[THIS CRUEL FATE] 01 — Skylar

Skylar’s heart raced with every creak of the floorboards and jingle of the shop bell, keeping his head on a swivel while he waited for the woman at the counter to wrap up with the shop attendant. The old lady on the other end of the wall of shelves glared at him for the second time, her mouth looking more like she’d squeezed a lemon over her tongue. But Skylar dipped his chin into the collar of his jacket, trying to hide how his eyeroll and frustrated sigh under the tissue paper crinkling from the counter.

He tugged on the cuffs of his gloves and slid out another book while he waited. The deckled edges parted to the table of contents, and he inhaled the fresh scent of paper and ink.

“Excuse me.”

Skylar jolted, instinctively snapping the book shut and whipping his head around to find the crinkly old hag standing mere inches from him.

Her beady eyes narrowed through her wire glasses and plucked the book from his hands to hold to her chest like a librarian protecting her domain. “I think you might be a little lost, boy.”

It was the way she emphasized that last word that made him taste blood. His hands hovered in front of him, palms still upturned like he was holding that apparently forbidden knowledge that was ripped away.

Boy.

Skylar’s mouth twitched as he held back some snappy response about her needing new glasses since he was clearly a customer here, just like her. It wouldn’t do him much good though—talking back never did, unfortunately.

The rustle of a paper bag opening tore his attention away from the woman for a split second, signaling that the cashier was just about done, but he lost that opportunity to slip away from his opponent when she waved the book in front of him. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“I would think a young man like yourself would understand that places like this aren’t meant for you. Why don’t you go back home before curfew?”

“Skylar?”

His temper quelled for a flickering moment as he looked past his tormenter to the cashier, whose brows knit together as her gaze slid toward the old woman. She tucked a short chestnut curl behind her ear and rounded the counter, making her way past the display to get to them.

“Ms. Hansford, were you looking to make a purchase?” the cashier said sweetly. “If so, I can ring you up really quick before I chat with my nephew.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and beamed.

It took everything in him not to shoot the old woman a smug look, so the closest he allowed himself was a slight smirk.

Ms. Hansford hesitated, folding the book to her chest again. “I was just informing your nephew that this isn’t exactly the place for—” The cashier raised a brow, and the old woman cleared her throat. “It’s not appropriate for a male witch to be here. It’s unsightly.”

He’d hit his boiling point. “Maybe you’re unsi—”

“Skylar,” the cashier said brightly, cutting him off with a sharp pat on the back, “why don’t you head to the office, and I’ll meet you there in a moment?”

He swallowed the rest of his retort, holding his tongue before forcing a brief nod and starting for the counter. When he parted the curtain leading into the back of the shop, he breathed in the calming notes of jasmine and left the rest of the world fall away. Time always stilled when he stepped foot in these halls, filled with shelves of tagged trinkets and glass-door cabinets under lock and key to protect the labeled boxes within.

The first time he’d made this walk, he remembered shoving his hands in his pockets and burying his face in his scarf like the small carved wooden creatures would spring to life and attack him. Elena—the cashier and shop owner—had given him a few weary looks until he dumped the contents of his bag onto her desk, much like what he was here to do again tonight.

Skylar shrugged off his bag and set it in the chair in front of her large oak monstrosity, the corners worn down from crates bumping into it one too many times. He deposited the first handful of items onto the black leather blotter smack in the middle of the chaotic piles of papers, pens, crystals, and bundles of incense. Each trinket pulsed through his gloves like a child’s rowdy laughter through a closed door—only dampened, never fully silenced.

A compass, a locket, a spoon, and a teacup.

He would’ve assumed the latter two were a set if it weren’t for the subtle key difference that one bore roses while the other boasted chrysanthemums. The guy working at the pawn shop, however, was happy to offer Skylar a discount on the bundle. Who was he to decline?

Skylar’s ears perked up at the sound of footsteps echoing through the hall, finally muffled by the office rug. “So I’m your nephew now, huh?” he asked, half-turning to shoot Elena a quizzical look.

She sighed and shook her head. “When I have a customer who starts questioning why I allow men into my shop, it turns into gossip, and that gossip eventually reaches the coven’s cabinet.” Elena rifled through her black apron’s pockets as she slowed near the desk. “Saying you’re my nephew at least gives me enough of an excuse not to be investigated by the Ministry of Commerce for selling restricted knowledge to males.”

She shot him a tight smile that indicated she wasn’t fond of saying it out loud. Not that dancing around the issue would change it at all, though he couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable being so blunt about the topic with him or if she didn’t like the rulings in general.

“I was just browsing, not buying.” Skylar shrugged.

Elena put her hand on her hip, the other wagging a jeweler’s magnifying glass at him. “Semantics won’t change an investigation.” Her focus dropped to his haul. “Though, I must say…” She held the glass over the compass, its reflection emitting a soft blue glow that radiated inscribed magic. “You certainly have a knack for finding imbued trinkets.”

Skylar stood up a little straighter before forcing himself to slouch again. He wrung his hands, trying to wipe away that confidence further fed by praise. Elena didn’t appear to notice by the way she carefully picked up each piece and examined it with a hum.

“How much?” he finally asked, watching her set the teacup down.

She set her magnifying glass down and tapped the blotter with her fingertip. “I’m not sure how well the spoon will do unless someone’s buying a replacement or looking for a spare to use in their tasseography…”

He inwardly cringed, feeling that number he had his heart set on drop to cut into that profit margin. She flipped the spoon over and held it up to her face, peering at something there for a moment—long enough for Skylar to realize he was holding his breath.

“Or perhaps this signature would be enough for me to brag a little on it since it was bond by Madame Ylissa.” From the creeping smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, Skylar felt his dread melt into relief. “I can swing it as a collector’s item. So… three-hundred for the lot. Deal?”

Skylar’s heart dropped a little as he stared at the compass. Here I thought you’d be worth two-hundred marks alone. This was always the time where he wished he could risk negotiating without potentially losing the only shop owner who actually entertained making deals with him. “Deal,” he said, trying to mask the disappointment in his voice.

She reached into her pocket for a set of keys and flipped through to that familiar silvery one that she slid into a drawer behind her chair. The shuffling sound of her counting the slips of paper filled the silence until the stash slid back into place and she held his reward out to him.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you, Skylar.”

He folded the bills and shoved them in his bag, trading them for his phone by the time he passed through the curtain and reached for the door handle to the shop’s entrance. Elena shadowed him, pulling it closed and locking it when he stepped out on the sidewalk.

The orange hue wrapping around the jagged skyline ebbed ever-closer to that shade of lavender before the finale of dusk, coloring the countdown of his curfew. All the so-called ‘reputable’ businesses he passed on the way to the subway began shuttering their windows for the night while the rest flipped on their neon signs and LED scrolling marquees.

Strangers in high-collared coats brimmed hats took drags of cigarettes that reeked of belladonna while they hovered under an awning across the street, looking every bit the part of mobsters. He ripped his gaze away when he caught the glint of one of their eyes—distinctly inhuman, and Skylar didn’t really care to find out what they were.

He took the steps down to the subway, holding his bag close to his nylon jacket with a reassuring swish in each movement. Tapping his phone to the turn-style for his pass, he waited in front of the dingy yellow rumble strip and kept his head down. The slide of his thumb over his phone screen revealed one street address after another, the struck-through M with its string of numbers just above each one giving him heartburn.

M2,000. 2nd Avenue. Studio unit. Utilities included.

M1,800. Summit Street. Studio unit. Utilities included.

M1,500. Newton Avenue. Studio unit. Water included.

Skylar’s chin lifted with the rush of air from the train ruffling his coppery-red hair and sighed. Three-hundred marks was a drop in the bucket for the month. Tomorrow would have to be a better start to the next week’s haul. It had to be. Even if he had to drag himself to every damn pawn shop in the city to do it.