Page 8 of The Slug Crystal
I find the customer support link. There’s no chat, but an email address is listed under the 'Contact Us' line: [email protected]. Beneath it, there’s a banner that reads, For emergencies, please contact our founder, Sarah Demarco, at [email protected].
I squint at the email. Something about it feels… odd. “Who puts their personal information on a shop site?” I mutter.
“Power move,” Alina says. “Means she can handle drama. Or she’s a bot.”
Jake says, “Or she’s just not expecting anyone to actually use it.”
I copy the email and start drafting a message: Hi, I have an urgent question regarding the spell kit. If someone used Vermis Transformo on a person and it worked, how do you undo it? Please help.
I sign off, then hesitate. “Should I use my real name?” I ask. “Or is that like inviting a serial killer to your house during a moving sale, and giving them a forwarding address when they fail to kill you?”
“Use a burner,” says Jake, who’s now deep in a page on classical curses. “Trust no one.”
But it’s too late. The email’s already sent, with my full name in the signature because autofill is a traitor. We all stare at the screen, as if our collective willpower can summon an instant reply.
After two minutes of silence, Alina’s phone chimes. She squeals, then deflates: “It’s just a calendar alert. My period starts in three days, so if we’re planning any blood rituals, pencil it in now.”
Jake barks a laugh. “I’ll add it to my calendar.”
I keep refreshing my inbox. Every new email creates a pulse of adrenaline followed by crushing disappointment. My only recent messages are from mailing lists, one of which is from a site called Snail World that thanks me for joining their passionate community of mollusk lovers.
I rub my temples. “Okay, Plan B. Maybe she has social media?”
Alina is already one step ahead, thumbing through Instagram. “There’s a Sarah Demarco who posts a lot of crystal grids and latte art. Also, a Sarah Demarco who makes beaded jewelry and lives in Tewksbury.”
“Tewksbury?” Jake sits up. “That’s like, what, an hour from here?”
I open the Instagram link. The first photo shows a set of hands with galaxy blue nails, holding a cluster of rose quartz. The caption reads, “Recharging for tomorrow’s ritual—local clients, message me for details!”
“She’s local. She could… maybe fix this?” I ask, heart slamming in my chest.
Alina high-fives the air. “Road trip,” she singsongs, then, to Jake, “You’re driving. I get carsick.”
Before we can get too far ahead of ourselves, I click further into her profile and groan. She literally has a post like ten down stating she is not associated with witch-webshop.com. I turn my phone around to show Jake and Alina and say, “She must get people looking her up all the time.”
They groan in unison. “What about the other one?” Jake asks.
I click through to the other Sarah DeMarco post and find her talking about how to support her business in one of her videos. I crowd Jake and Alina so we can watch together. It’s an ad for witch-webshop.com.
“It’s her,” I whisper-yell, even though they can both clearly see the video.
“Does it say where she’s located?” Alina asks.
I reread her profile and frown. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Look at her posts and see if she tags locations in her latte art,” Alina suggests.
“You are a genius, and I love you,” I exclaim.
Jake grumbles, but Alina grins. “I love you too.”
“Okay, here we go. She seems to tag the same places over and over again. The place she’s been tagging recently is somewhere called Dottie’s Coffee Lounge in Pittsfield, PA.”
Jake’s already searching for directions. “It’s about eight hours away if we take 95.”
Alina, never missing a beat, grabs her tote bag and beginsstuffing it with every possible road snack, plus a tarot deck, her water bottle, and, for some reason, a lint roller.
Jake stands, already in mission mode. “Should we bring the snail?”
