3

After I picked my herbs, the total on the register made me wince out of habit. All totaled, the damage was less than a tenth of what I had in my pocket, but it was still more than I had spent in the last month. I tried to comfort myself that I could spend this much on a daily basis and it wouldn’t even come close to my weekly salary…and it would take a month of nothing but rituals to use up all the supplies I bought.

I put on the silver moon-and-stars ring and tucked the silk handkerchiefs into my jacket pocket. The rest was patiently stacked away in a trio of paper bags by the older man behind the counter. His hair was white and frazzled, but all still there. If he had written a book in his youth, it was either on an antique typewriter or papyrus, I wasn’t sure which. I thanked him for his help, a half-assed apology for how many times I had changed my mind while he was bagging the various leaves, roots, and powders for me.

I was trying to figure out how to balance all the packages in my arms when he spoke. His voice was rough as sandpaper; his tone slow and sleepy. “Son, do you want some advice?”

It caught me off guard. He had been friendly while I shopped: smiles, nods, and grunts that conveyed more than most people’s sentences. But hearing him speak, I realized those were the first words he’d directed at me. “Why do you ask?”

“You look like you could use some. But advice don’t do no good unless a person wants to hear it.”

“Shoot.”

He looked me in the eyes, a long, hard look, before he spoke again. “My wife and I have been running this shop for thirty years now. Most people come in here, they’re looking for excitement, a curiosity. Others are simple folk, just wanting to keep their home and loved ones safe from the evil eye, or the boogeyman. The one thing both types have in common is they ask questions, ‘What’s this do?’ ‘What’s that do?’ You ain’t asked squat. Means you know what you’re doing.”

“Or think you do, at least.”

“I hope so, but I’m not so arrogant as to think I don’t have lots to learn.” I mentally noted that I just learned yesterday that there really are living, breathing people with fae blood in their veins.

“Uh-huh. I ain’t gonna try and teach you. Best way to learn is by doing.” He paused. “You’re fixin’ to do some summoning.”

I nodded.

“Thought so based on the shopping list. Look, there’s some weird stuff out there. They’ll tell you all kinds of things, offer all sorts of power. They’ll threaten, cajole, beg, demand. Just remember two things.” He took a sip out of his chipped and stained coffee mug. “You sure you want to hear this?”

I smiled. “You certainly know how to bait a hook. Yes, I’d like to hear it.”

His laugh came out as a heh. “I suppose. One, they can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. That’s where the whole devil-made-me-do-it excuse falls apart: he couldn’t make you if it wasn’t in your heart already. Two, no matter what you do, there’s always a way back. As long as you’re still breathing, there’s still a way back. You understand?”

“You’re talking about forgiveness.”

“Something like that. The worst lie spirits like to tell you is that what’s been done can’t be undone. It’s such a terrible lie, because it’s partly true. The effects you have beyond you, the ripples in the pond, you can’t take back. But inside of you…you can make it back if you want to.”