“I can help you find him.”
I froze before slowly looking back at her. “Who?”
She waved her hand at me. “Whoever it is you’re looking for.”
“And how do you know it’s a he?”
She tapped the side of her head. “Psychic. Like it says on the sign. You can read, can’t you?”
“Fuck off.”
“So rude.” She sniffed. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected. You’re lost. You have been for a long time. There’s… blue.” She frowned. “Why are you blue?” Her nose wrinkled. “And there’s violet at the edges. It’s pulling at you. Tearing.” Her eyes widened. “Ah. I see. Come. Come. Hurry. I have something for you.”
And then she turned and walked back through the doorway, leaving me gaping after her. Against my better judgment, I followed.
The shop was small, and the smell inside made my eyes water. Candles burned on a shelf against one wall, and the room was stuffy and hot. She stood near the window, reaching over to turn off the neon sign. She flipped a sign on the window from OPEN to CLOSED. “Close the door behind you. We can’t be interrupted.”
“I’m not paying you for—”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said again. “You’re not a king, but you’re close. Not many of those left. Isn’t that strange? Once upon a time, you couldn’t go outside without tripping over one, and now?” She shook her head as she pushed by me. “It’s a rarity. I wonder if we’re worse off because of it.”
“I’m not a king.”
“I know that,” she snapped as she rounded the counter. “I just said that. You need to listen.”
“Lady, I don’t know what the hell you—”
“Ohm,” she hummed. “Ohm. Ohmmmmm.” She coughed. “Yikes. That’s not the way to go about this.” She disappeared behind the counter as she bent over. I heard her opening and closing cabinet doors as she muttered to herself about blue, blue, blue. She laughed at one point as she set a crystal ball on the counter. “That’s just for show. Stop sneering.”
“I’m not.” I was.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that. Have you ever been shot?”
“What?”
“Not yet. It’ll hurt when it happens. Believe me, I know. You’d do well to remember that.” She peeked her head above the counter, staring at me with those strange eyes. “You won’t die. Which is good.” Then she disappeared again.
“Are you going to shoot me?”
“Of course not. Don’t be silly. Even if I was, I have a feeling none of my bullets would do the trick. Fresh out of silver, wouldn’t you know.”
“Witch,” I snarled.
“Well, yes,” she said. “But also a psychic. It’s on the sign. Aha.” She stood upright.
And there, in her hands, was an old wooden cup.
She shook it.
It rattled.
Like bones.
Like memory.
I’m doing what I have to.
Are you? Or are you doing what your anger has demanded of you? When you give in to it, when you let your wolf become mired in fury, you no longer have control.