’s consciousness to dreaming your way to happiness and wealth. There were lotions and oils, crystals and geodes, and a small selection of health food staples intended, according to the sign, to “increase the body conscious,” whatever that meant. A woman sang in Gaelic on the store’s speakers, and the air smelled like patchouli and pepper.
And beneath all the trappings was the subtle buzz of magic.
“Good evening,” said a cheerful voice from somewhere deeper in the store. We followed it to the counter, where a woman with tan skin and dark hair used a scoop to portion dark seeds into small glass jars.
She was tall and curvy, her eyes wide and dark, her mouth generous. She wore a flowy dress with wide sleeves and a V-neck in a floral pattern, and her nails were carefully manicured in pastel pink.
Not a shifter, not a vampire. A sorceress. Bingo.
“Welcome,” she said, without looking up. “Feel free to browse, or let me know if I can assist you. We have palm reading appointments for tomorrow, but none left tonight, I’m afraid.”
She looked up, and her eyes went wide. “Well, well,” she said with a laugh, and put down the scoop. “You aren’t who I expected to see tonight. Connor Keene and Elisa Sullivan. I know you from TV, the screen,” she said. “What brings you to our little backwater?”
“Family” was all Connor said. “And you are?”
“I’m Paloma,” she said, and began to screw tiny lids onto the tiny jars. “We don’t have any blood, but we’ve got some nice kombucha.”
“We’re actually just here for information,” he said.
“Information? About what?”
“Let’s start with why a sorceress is holding court at a shop in a backwater.”
She flinched, turned her gaze to me, and there was a lot less welcome in it. “Hey,” she said. “I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t out me.”
“You don’t tell people you’re a sorceress?” I asked.
“No, and you don’t have to be rude about it. This isn’t Chicago, and there are many reasons not to tell people, including discrimination. Humans might think of me as eccentric, but they think of me as human.”
“That’s fair,” I said.
“Does the Order know you’re here?” Connor asked.
A blush rose high on her apple cheekbones. “I’m nonpracticing, so I don’t have to be registered. I run a legitimate human-oriented business, so either tell me what you want or get out.”
Our questions had been pointed, but not rude. So they didn’t explain the sudden nerves or high-pitched protests.
“We just want information,” Connor said. “About what you sold Zane Williams.”
Her lips pursed. “If he’s complaining about the price, we negotiated that, and he said it was fine. It’s past the return date, and we don’t give refunds.” She pointed to the sign beside the cash register. It did, indeed, state NO REFUNDS ALLOWED.
“We don’t care about refunds. Have you seen him in the last few days?”
“Zane? No. Why would I? I know in Chicago Sups are one big happy family, but Sups don’t mix up here. We keep our magic to ourselves, and I don’t have anything in common with the clan.”
The bell on the door rang, and we all looked back. Four humans—all women, one of them wearing a white “Bride to Be” sash. They were all giggling and immediately began pawing through the merchandise.
“A bachelorette party,” Paloma said. “Just what I need.”
“What did Zane buy?” I asked.
“Why do you—”
“Paloma,” I said, leaning over the counter, “let me make this simple: We’re trying to find Zane. We’re looking for information that will help us find him so we can all get on with our evenings, okay? The faster we do that, the less chance those girls have to figure out who we are and wonder what we’re doing here. So maybe knock it off with the questions?”
Her eyes widened. “Okay. I’m just— I don’t get many nonlocals in here. Or many people trying to interrogate me. He bought a geode.”
“A geode,” Connor said quietly. “He spent four hundred dollars on a rock?”