Damien secures his own helmet and I already miss his face. He grips the handlebars and in a blink the engine revs, echoing off the garage. My whole body tenses against the vibrations and I cling to his back as he eases out of the parking spot.
Like he promises, he stars slow, exiting through a sliding garage door into the back alley near his studio. The hum isn’t so bad and I think I can handle this. I loosen my death grip just a little as we come to a stop near the main road.
Damien revs the engine again and shoots out into traffic. I yelp, retightening my grip. I squeeze my thighs and feel the heat between us. Fear races through my limbs, I hate being out of control and this proves it. But as much as I hate to admit it, Damien is a skilled driver, deftly moving in and out of traffic, skimming the curbs on turns. My heartbeat is drowned out by the hum of the engine, the vibrations strangely soothing my nerves. Damien’s back is lean and strong. He feels at home, like he said; he’s flying, not driving, and my unease slips away into something else.
Pressing the side of my helmet against his back, I close my eyes. There’s nothing I can do but trust him to get us there in one piece.
When I open my eyes we’re in a part of New York I’ve never been in before. The streets are narrow and lined with gray buildings. Apartments stack to the sky while dingy businesses squish close together on the street level. Packs of kids roam the streets wearing baggy shorts and at least two walk vicious-looking dogs in metal-studded collars. My fear of the motorcycle has shifted to something different—apprehension about where we’re going. I thought I’d dressed like a badass for the magic shop. I didn’t realize I needed to be a badass to just get through the door.
The bike slows and Damien directs it to the curb. I’m feeling a mixture of warmth from his body and impressive skills to concern about where we’re going. He takes off his helmet and shifts to assist me with mine. When it’s over my head I say quietly, “Nice neighborhood.”
He looks around. “It’s a bit unique.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’re not usually so timid. What’s going on?”
I shrug. “I just feel out of my element here.”
He touches my chin. “Sometimes I forget you’re more suburban girl than terrorizing ancient goddess.”
“Yeah, just like I forget you’re an epic warrior molded by the hand of a god.”
He pecks me on the cheek and the warmth that came from the motorcycle’s vibrations flares in my belly. “Come on. You’re going to love Tran.”
“Tran?” But he already has me by the hand and we pass a group of boys admiring the bike.
A sign hangs from the building with an arrow pointing down. The words are in Chinese so again I can do nothing but trust Damien as we take the stairs to a below-street-level shop.
The door is glass but covered in a thin layer of plastic, making it hard to see in. Damien pulls the handle, gesturing for me to go first. I step into a claustrophobic’s nightmare. The shop is messy, dirty. Baskets and boxes and bins cover every inch of available space. The counter is a collection of bottles, jars, and containers. Murky items fill each one and there’s a faint, fishy smell in the air that reminds me of the exotic farmers’ market back home.
Chimes on the door clang as we enter and a small man pops out from the back. He moves to his spot behind the counter. I can barely see him behind the clutter but I spot the flash of a smile when he locates Damien behind me.
“D!” he shouts. “Nice surprise!”
Damien moves around me but links his fingers with mine, keeping me close. I trip over a box that squeaks in reply.
“Tran, good to see you. I’d like to you meet my friend, Morgan.”
Tran looks me up and down with small, concentrating eyes. “We’ve met before?”
A strange chill rolls down my spine. The kind that comes with déjà vu. A tiny voice replies in my ear, “Yes,” but I ignore it and shake my head. “I doubt it. I just moved here.”
“Ah,” he says, but his eyes never leave mine. “I hear the accent in your voice. Not from around here.”
“The South,” I confirm.
“Well, welcome.” He looks at Damien. “What can I do for you today?”
“We’re looking for a few items,” Damien replies, pulling the list Bunny wrote out of his pocket. “Thought I’d stop here first and see what you’ve got.”
Tran takes the list, his face blank as he goes over the ingredients we need. I know the list—I read it in my book—and even though this is my idea, the fact the man didn’t flinch at the words ’dragon tears’ or ’powdered ox testicle’, rattles me.
The man turns away and begins rummaging around the wall of jars and tiny drawers behind the counter. He hums as he works, weighing and measuring items. Damien bends over and studies a jar full of what looks like rocks.
I take the time to look around a little myself, although I do avoid the box on the floor that squeaked at me. The shop carries a world of mysteries and a strange feeling settles in my bones. It’s probably just the magic, I tell myself. I’m getting used to the feeling, the constant push-pull of various energies trying to take control. I haven’t a clue what most of the items are or what they do. I pick up a dark glass orb that fits in the palm of my hand. The ball hums in my hand as I hold it up to the light. Shadows flit inside and I squint, wondering if I made it up.
“You found my WishMaker orb.”