Essex [the bad familiar]

3: Paradise Lost

Faced with a such a curious injury, Sandelene wished she'd sprung for the brighter light bulbs. The shop held a dim, rosy glow: bright enough to see the numbers on a credit card, but low enough to keep the items wrapped in an aura of mystical mystery. She always sold more when the lights were low; something about a bright, naked white light incinerated the imagination from all but the most serious of shoppers.

Worked that way for sex, too. The woman looked Margery Alesa over with just a shade of disappointment. Her visitor wasn't entirely unattractive, but he was the sort of attractive that you'd have to supplement with adjectives and phrases like 'sort of' and 'mildly' and 'in the right light.' And it'd been a while since she'd... So of course it stood to reason that for the first time in over a year since she'd last had a man willing to take off his shirt for her, it was to display a glistening, gruesome slash. And because the lights were dimmed, she couldn't tell if it was a talented artist's fx skills or an actual injury.

"I won't lie and say I'm not intrigued," she decided, gesturing at the injury. "Mind if I move in closer?"

"Rather you didn't," Margery said quickly, letting his shirt swish back into place. When it did, Sandelene noticed the dried dark stains that suctioned the fabric to his damaged skin. The wound really did seem fresh. Margery buttoned his jacket over the mess and smoothed the colorful scarf over the barest stain that had seeped through, just a small discoloration at the seam, like a period's arrival a day early. His eyes scanned the shop's contents. "Unless you're about to tell me this shop is just your side hustle and you're actually a registered EMT."

"Why aren't you with one now?" Sandelene asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Her stomach grumbled. When he didn't immediately answer, she shrugged and turned toward the shop's back room. "Mind if I eat something? Had half a granola bar for lunch."

"By all means," Margery said. A tentative smiled flashed across his lips. "Must've been a busy day."

"Something like that." 

After a depressing look at the financial spreadsheets, she'd spent the better part of the afternoon scouring the internet for tips on training toads to perform tricks. Maybe Neville could become a Youtube star, and she could afford to keep the shop going and Dida would never figure out that a toad was more profitable than her granddaughter. Nodding, she indicated a door behind the register. "Come on out back. Tell me what you're doing here instead of the hospital."

The plain door led to a basic office, with a small laptop, a television, mini-fridge and microwave. There was a desk covered in paperwork, a bulletin board  covered in sticky notes, a couple boxes of inventory and a few stacks of yet to be enacted marketing ideas. Sandelene spun the room's single chair toward her guest, but he hovered at the doorway. Shrugging, she reached for a package of ramen noodles stacked on the fridge, and a ceramic bowl nearby.

"So?" she prompted him, reaching for a plastic water bottle.

"Ah," he began, playing with his scarf. "One of our primary supporters, the governor's wife, is reading to an elementary school tomorrow morning at nine am. This event's been scheduled for eleven months. With elections around the corner, we're going to be on the front page of the Saturday morning paper. We never hit the paper," he added, "and I don't want it to be a front page exclusive of screaming children as the floor underneath their little crossed legs erupts with fountains of blood."

"And you came to me?" she said incredulously.

"You're a witch, aren't you? And you're local."

Sandelene sighed. "You saw advertisement in the paper then. I put that out to draw in teenagers and college students looking to be occult for a weekend." If you can't beat 'em, make money off 'em.