Thrift Store Trolls, page 23
part #1 of Flea Market Magic Series
How I wished I knew what she wanted me to do. Was I supposed to save the world or something?
I spent the evening with my family, even enjoying a meal from my mom, but as night descended and Thorn made me go to bed, my anxiety crept in. Feeling my mate settled against my back should’ve eased my fears, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the Huntress’s collar around my neck. Or the monstrous strength of the leash that chained me to her.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered and clenched me tighter.
“Oh, Thorn. So much has happened.” I spilled everything, telling him about my time with the Huntress. I even revealed how Erica’s father was the one who helped the Basilisk King.
My mate listened and didn’t interrupt me.
“Just rest now,” he said when I finished. “You don’t have to worry anymore.” He stroked my arms. “Erica told me everything after we fought the Basilisk King.”
“And?” I whispered.
“Oliver’s gone and if he returns, he must face the fury of the pack.”
Morning arrived and I’d barely slept. When I got up, Thorn tried to tug me back to bed, but I refused. Lying in bed would only allow me to dwell on what I’d lost.
I got dressed and Thorn prepared a hot breakfast of French toast covered in powdered sugar and strawberries. He even turned on the radio and switched to my favorite jazz station. My appetite hadn’t improved, but I took a couple of bites to show my gratitude.
To help clear my head before I showed up at The Bends, I took the long way to work. I drove past Oliver Holden’s house, taking in the somber For Sale sign, before I headed south down the Parkway. I weaved through the back roads around Double Trouble State Park. Heat rose off the concrete in waves, but the humid breeze swept through the car, bringing serenity.
I arrived at work, my thoughts less scattered, but heart no less heavy. Mevelyn said I had work to do. Not sure if living as an alpha female and working at The Bends was what she meant, but I might as well prepare for what was to come.
As I got out of the Nissan, I ignored the dented front fender. Thorn assured me our insurance would cover the damages, but our monthly payments sure as hell weren’t going down.
In the back office, Erica nodded my way from one of the work desks. “Good to see you. The fire witch keeps sneezing and setting small fires. Bill sounded eager to have you back, too.” She grimaced. “I’d take your time going in.”
I shrugged. Might as well jump into the wolf’s mouth.
I walked out onto the showroom floor and inhaled the familiar scents that steadied me: furniture polish, floor cleaner, and aged antiques. Bliss.
“About time you got here,” Bill grumbled from behind me.
I glanced at my watch. “I came early to clean up any messes you guys left me. What is it this time?”
“I’ve got good news for you.”
Bill never had good news for other people. The news was only good if he got a benefit out of it.
His mouth spread out in a full smile. “I spoke to Kramkar, and he was impressed you drove out the Basilisk King.”
“Great—”
“And he told me you don’t have to finish the week at his shop.”
Now this was the kind of news I needed to hear.
Bill added, “You can work for the demons down the road for a couple of days. What do you think?”
I didn’t answer the goblin and marched out the back door. I kept going until I reached my car. I’d need another lap around the state park again. Maybe two at this rate.
I sighed. Erica did warn me.
Guess I’d never learn.
Thank you! Thank you!
Thank you for reading Thrift Store Trolls! I hope you enjoyed following Nat around on her adventures! Deceptive Dime Store Demons is next! Keep reading for a preview.
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DECEPTIVE DIME STORE DEMONS
“All the world needs is more donuts,” my best friend Aggie told me as we headed up the stairwell to her new apartment. “There’s something for everyone. Bear claws, cream-filled, gluten-free, and those pyshki ones your mom bakes.”
I wrinkled my nose as Aggie cradled a sack of groceries in one hand and a box of donuts in the other.
If only those custard-filled, happiness-in-a-bite confectionaries had such power. Donuts were notorious for being gooey, germ-laden morsels or rock-hard lint traps.
“Just you wait.” She adjusted her goodies. “I heard that Bashful Brownies Baking Company has a new selection of enchanted cake donuts. Just one nibble and you’ll forget carbs or calories even existed.”
I balanced the boxes in my arms and kept smiling. If one of those donuts could magically haul her stuff up these stairs, I’d be game. “Where did you find the furniture for the place?” I asked.
“Actually, like the humans, I used my persuasive personality to get a deal at Furniture Mart.”
“That’s good.” We made it up yet another flight of steps before I said what was truly on my mind.
“How come you don’t want to live in my old house?” I said, only a little hurt. “Is it the plastic bins I store there?”
Aggie never minded my collecting—well, hoarding habits —before. Just mentioning my stuff brought the tidy rows of packed away holiday cheer to mind and shame followed.
She carried the bag of groceries up the steps, and I hurried behind her. “You know it’s not that. I need a fresh start. Your old house has got too many memories of him.”
I sighed, knowing by him she meant Will, her former boyfriend. Aggie had returned to South Toms River a couple of weeks ago, then her ex-husband had kidnapped her. Will swooped in, kicked some ass, and rescued her. I still hadn’t asked Aggie about what had happened the night Will had saved her, but that conversation would happen sooner or later.
Maybe a pizza, donuts, and ice cream night at Aggie’s new place would lighten her mood.
We finally made it to Aggie’s new apartment on the fourth floor. I dropped my box off to the side and sucked in the cool air. June had come to a roaring end this past weekend, and now we were into the first week of July. This month promised sweaty armpits, incessant mosquitos, and burnt toes on pavement. A delightful summer, I say.
I swept my gaze over Aggie’s home. She had a top floor studio apartment with a bunch of nice perks: skylights, an open floor plan, oak floors, and a fresh coat of white paint. (Give me the clean slate of a painted wall any day.) The faint scent of cigarette smoke lingered near the balcony, but other than that, I liked the place.
While Aggie hefted sacks of groceries onto the kitchen island, I couldn’t help but ask, “So is there a reason you’re in the same apartment building as Erica?”
Aggie snorted. “South Toms River is a tiny town even for New Jersey. The selection left little to be desired.”
With the hum that only a mother carrying her children would make, Aggie stuffed four to five servings of food into her fridge. I held in a laugh. I didn’t bother griping about her overeating habit, and she supported me while I worked through my obsessive-compulsive disorder.
“Does she know you’re moving in?” I asked.
“She’ll know when she comes home from work.” Aggie winked at me.
I gave her a wary look.
“Chill, Nat, chill. People change. Erica might be ready to change, too.”
“Maybe.”
“Are you worried Erica and I are going to become BFFs? Maybe we’ll polish our nails and binge Netflix variety shows?”
That got a laugh out of me. “That doesn’t sound like your kind of thing.”
“Maybe not now, but who knows? You really need to learn how to trust others.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Yes,” Aggie admitted, “she tried to force Thorn to marry her.”
My eyebrow rose at the mention of my husband, and I waited for her to keep going.
“And she mocked you five ways from Sunday.”
I folded my arms. Might as well accept the reminders and let them bounce off.
“But in the end, you came out top dog.” She tapped my shoulder. “You’re alpha female and you have Thorn. It’s time for you to move on. Make peace with those who have wronged you.”
I snorted. She had a point, but what could you do when a shit-ton of people pissed in your backyard, walked away with a middle-finger salute, and then you’re stuck in the aftermath?
Speaking of hands… “Have you ever painted your nails?” I asked.
She opened a bag of dill pickle chips and tossed one into her mouth. “When I got married,” she said dryly. “So, when do you have to report in at the demon’s store?”
“Don’t remind me. I can’t believe I got myself into this mess.” Back when the Basilisk King wreaked havoc on the town, I broke into a rival flea market to buy—yes, I broke in and left money—an item crucial to uncovering who was behind the attacks. In the process, I angered the flea market’s owner, a goblin named Kramkar, and I became indebted to him for a favor: a limited employment agreement.
But that wasn’t the fun part.
I learned I wouldn’t work at Kramkar’s store; he made another deal and hurled me toward another store. Good God, these supernatural creatures tossed around deals like Halloween candy.
I glanced at my watch. “T-minus six hours until I have to show up. This is my first job at a twenty-four-hour shop.”
Aggie’s reddish-blonde eyebrows rose. “Feeding the shopaholics all night long, huh? Sounds like the perfect place for you.”
“The prospects of getting my shop-freak on whenever I want sounds divine, but I’m not so sure about demons. Have you ever met one?”
“Probably. A lot of the ladies I’ve met on the Upper East Side are probably demons. They raise hell if little Johnny or Jenny don’t get into one of those upper-crusty boarding schools.” She offered me a chip, but I passed. “Look, the Basilisk King isn’t a threat anymore. Just put on your big-girl panties, march on in there, and sell some shit.”
All that sounded easier said than done. Less than a month ago, Thorn had left town for a conference. Not long into his absence, all hell broke loose as mysterious trunks showed up around town. My friends and I learned that the trunk hoarder, the Basilisk King, was a part of a magical shift happening. The Great Northern Fairy Path shifted southward and brought magical mayhem of epic proportions to our doorstep.
Even with the Basilisk King gone, I’d learned the hard way that when you think you’ve cleaned the dog shit off your shoe, there are more piles out there to step in.
At least all I had to do was work at another supernatural store for a while. A week should be easy-peasy.
“You’ve faced some pretty crazy shit,” Aggie said with her mouth full. “I’m betting you’ll either make some extra cash on the side, or you’ll buy half their stock.”
I flashed her an I-doubt-it look. As tempting as shiny, holiday-oriented treats could be, many of them might be possessed or something. The last thing I needed was a haunted pair of Christmas shears cutting holes through my Santa Loves Me sweaters.
All my goblin boss, Bill, had given me through a text message was an address off Crabbe Road next to the Lighthouse Point Marina. I’d passed by the open fields filled with tall grass and burnt orange arrowleaf balsamroot flowers countless times, but the only shops I’d spotted were a beat-up bait shop and a shabby ornamental stone outlet. My gaze swept over the tranquil Toms River. Farther east, the river led to Barnegat Bay then the Atlantic Ocean. The familiar sounds of water lapping against the banks made me smile.
My home is a beautiful place.
Back when I was a kid, my dad and uncles often took my brother, Alex, and me on fishing trips. Uncle Boris loved fishing trips on the Toms River. We never caught anything—Uncle Boris was too busy talking his head off. He’d sit there with a half-inch lit cigarette dangling from one hand and a beat-up fishing pole in the other. His advice about life, women, and buying a trust-worthy truck made little sense, but our time with him left feel-good memories of sunshine, rampant bug bites, and laughter.
Time to check out the stone and ornament outlet.
From the outside, the store looked like any other. In front, the place had stone ornaments like lawn gnomes, fawns, ornate pagodas and even an elaborately carved dragon or two. A chain-link fence surrounded the more expensive items like marble slabs or cut sandstone for pathways and landscaping. But none of those things interested me. What I needed to find was the entrance and determine what I’d face today.
So far nothing smelled amiss here. Matter of fact, the wind carried the decadent scents from the nearby Bashful Brownie Baking Company.
This late in the day, I expected fewer customers in the parking lot. At least a dozen cars, from a rundown-looking Chevy to five pricey-looking Town and Country vehicles, filled the spots closest to the door.
The building itself was nondescript. The single-story brick structure had a few rectangular windows in the front. The front door was left ajar, perhaps beckoning customers inside to see what treasures they’d uncover.
I don’t mind if I do.
After I walked across the parking lot to the concrete sidewalk leading up to the store, I hurried along a path lined with stone carvings of nymphs and seahorses. I wondered why the owners protected the marble, yet their fencing didn’t surround the figurines and statues in front. Maybe they had enchantments to keep happy thief fingers at bay.
As I passed the stone carvings their imperfections smacked me in the face. Michelangelo wasn’t making these goods. Moss grew here and there while some had hideous designs with misshapen mouths and body parts in the wrong places. But the worst travesty of them all: tiny chips—though minuscule to the human eye—marred much of the merchandise.
I shook my head. From the mouth of one cheap goblin boss into the hands of cheap demons.
On the way inside, I walked by a human couple. The woman clutched a sales receipt and she gabbed with her companion about how excited grandma would be once they added lawn gnomes to her bed of daisies and tulips.
Hopefully, they don’t plan to purchase anything from the front, I thought.
Based on the narrow front-end, I assumed I’d find a tiny store, but to my delight, the establishment stretched toward the river for at least one hundred feet or so. What smelled like humans, with their pockets lined with dirty cash, browsed shelves of ceramics along the walls and four rows along the center.
With raised eyebrows, I assessed the goods. A peculiar odor like fermented fruit dashed around displays with teapots. To my right, mugs with garish purple, pink, and puke green designs that screamed I break easily sat next to a hodgepodge of products like ceramic thimbles, clocks, and planters. If a potter could craft a mold, these folks stocked it. God help me if I spotted a ceramic codpiece.
A rather short clerk wearing a maroon apron around her waist approached me. Her dark-brown hair softly framed a small cherubic face. The woman’s red T-shirt boldly claimed she was a cat-lady-in-training.
“Excuse me?” I asked. “I’m part of the evening staff for a couple days.”
Confusion added a blush to her freckled cheeks. “Well, that’s news to me.” She quirked a frown. “As usual.”
“I don’t understand.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Dayla, the daytime manager. I don’t know much about your shift, but feel free to head to the back office. Mimi, the night manager, is working outside.”
Through the windows, the sun finally set. As if right on cue, the customers ended their conversation, and with zombie-like precision, they left the store. One short woman even gently put down the vase she examined and marched outside.
I turned around to ask Dayla what happened, and she’d vanished too.
Was it something I said?
A minute passed. The only movement came from a newspaper sailing across the road through the window. The dead quiet settled into my soul. Wow, that felt nice.
My mini vacation ended as quickly as it started. The front door opened, and a new set of customers streamed inside. Fairies hidden under glamours, or spells that mask their true appearance, grabbed carts and browsed. Now fairies come in all shapes and sizes from small brownies that resemble little children to elves that vary by skin color and height. The fairy folk in this store dressed like tourists from all walks of life.
Over the years, I’d encountered all kinds of supernatural creatures. Many of them had malicious intentions. Seeing their true nature as a mystical goods antiquarian was key. Through Bill’s enchantments, I could see through their glamours, and therefore, I had an idea what kind of bullshit I’d encounter.
I wandered through the store, even stopping by the register to snag an apron the last clerk had left behind.
Thanks for the latte stain on the front, Dayla.
I needed to break in a fresh spray-and-wash pen, anyway.
While I attacked the stain with my trusty tool, a brownie approached the counter to buy a teapot. The register from the late 2000s wouldn’t earn the owners any points, but I knew what to do—until a cold woman’s hand touched mine. I turned with a growl to see a towering, hooded figure. I couldn’t make out who lurked underneath the rough cloth garment. Only that she stank of ozone that came after a thunderstorm. With a bump of her hard hip, she shoved me out of the way.
“Go see Mademoiselle Midnight, Wolf.” With one deathly pale hand, she pointed to the rear doorway, while with the other she completed the transaction.
Might as well follow instructions. I ventured to the so-called back office, but the cracked-open doorway’s new location made little sense. I distinctly remembered the door sat near the northwest corner. Now it was on the other side.
