Page 1 of Of Poison & Pumpkins
CHAPTER ONE
Rynn
I don’t even belong in my own shop.
The back hallway is the safest space right now, hidden from people. I’ve abandoned my best friend, Tinsley, to deal with any magic mishaps or disgruntled customers.
On any other day, I’d be out there flashing a forced smile while passing out unapproved fliers that read:
For every purchase here at Purple Palooza,
90% off next door
I haven’t met the owner of our new competitor, but since we’ll be vying for revenue, we definitely won’t be getting along. Hence the brilliant flier.
I plaster my back against the shadowed wall as a young girl approaches with a purple unicorn toy in hand. She passes by, so I release the breath I’d been holding. The girl’s caregiver trails in her wake, dropping a pair of pomegranate sunglasses into a periwinkle cart.
My eccentric shop, Purple Palooza, offers everything in shades from plum to violet. Even the lavender scent spraying from the automatic air freshers adds to the vibe. The only product I wouldn’t recommend is the fizzy grape soda, but no one needs to know that.
“Rynn? I saw you! I need you up front!” Tinsley calls as she spins like a chaotic carousel, making her hat, decorated with an array of purple peacock feathers, topple from her head.
“Here ya go, Miss Fuzer,” the little girl says to Tinsley, holding the hat up.
The lady, who I presume is the mother, grabs her tiny shoulder faster than I could recite a spell and whispers, “Honey! We don’t call people that word.” She turns towards Tinsley. “I’m so sorry. She’s still learning.”
“But you can use magic, right?” The girl pushes the unicorn onto the checkout counter.
Tinsley crouches next to the girl. “Yes, I do have magic, and I don’t mind if you call me Miss Fuzer. In fact, I’m rather fond of that honorary title.”
Leave it to Tinsley to always have the perfect response. It infuriates me that we are forced to defend our rare genetic trait to Nergs (those without magic). They don’t understand us. All my life Nergs have taken advantage of or have tried to control my power. Having an extra gene doesn’t make us bad. Some Fuzers might say I’m over-exaggerating, but I’ve had too many negative interactions with Nergs to feel positive about them.
Mulberry bubbles float by, creating a charming dragon shape as they magically merge. It’s beautiful how they can alter the sunlight flooding the room just by casting tiny rainbows. The girl chases the bubble-dragon, then hops up and down like she’s on a trampoline.
“Mommy, look! Mommy, Mommy!” She jumps in and out of the light rays shining on the purple floor.
I groan at her piercing pitch, which draws her attention.
“Heya there! Peek a boo, I see you! What you doin’ back there?” She meets my eyes. “Do you have any candy?”
I muster a forced grin and nod as the girl pulls me out of the darkness. Tinsley tosses me a look—one that means I owe her. My ordinary hazel eyes are boring compared to Tinsley’s sharp, dark gaze.
She grabs a dark berry lollipop by the register then sings our slogan, “Thanks for coming to our cozy Palooza, where all your dreams surely come truza!”
The next person buys a fuchsia cutting board that chops food automagically and a puce keychain with “Best Grandma,” etched on the front. It’s one of the few items without any added charm, merely a souvenir for tourists who visit Oakmar, North Carolina.
A mass of helium balloons hides the next customer. They add their items to the conveyor belt: disposable cups with an orchid design, mulberry paper plates, and my personal favorite, napkins with eggplants on them. Someone’s planning to get festive.
“Why aren’t you wearing the amazing peacock hat?” a deep voice asks from the other side of the counter.
“Because I own the store,” I say without looking up. “So I give the honor of wearing the hat to my staff.”
I don’t force myself to wear purple every day for the sake of the store. As usual, I’m dressed in black from head to toe, layered with cat hair. I judge the man’s choices while scanning the bar codes.
“Since you own the store, you should definitely have a purple hat, twice as tall.” The man’s tone carries a hint of a challenge. “I could make you a custom hat. I’ve been told my hands work miracles. I wouldn’t disappoint.”
The sheer audacity.
“That’ll be forty-six, twenty. Cash or credit?” I ask, tapping one foot on the floor.
