Chapter 10
Wells wasn’t sure there had ever been anything he’d loved more than the sound of the bell ringing over the door of his shop.
And over the next few days, he got to hear his favorite sound many, many times.
He wasn’t sure if it was the ambience of the place bringing people in—bringing them back—or if it was October approaching, but whatever the case, Penhallow’s Magical Goods took off right out of the gate.
It was the professors from Penhaven who started coming by first, no doubt curious about the newest Penhallow in town. Then, on the weekend, tourists dropped in, ooh-ing and aah-ing over the fireplace, the leather chairs, the Welsh landscape paintings hanging on the walls. But they weren’t just admiring; they were buying.
Wells had already had to order a new shipment of leather grimoires, and he was nearly out of crystal orbs. Candles, too, he’d realized, were popular, as was tea.
Learning that, Wells started brewing his own pots in the shop, offering them free of charge, happy to bring them over to anyone sitting near the fire as they chatted. The more relaxed people were, the more they felt a little pampered, the more likely they were to stay longer, and that meant something usually caught their eye to purchase.
It was, Wells quickly realized, much like what he’d hoped running a pub would be like. Friendly smiles thrown his way, hearty handshakes on the way out.
And dammit all, he was good at it.
He knew he was because after the first week, Gwyn had appeared in his shop again, glaring at him. “Are you serving tea in here?” she’d asked. “And not charging for it?”
She’d been wearing hot pink that day, as pink as the stripe of color she’d added to her red hair, and Wells had spent entirely too much time thinking about that pink stripe later, wondering why he had the urge to twirl it around one finger.
At the time, however, he’d simply said, “I realize Americans are naturally suspicious of tea from us Brits, but I wasn’t aware that serving it for free was an issue?”
She’d muttered something dire at that before storming out again, and Wells had decided to order some more teapots.
Now it was a Saturday, which meant that his shop was pleasantly full, people chatting and browsing, and he was feeling more than a little smug when the bell rang over the door yet again.
He put on his most gracious smile as he turned around only to see that it was one of those young people who hung around Gwyn’s shop. One of her “mentees,” he supposed, the girl who always wore her hair in a dark braid.
Today, she was wearing a white T-shirt with a black cat drawn on it and the words “Stay Wicked, Witches!” curling beneath. When she turned, he saw SOMETHING WICKED, GRAVES GLEN, GA emblazoned on the back.
Clever. Rather obvious, but not a bad souvenir item.
The girl made a show of browsing, and Wells folded his arms, rocking back slightly on his heels as he watched her drift through the store, picking up a deck of tarot cards, giving it a bored look, and putting it back.
She then moseyed over to the grimoires and literally yawned, patting her open mouth with her hand.
Wells quirked an eyebrow.
He’d expected a fight, but if this was the best Gwyn could do, he was honestly a little disappointed.
The door opened again, and now he recognized another of the college students, the one with brown curly hair and a nose ring that glinted in the dim lights of Penhallow’s.
“Find anything?” he heard one say, overly loud, and the girl gave an exaggerated sigh.
“No, everything in here just seems . . . ”
She fixed Wells with a look. “Boring.”
He almost smiled, he really did.
And then the other person said, “I mean, we saw a TALKING CAT at SOMETHING WICKED. Everything would seem boring after that!”
The words boomed through the store, and this time, Wells couldn’t hold back a snort of disdain.
Honestly.
So all Gwyn had were teenagers to come into his store, pretend to be bored, and then announce an obvious lie. As though his customers would be so easily—
“Wait, seriously?”
Wells turned.
A young witch was moving toward the pair, a woman Wells had begun to think of as one of his regulars. She was a graduate student at Penhaven and came in nearly every afternoon for tea and chat and, more often than not, to pick up a new crystal. Wells had even sold her one of the teapots when she’d asked.
Now she was standing with Gwyn’s . . . minions and looking at something on one of their phones. Giving a startled laugh, she glanced out the door and across the street toward Something Wicked.
“Okay, this I need to see.”
The bell rang again, but this time, Wells really, really did not enjoy that sound.
Or the many times he heard it afterward as, slowly, everyone in Penhallow’s began to get up and move first toward the pair at the door and that blasted phone and then, inevitably, across the street.
Until at last, it was only the three of them left in the store, two looking very smug.
“She can’t possibly have a talking cat,” Wells said. “That’s not a spell a person can do.”
Although even as he said it, Wells wasn’t sure that was actually the case. It was simply a spell he’d never seen anyone do. But after that lecture Gwyn had given him about No Real Magic for the tourists, surely she wouldn’t break that rule for herself.
Would you? If you thought she was winning?
The next thing Wells knew, he was out the door and staring at a crowd gathered outside Something Wicked. There was literally a line out the door, and he had to make his way around it, apologizing profusely until he was inside Something Wicked and looking at . . .
A fucking talking cat.
“Happy HalloWEEEEEEEN!”
There were gasps and sighs and laughs from the crowd as Gwyn Jones, fully decked out in witch regalia, hat and all, cuddled a rather chubby black cat wearing his own little hat and a rather dashing orange bandanna.
A cat that once again opened its mouth and cried, “Happy HalloWEEEEEEEEEN!”
It then turned its head to Gwyn and asked, “Treats?”
The crowd loved that, too, and as Gwyn petted it and whispered something, someone called out, “How did you train it to do that?”
Gwyn grinned, chucking the cat under the chin. “A witch never reveals her spells!” she called out, and then, winking, added, “Or where she buys ridiculously expensive props.”
Everyone laughed, and Wells looked around him, amazed.
There was no doubt in his mind the cat was real, that the magic was real, but put something like that in front of people, tell them it’s not, and they’d believe it.
The alternative was too bizarre.
In case he wasn’t begrudgingly impressed enough, she then called out, “Every purchase includes a complimentary picture or video with Sir Purrcival! Be sure to use the hashtag ‘SomethingWicked’!”
Diabolical.
Absolutely fiendish.
And when her eyes briefly met his, her cheek dimpling with a Go fuck yourself smile, Wells realized he had never been attracted to any woman more in his life.
Well, that was bloody inconvenient.