Sacrificia part three

“You’re right. I do have the cuffs like them, but I can’t take mine off. They could. Speaking of pretty art, did you know that I actually met Leonardo Da Vinci, the guy who painted the Mona Lisa?”

“You did?” Lindy asked as we walked back into the back room of the store.

“I did. He was a little kooky. I can’t tell you how many times I nearly got hit in the head with his flying contraptions. He also had a couple of tattoos,” I whispered, “but not like ours. He got his put on by a tattoo artist. He was really smart for all his kookiness. I met the real Mona Lisa too. She snorted like a pig when she laughed. Oink, oink,” I said with a giggle.

Lindy laughed too and went to sit with Mindy to work on his homework. I waked over to the statuary section of my store, pulled out the feather duster from behind the main shelf and started dusting all the fairies, dragons, and other miscellaneous dust collectors. I carried them for the same reason I carried smelly incense that made me sneeze. People wanted silly dust collectors because they thought they were pretty, the same way that they wanted patchouli incense, because they thought it smelled good.

I had to admit some of the fairies were pretty and made great Christmas decorations. I had a whole box upstairs with my fake Christmas tree. I only call it Christmas cause it’s easy. I don’t celebrate the birth of Christ or go to church. I just believe in celebrating the season for the real reason for it, hope.

I started thinking about Winter Solstice and Christmas, which were both three months away and it made me think of other holidays. School had just started and I was already thinking about the winter holidays. That’s what I got for going into retail. I always had to think three to six months ahead. I still had to decorate for Halloween. My sales would be going up as soon as October 1st came around in about a week.

“Veronica, Chartreuse, go into the storage closet and get the Halloween decorations out, please.” I called to the best friends. The storage closet was really the coat closet for the house, but it was huge and a walk-in. Morticia took the key to the closet off the hook behind the counter and threw it at Veronica and Chartreuse as they passed the counter and walked towards the storage closet.

I know they’d find the Halloween decorations easily. I was meticulously organized about that closet and put everything I used to decorate the store in labeled, clear bins on labeled shelves. If the girls couldn’t be bothered to read the labels they sure as heck couldn’t miss the bins with electric jack-o-lanterns and giant spiders in them.

The girls came back a few minutes later with four big bins full of fall and Halloween decorations. “Where do you want us to put these?” Veronica asked.

“Just put them behind the counter with Morticia. I’ll decorate later,” I answered.

“Are you sure you don’t want some help putting these up?” Veronica asked.

“I would love it, but it’s an insurance liability to let minors not in my employ climb stepladders around sharp and breakable objects. If any of you were to slip or fall your parents could sue the pants off me,” I pointed out.

“What about me?” Morticia asked. “I could help,” she said walking over and taking the storage closet key back.

“You could but I’ll let Cindy help. You’ve got to get to karate,” I pointed out as I pointed to the big clock on the wall with the feather duster. She’d worked her two hours already. She only ever worked a two-hour shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays because she had karate class at 5:30 and had to walk the two blocks down Main Street, take all her earrings and other jewelry out and change clothes. For as Goth as Morticia dressed and pretended to be she was sure into joining things like sports.

Veronica and Chartreuse were a little more apathetic to sports but still joined groups a little more than I thought they would have. They were both in the art club and the archeology club, but I think they did both clubs because they got to go on twice as many field trips and got to get out of class for club events.

Cindy walked behind the register, taking a bin as she went and Morticia took off her nametag and grabbed her stuff and left. This day seemed to be going really fast. I let it go. Most of my days seemed to go a little fast. When Morticia left Veronica and Chartreuse stayed. They sat down at one of my little tables and started drawing something out. I ignored it because they could be doing anything from math to extra credit for history and archeology club.

Cindy put her nametag on, grabbed the stepladder and I abandoned my needless dusting to open the Halloween decorations. I’d put hooks and nails up two years ago when I decorated the first time and never took them down. It saved me having to get on the stepladder every few months plus sanding, spackling, and painting over and over again.

Cindy spotted me on the stepladder and handed me leafy garland and bats as we went. She only left me when someone came in to buy something and I was okay with that. I hooked the last spider to the door and started on the garland around the counters an hour later. The garland only took five minutes because I used powerful magnets with hooks to hold them to the metal edges of the counters. I had the whole store decorated by 6:15 when Cindy took a break. I was done a whole week early. Most of the other stores on Main Street either wouldn’t decorate or wouldn’t decorate for another week or two.

“Thanks for all your help Cindy,” I said at 6:30 when she came back from her break and sat on the stool behind the counter. My afternoon rush was over and most of the kids had gone home. Soon the evening rush would start but it might only last an hour or two. “Why don’t you leave at 7:00? You’ll be home in time for dinner,” I suggested.

“Are you sure? I can stay if you need me,” she offered.

“I’ll be fine. It’s Thursday. Only the Norse pagans come in on Thursdays. If it were raining out it’d be worse but it’s not,” I joked as Michael Angelus walked through the door again.

“Who’s that?” Cindy asked.

“Michael Angelus. He’s that customer form earlier. I told him if he brought me a list I would see if I had any of the books he’s looking for. Go reorganize the scented candles. Make sure the fire lily scented candles don’t touch the dragons blood scented candles. If they stay mixed together it starts smelling like rotten meat in here,” I ordered. Cindy walked into the back room where the candles were and left me alone to face the angel Michael.

“You came back,” I stated. “I take it you have your list for me?” I asked.

“I do,” he said. “Here it is,” he continued as he pulled out a piece of paper form his trench coat pocket and handed it to me.

I took it and unfolded it. The paper was old and wrinkled and had scorch marks along the edges. The ink on it was so old it was brown instead of black and several lines of the neat old-fashioned writing were scratched out with read ink. I noticed that Mortesque’s works were crossed out in the same ink. The ink was still shiny.

I read a few of the books listed that hadn’t been crossed off and was surprised to see several works that I did have in my possession. A few of the books were one of a kind. I owned one in my personal collection. It was priceless, especially to me. It was a work by my grandmother about the gods of the Norse pantheon and individual tribes. I wouldn’t part with it even if somebody offered me all the money in the world. The other rare works that I didn’t have in my possession belonged to universities and other individuals that shared my philosophy about my grandmother’s work. No way, no how were they going to part with them.

“A few of these are one of a kind,” I stated. “I can put you in contact with the owners but I doubt they’ll part with them. I have most of the others. You can look on the stairs over there. The books are in alphabetical order by author then title,” I instructed as I pointed over to the stairs and handing him his list back.

“Why not subject?”  Michael asked.

“The ones on the stairs are all the same subject technically. If you want the dungeons and dragons books you can try down the street at the game shop slash comic store,” I said.

“This town is big enough to have a comic book store?” Michael asked.

“The store serves a dual purpose. We also cater to a lot of tourists with kids.”

“Yet Backwater only has one hotel,” Michael pointed out.

“The hotel is huge. It could house every person in Backwater and everyone would get their own bathroom and bedroom,” I rebutted.

“I noticed the size. Why didn’t all the owners just build their own hotels?” Michael asked.

“Backwater’s town charter states that there can not be more than one type of business at any point in time to keep the town pristine and free of construction. There are only three restaurants because they’re all different styles of food. All the others are outside of Backwater town limits. Most of Backwater also abuts a national park and wild life preserve.”

“Why not have a bed and breakfast, hotel, motel, and an inn then?” Michael proposed.

“Because according to the town charter you have to get the same business license for all of those so they all fall under the same charter law. Besides the Blue Water Hotel also doubles as a hospital, bomb shelter, and fort in times of war,” I said.

“And when was the last war waged against Canada?” Michael joked.

“The French and Indian war was the closest, but it doesn’t matter. It also can be all that stuff in a natural disaster or national crisis. It was used as a barracks during World War II and III for the army while they did training maneuvers. Why all the interest in Backwater? I thought you were here for books,” I said.

“How come you know so much about Backwater?” Michael asked as he pulled out several books out form the stacks.

“I like to learn about places I live,” I said. “You didn’t answer my question,” I pointed out as one of the regular Norse pagans walked in the door and held it for four of five more of his group.

“How can I help you?” I asked as I turned away from Michael to the people that had just entered.

“Any new books on Norse magic?” Bernie Pauls asked.

“Not since last Thursday, Bernie,” I answered. Bernie Pauls always asked for new books on Norse magic. There hadn’t been a new Norse magic book in twenty year and I’d already sold Bernie and his fellow Thor-ians every book I could get a hold of. “Why don’t you try reading some of the histories? They’re very interesting,” I suggested.

“Why do I need to read the histories?” Bernie argued.

“So you don’t invoke the wrong name in a ritual and have the spell backlash on you,” I rebutted.

“And how do you know what names I need to invoke?” Bernie asked.

“I’ve read all the books you have and the histories and I know what rituals you’ll try Bernie. I’m also the owner of the only new age store for miles. If you want to drive to Saskatoon or Regina be my guest but I bet anybody there will tell you what I’ve been telling you for the past year. Read your histories,” I exclaimed.

“Okay, okay. You win,” Bernie gave in. “Where do I start with the histories?”

“Do you know any of the gods names besides Thor? You can’t invoke him for everything. He’s only the god of thunderstorms and peasants.”

“I know Odin and Loki,” Bernie said.

“They’re good for wisdom, mischief, and glamour, but what about your cattle and your accounting business? You need to bring in new customers and keep sickness away from them and you. You live in a place much like Norway yet you don’t know the gods well enough to know what needs blessing, cursing, or protection or which god does what. I’ll start you off easy. The Guide to Norse Gods For Dummies is what you’re getting today. Each god is covered in a five-page synopsis with pictures and in plain English. There’s even an index and a pronunciation guide,” I said as I grabbed the For Dummies book out from under Michael and passed it to Bernie. The book was thick and heavy but there were at least a dozen major gods and a lot of minor gods in the Norse pantheon. There were almost as many in the Norse pantheon as in the Roman and Greek pantheons. Nobody can remember them all though.

Cindy came back and took her place at the register. She rang up the sale for Bernie and sat on the stool while the both of us waited for everybody else to make a decision and purchase something. Michael bumped a pile of books over and I threw one of them gently at him. “Be careful. These books are fragile,” I chided. “You bust a spine, break pages loose or even just knock something over with them and I’ll make you buy the books and anything you break,” I said.

“I don’t see a ‘you break it, you bought it’ sign,” Michael said.

“It’s a new policy put in place just for you. Everyone else can’t help themselves or knows better. Have you had any luck finding what you’re looking for?” I asked.

“Yes, in fact the piles of books I knocked over is just part of what I’m buying.”

“Oh, goody. I hope you brought a lot of money. I’m going to charge you full retail.”

“Do you take checks?”

“Absolutely, but nothing post-dated. I’m going to the bank in the morning,” I answered.

“Do you only go to the bank on Fridays?” Michael asked.

“I go once a day except for Sunday and I take Sundays’ deposits in on Mondays,” I answered again.

“You’re very efficient,” Michael pointed out.

“I think it’s a good quality to have. My efficiency makes it easier on my accountant, Bernie,” I said. Bernie sat on one of the sofas near me and smiled at me when I mentioned his name.

“Your accountant is that guy?” Michael asked sarcastically.

“It’s a small town,” I pointed out.

“Can you help me carry these books over to the register?” Michael asked, changing the subject. “I think I’ve found all I’m going to today?”

“Sure,” I said, gathering up several of the fallen books and another arm full and started carrying them to the register. I set mine down and Cindy started ringing everything up. “You never answered my question.” I pointed out as Michael set his armloads of books down on the counter.

“Why are you so interested in Backwater?” I repeated.

“I’m interested in any place that has beautiful, intelligent women who don’t fit in,” Michael answered.

“That’s very flattering,” I said, “but I fit in just fine here and I’m not even the prettiest girl in town.”

“Half the boys between here and Prince Albert would disagree with you Gabriel,” Cindy said. I glared at her. “What? I’m just telling the truth. I think a lot of girls I go to school with would dye their hair black if they could get it to look like yours,” Cindy hypothesized.

“There are only 100 kids from Backwater that even go to North Prince Albert High,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but tons of kids from Prince Albert, Meadow Lake, and North Battleford come down here to go hunting and camping and I know you’ve gone to the outlet mall up Prince Albert. Half of the kids are friends with us too and have seen you at one time or another. Believe me a lot of the girls want to look like you. You’re like a supermodel.”

“Ha,” I snorted, “hardly. Even if I didn’t have all my scars, tattoos, and muscles I don’t think I could come close to being a model.”

“You look like a comic book hero,” Murray, Bernie’s teenage son, interjected.

“Really?” I asked bashfully. Murray knew his comics. His uncle, Sammy Pauls, ran the gaming and comic store. Murray spent all his free time there. If he didn’t have to go home every three days or so to shower and change he would never eat at home. He was also responsible for picking 99 percent of the comics that Pauls’ Comics and Games carried and he’d read them all.

I felt flattered. It meant even with my scars that people thought I was pretty. You could be a superhero and have scars. People rarely noticed me and when they did I rarely got compared to anything heroic or beautiful.

I helped bag up Michael’s books as Cindy rang them up. Soon he had over $5,000 in books and we were only half way through the pile. When all the books were rung up and bagged the total, before taxes came to $9,000. I tried not to jump for joy, again and gladly hit the tax button on the register, over Cindy’s shoulder.

“With tax your total comes to $9,675,” I announced. “You heard it Bernie. If the tax people call and ask how I made over $10,000 in one day you can tell them you witnessed it and it was all legal,” I added. Michael wrote out the check and handed it to me with a smile. I took it, hit the final sale button and stuffed it in the drawer and pushed the drawer closed with a laugh.

“Thank you Mr. Angelus. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you and please come back anytime,” I said. Michel left with his bags without another word. Bernie came up to me and smiled.

“You had better take that check to the bank in the morning,” Bernie insisted.

“You’re damn right I will. There’s no way Mr. Michael Angelus is going to get a chance to come back and return those books or cancel the check. It’s getting cashed at 8:01 tomorrow morning,” I exclaimed.

“Did you say Michael Angelus?” Murray asked.

“Yes. Why?” I asked the 16 year old.

“If he’s the same Michael Angelus, he’s a billionaire. He wrote and published his first comic when he was 13, or so the legend goes. There’s no record of him until 15 years ago. He came out of nowhere and now he owns Marvel and Dark Horse comics. He collects antiques and rare books. Do you know why he’s in Backwater?” Murray squeaked out.

“I have a lot of old books. That’s what he was buying. If he’s a book collector what else would he be buying?” I pointed out.

“What kinds of books was he buying?” Murray requested.

“Old magic books, stuff written over the past thousand years or so,” I answered. “He wanted a few that I didn’t have but I can’t do anything about that.”

“Cool,” Murray said, turning a one-syllable word into something with three or more. I smiled and Murray backed away.

“Okay,” I announced. “The store is closing early tonight so I can go out and get some champagne and chocolate to celebrate. If you’ve got anything to purchase, bring it up now,” I insisted.

Three of the five patrons left in the store came up and bought some candles and a trinket or two and everyone filled out with a few goodbyes. Cindy gathered her stuff and left just after everyone else and I locked the door behind her. I quickly wrote a note and stuck it to the door.

The note read “Closed Early for Celebration.” I grabbed my purse and my keys, unlocked the front door, walked out and locked the door behind me. The time on the clock tower outside said that it was 7:15. A few of my late night customers would be disappointed that I closed early but they could deal. It’s not like I wouldn’t be open in the morning.

I ran across the street to the Safeway grocery store and smiled and waved at people I recognized by sight if not by name as I grabbed a basket, wandered a bit and then walked straight to the wine and beer aisle. I picked up the most expensive champagne that they carried. I might have had a better selection at the liquor store down the street but I didn’t want to ride my bike over with it getting darker earlier. I walked to the candy aisle, which happened to be right next to the alcohol aisle and didn’t like the selection to be had. I decided to go to the prepared foods section and see what they had.

Misty, the prepared food manager was behind the counter and greeted me with a smile. I smiled back and spoke. “Hi, Misty,” I greeted. “Do you have anything special and desserty that would go with Champagne? I’m celebrating a really good day at work today,” I explained.

“Sure. You could have the chocolate covered strawberries. The strawberries are local and organic and the chocolate is imported from Switzerland. They cost $12.00 a pound and they are large. There are between four and six strawberries a pound.”

“I’ll take two pounds then,” I said with a smile.

Misty quickly boxed up then strawberries and weighed them. The box came out at two pounds exactly and she printed out the label and used it to close the box. She handed me the box and I went on my merry way.

I grabbed a loaf of French bread, a wheel of soft cheese, a couple of different types of cured meats and a small fruit platter on my way to the register. As the cashier rang me up I looked at the magazines and laughed at the tabloid headlines. All of them said this star seen walking out of an abortion clinic and that star having an alien love child with a Venusian porn star. There were no aliens from Venus and what business was it of anybody’s if a star was seen at an abortion clinic. Abortions were perfectly legal and who knew if she was actually getting an abortion. She could have just been helping a friend or getting a morning after pill after a night of drunken blackouts. I never did get why people were so interested in the inner workings of celebrities lives. They were just people that happened upon a little fame. Half of them that were in the tabloids wouldn’t even be in the spotlight in a year or two. I’d seen it happen hundreds of times.

No one ever talked about Grace Kelly except in history classes six months after she died. The same was true of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, and Princess Diana. I still missed them. I’d known all of them and wished everyday that I could have saved them.

There were so many suicides and drug overdoses that I wish I could have helped people with too, but it always comes down to what would have happened if I’d been there and changed things. Would any of the famous people have been as famous or not as famous, or could they have walked away from it all? Would the world be better or worse with that person in it? Would other people’s lives be better or worse?

The cashier, whose nametag read Sandra, called me out of my sad remembrances. She said excuse me and looked at me like I was more than a little crazy.

“Yes. Sorry,” I apologized, coming back to myself. “I was remembering some old friends and forgot where I was for a moment,” I explained. “How much do I owe you?”

“$47.50,” Sandra answered tersely. I paid with a fifty-dollar bill, got my change, and walked out of the store with my paper grocery bag tucked in my arm.

I walked back to my house and smiled. I refused to be sad and contemplative on such a nice evening that ended a day that had been really good for me. I went around the back of the house and went up the back porch steps to get inside my house. I checked a couple of the locks on my way to the kitchen and made sure all the lights were off in the store. I grabbed a big plate, a knife, and a champagne flute as I walked through the kitchen and headed up the stairs.

I kicked open the upstairs door that I never locked unless I was in for the night or going anywhere for long periods of time and set down everything I carried on the table in the hall. I hit the light switch, hung my keys up and locked the door for the night. I wasn’t going anywhere until tomorrow morning and I was glad for it. I kicked off my practical shoes next and shoved them under the chair where they always went. I shrugged off my sweater, pulled out the ponytail holder keeping my hair out of the way and gathered up everything to take into the bedroom I’d remodeled to be my living room.

I’d knocked out the wall that faced the hallway, turned the closet into the entertainment center, put my really comfy chair facing the television and filled the rest of the space with a desk, a small love seat, and a coffee table that once belonged to a Turkish Ottoman prince. The coffee table weighed a ton and took up a bunch of space but I’d bought my current living room furniture to match it so it worked well.

I put my groceries and dishes down on the coffee table and went to use the bathroom. I washed what tiny bit of makeup I wore to cover some of my scars off my face, scrubbed under my finger nails and washed my hands thoroughly, took off my earrings, tee shirt and jeans, and put my custom fitted silk robe on. I thought about my robe and how it was like comfy underwear as I walked back out to the living room and it made me think of Michael and how he looked like an underwear model.

“Great! Now I look like an underwear model and I’m thinking about a complete stranger that nothing will ever happen with,” I muttered to myself as I picked out a movie to watch and settled on Labyrinth. I hadn’t watched it in a few months and my talks earlier in the day reminded me of it. I put it in the b.r.m.d player, turned on the television and sat in my comfy chair.

I poured myself champagne and started in on the hors d’oeuvres for dinner. I toasted my success, took a sip and toasted all the people I wished I could have saved. I downed the whole glassful with that and poured myself another. After I’d had my fill of cheese, meat, and fruit and sung along to at least two songs in the movie, had myself two strawberries and finished off the bottle of champagne. I then decided to move to the love seat to finish watching the movie. I stretched out with my feet hanging off the arm and got comfortable I didn’t remember much more of the movie because I drifted off to sleep. I don’t think I even made it to 9:00.

I woke up a while later to that hissing noise the speakers make when there’s dead air, turned everything off by kicking the universal remote several times, managed to wander downstairs and put everything in the fridge, and wander back upstairs to pass out in my lovely custom made bed. I’d had to special order my mattress for the past couple centuries. The bed frame I’d had custom built in Germany 400 years ago and before there were manufactured mattresses that I could order I had down mattresses made. And I loved my bed.

I climbed over the end board of my solid mahogany four-poster, threw my robe on the floor and sighed into sleep almost before I could climb under the covers.

Chapter Two



I woke to the ringing of my antique alarm clock at 6:30 am. I threw one of my pillows at it and knocked the clock off my nightstand, shutting it up. My head ached from the champagne. I rarely drank and when I did I almost never had more than a glass of anything and I remembered drinking the whole bottle of champagne by myself. My mouth felt like cotton and my eyes were bleary but I absolutely had to get up and relieve myself.

I climbed out of bed, kicked the pillow out of the way and stepped on my alarm clock, swearing as the winding mechanism stabbed my foot. I kicked the alarm clock under the bed and limped to the bathroom.

Five minutes later after three glasses of water and brushing my teeth and hair I climbed in to the shower and let the really hot water on high pressure massage away the aches that I always had after sleep. I scrubbed under my cuffs and neck ring with the special little brush I’d designed a couple of thousand years ago, as best as I could anyway. When I finished that I started scrubbing everywhere else with a loufa and lots of soap. I was in the middle of washing my left leg when my right knee gave out and I collapsed on the shower floor. I bashed my shoulder against the edge of the tile and nearly cracked my head open against the tile wall.

I gasped in pain and resisted the urge to cry or scream. “No,” I seethed under my breath as I realized what was happening. My right leg was shaking uncontrollably and the shaking was spreading. I was about to go in to a full muscle seizure. I hadn’t had one in over a decade but I knew from experience that they came and went as they please. I usually only had them if I was under stress or recovering from a really severe death. I had no idea why I was having one now. I was happy, relaxed, and secure for the first time in a really long time and I hadn’t died for anyone or from anything in almost centuries.

I just sat down and blinked long blinks while I waited for the shaking to subside and I let the hot water wash over me and rinse the soap away. After ten minutes the shaking hadn’t stopped and I gave up waiting for it to subside. I started where I left off and finished scrubbing the rest of me while I shook. I got everywhere my seizing muscles would let me reach and started washing my hair. I lathered and rinsed and refused to repeat, ran some conditioner through my hair with my fingers, let more of the falling water rinse my hair out, hit the faucet with my foot and turned the water off.

It took me three tries to open my shower door and another two to crawl across the floor and grab the towel hanging form the doorknob. I just laid the towel under my as much as I could and lay on the floor for a while.

I had no idea how much time had passed before the seizures stopped. I lay in a sort of numb state; just staring at the ceiling for a while before I noticed the shaking had stopped. I stoop up using the sink as a safety net when I came out of the stupor and looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess but still wet enough to get a brush through it again and my shoulder was showing all the signs of a major bruise developing, but aside from looking tired I seemed okay. I ran a brush through my hair, washed my face and applied my skincare regime of toner and s.p.f. 20 extra-hydrating moisturizer, eye cream and s.p.f. 15 lip balm.

I wandered out into my bedroom, picked out a clean t-shirt with a dragon breathing fire on it, pilled on my jeans from the previous day and looked for the time on my alarm clock. When I looked at my nightstand for the clock it wasn’t there and then I remembered I’d kicked it under the bed. I threw the covers back on the bed and reached my arm under the bed for the clock. I found it by feel and brought it out. The time read 7:30. I was glad. The seizure had only lasted about 45 minutes. I’d had episodes that lasted for two days before.

I decided I wouldn’t wear my tennis shoes and pulled on my boots instead for the day and walked down stairs for some breakfast after I put my clock on my nightstand. I drank orange juice straight out of the carton as I looked for what I wanted to eat in the fridge. I grabbed the eggs, the leftover salami, and the cheddar cheese block the size of my head. I set the orange juice carton on the kitchen tabled with everything else for my omelet and grabbed a mixing bowl out the kitchen cabinet and a whisk from the utensil jar.

I rinsed the knife and cutting board off from the previous night and used them to cut up the cheese and salami. I scrambled four eggs in the bowl, dumped in the salami and cheese along with some salt and pepper and whisked them together with the eggs. I then heated up the skillet that only ever got washed and put back on the stove top, slapped a tablespoon of real butter in the pan, waited for it to start smoking and dumped my omelet in.

I dumped the bowl, the knife, and the cutting board back in the sink and then flipped my omelet over. While I waited for it to finish cooking I put the food back in the fridge and got out a plate and fork and set them down at the only spot at the table that had a chair. I turned off the stove, grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it around the pan’s handle and dumped the omelet straight on the plate and put the pan in the sink. I’d do the dishes when I came back for lunch. I sat and ate the omelet quickly, nearly burning my mouth on the first bites and put the plate and fork in the sink and ran some water over everything. I looked at the time on the stove and it was only 7:50. I had ten minutes to gather up my deposits for the day and walk over to the bank, just in time for it to open.

I turned off the water, grabbed my purse and keys, and walked through the door to the store, locking it behind me as I went. I loaded up the little leather bag the bank gave me for deposits with all the money in the register except for the change I’d need for the day, zipped the bag closed and walked to the front door of the store. I took off the note that I’d put up the night before, unlocked the door, walked out and locked the door behind me again, out of habit as much as caution.

I walked the three blocks to the bank that was on the corner of Main and Cherry and smiled at Jorge, the morning security guard, as I walked up to him just as he opened the front doors. It was 8:00 exactly.

“Good morning Jorge,” I greeted.

“Buenos Dias, Ms. Gabriel,” Jorge said with a heavy Spanish accent. Jorge had lived in Canada about as long as I had but he’d moved from Spain and was still learning his English. I would have chatted with him in Spanish but my Spanish was antiquated, seeing as I hadn’t been in Spain since before Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

Jorge held the door open for me and I walked into Saskatchewan National Bank number 953, Backwater Branch. Peggy, my normal bank teller, was behind the counter. Anyone else would have used an A.T.M. or wouldn’t even know their teller’s name but A.T.M.’s didn’t like me and it was a small town.

Peggy was polite, quick, great with numbers and good at keeping secrets. She’d been the first to meet me when I came to town because she had stayed late at the bank so I could meet with the realtor and transfer the money to pay for my house. She never told anyone about it, or me, or the amount of money I had sitting around in my bank account here. Most anyone else would have blabbed in a hot second. A few of the other bankers at the Backwater bank knew that I had money and lots of it but they had a privacy policy and dealt with the Leonards, Billingslys, and Pauls. They knew about money and had plenty of dirt to spread around about other people.

I walked up to Peggy, brought out my account information from my purse, and handed her the little bag and information together with a smile. I couldn’t carry a bankcard for the same reason I didn’t have a credit card machine in the store. I made them go wonky. Peggy smiled back, entered my information into the computer that was shielded from me by a wooden panel and started sorting the cash and checks out.

She stuck the cash in the little machine that counted it all out, dumped the coins in the sorter and started feeding checks into the check scanner. She mad sure my receipts matched the totals that were counted out and did a double take at the amount I’d made on Thursday.

“Ms. Arcane, I just want to make sure that these numbers are right,” she said to me. “Are you sure you didn’t put a comma where you should have put a decimal and charge some one too much?”

“I’m positive. I had this guy yesterday walk in off the street and buy $10,000 worth of books and materials. It was mostly books; a lot of antique ones. Some of them cost a pretty penny. Thank you for your concern. I made no errors,” I replied.

Peggy smiled hesitantly at me and spoke again. “I’m sorry Ms. Arcane but I have to get the manager over here to approve this much money,” she said like I was going to yell at her or something worse.

“I understand. It’s perfectly all right,” I said calmly, keeping a sincere smile on my face. Peggy disappeared in to one of the back offices and came out a couple of minutes later with a confused and sour looking man name Harry Buck.

Harry was Backwater’s resident Scrooge. He managed the bank and was it’s chief loan officer as well. He could pinch a penny with the best of them, hated Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and resented anyone with more money than him. He also looked down on anyone who had less than he did and made a point to curse and yell at anyone he thought was weird or different when he wasn’t at work. I was one of those weird and different people and I had more money than he did so he hated me twice as much.

I always brought in seasonal goodies for all the people at the bank just to spite him and now he stood before me, having to approve the transaction I was trying to make. Knowing Harry like I did I knew he’d want to ask a zillion questions just to be a pain in the ass so I cut straight to the point and cut him off before he could say anything.

“Don’t even try it Harry. Let’s get right to the point. I don’t have all day and you can’t not approve my deposit just because you don’t like me. You like my money and you wouldn’t want to do anything stupid like piss me off today. I’ve had a bad morning and it’s not even 8:30 yet. Just do the right and easy thing and approve my deposit however you do,” I insisted before he even opened his mouth.

Harry sneered at me, hit a few buttons on the computer and walked away without even talking to me. “Thank you Peggy,” I said as she handed me a new leather pouch with my deposit slip in it. “Have a nice day,” I said and walked out of the bank.

I walked back to the store and started opening it up. I made sure the curtains were open to the sunshine and only turned on about half the lights. My eyes were extremely sensitive to light after an attack and fluorescents just made it worse. I missed candlelight and torchlight. Sure those kinds of light were stinky and a little messy but you only had to blow out one candle or snuff one torch when your eyes hurt. It was hard to snuff four light bulbs in one light fixture without a dimmer switch, which I wasn’t allowed to have in a place of business. I had them upstairs but not in the store.

I was tempted to go back upstairs, close my blackout curtains, sleep for four or five more hours and let Juliet open the store. “Oh the hell with it,” I said and turned on the rest of the lights, unlocked the doors and laid down on the huge sectional crammed in the corner of what used to be the dining room and was now the sort of magical café.

My customers could use the room to hold meetings, do readings, or just lounge around the seven or eight little tables scattered around and on the big couch. The couch was a yard sale find and was the only piece of furniture I could lay out on and stretch out besides my bed. I took one of the twenty or so pillows I’d bought over time and covered my head with it.

Probably five minutes later I heard the bell over the door ring. I groaned and ignored it. “Hello Gabriel,” Juliet’s squeaky voice called to me.

If she wasn’t such a good employee and hadn’t had such a good sense of humor I’d have fired her two months after I hired her, just for the voice. “Shh!” I called to her as she passed by the café door.

“Is that you Gabriel?” she squeaked.

“Yes, now shush. Hangover,” I said from under the pillow.

Juliet giggled a little squeaky giggle and I winced. I was glad that my head was under a pillow so she couldn’t see my face. “What did you do last night? You never drink,” Juliet pointed out.

“It was a good day. Yesterday evening I made a $10,000 sale. I thought it deserved a celebration. I went out, bought a bottle of champagne from the grocery store and a few chocolate strawberries. I didn’t mean to but I wound up drinking the whole bottle of champagne. Now Shh,” I said. “Talking bad. Disable the bell too please, at least until I’m more myself,” I suggested.

Juliet walked away and I heard a clatter and a little ringing and then all was quiet with the bell. She must have climbed to step ladder and put one of her trademark scrunchies around the clapper. I’d have bet any amount of money that the schrunchie was pink. Juliet loved pink in every shade. She even dyed her lovely naturally blond hair neon pink.

I never knew any 19 year-old who loved pink as much as Juliet. Juliet also had an unfortunate likeness for Barbie™. She was 5’11” with 34 triple D breasts and legs for days. She looked like Barbie™ and if I didn’t have seven inches on her and look like a pale Amazon most people would call her one. Most people did until they saw me.

Juliet lived across town in the only apartment complex in Backwater. It was only four stories tall but Juliet prided herself in calling her fourth floor two-bedroom apartment a penthouse suite. Anyone else would have called it a dump. Juliet liked to bring a little class to everything though. Her apartment was gorgeous in a dump of a complex and she kept it immaculate and decorated in art deco antiques.

Where she got the money for it all I have no idea. She was single, lived alone, had only graduated from high school two years ago and only worked for me as far as I knew. Maybe she had a sugar daddy or still lived off her father still. I didn’t care. All I did care about was that her name was Juliet Fries, she showed up to work on time, and she knew how to sell. She could get anyone to buy anything and was happy to help everyone. My business had practically doubled since I’d hired her. I don’t think her looks hurt either.

Every guy who walked into the store that wasn’t gay hit on her. I think her squeaky voice made her seem cute, innocent, and a little dumb to them. She wasn’t anything of the sort. If she’d had more money and wanted to she could have gone to any university in the world. I also knew that she was gay, had piercings and tattoos that would make a biker blush and could kick butt with the best of them. She had a black belt in tae kwon do. I’d sparred with her a couple of times in competitions in Saskatoon and Winnipeg. She was vicious but I still won but I had four centuries of practice on her and no qualms about punching that pretty little face of hers. Most of her other competitors did and they always regretted it.

That’s how I met her actually. I’d entered a competition in Winnipeg about a month after I moved to Backwater, fought her, won, and found out she lived in Backwater, same as me, just across town. We got to talking, went out to dinner after the competition and I hired her two days after she graduated from high school. I never met any of her family but I didn’t care. She was just an employee.

I heard Juliet scuffling around, was glad for her silence, and just relaxed until I heard the front door open at exactly nine a.m. I knew it was 9:00 because only one person ever came in to the store like clockwork every Friday at exactly 9:00, Mrs. Fatima Louisa Serendipity Mont-Batten Nelson. She was Lorentia Mont-Batten Smith’s cousin, and the blackest of sheep in the Mont-Batten family. She openly practiced witchcraft, was divorced from Mr. Nelson, the town sheriff, and had taken her two teenage children to live with her lesbian lover in the only house in town that sported pink flamingos on the lawn, along with ugly lawn gnomes and an abundance of other cheesy lawn ornaments.

I hated Fatima Mont-Batten Nelson. She always asked for the most obscure and dangerous things, which I flatly refused the sell her. She was way into the dark magicks. I couldn’t refuse her the candles, incense, and other simple, and standard magical items, but I would never sell her some of the things she asked for. She always wanted the poisonous herbs like deadly nightshade, or baby’s teeth or animal bones. She once asked me if I could get her dried poison arrow frogs and the eyes of a male wolf in formaldehyde. Not only was most of the stuff she asked for illegal but also I couldn’t even carry them without the Mounties coming to knock on my door.

I got up off the couch, tossed the pillow back in to it’s place, and walked away to use the half bath that was for customers and employees, under the stairs, and let Juliet deal with that impossible woman. Fatima had a tendency to yell when she didn’t get her way, and I had a little twinge of guilt for leaving Juliet alone with that monster but only a little twinge.

That day, after the morning I’d had, I would have probably turned Fatima into a quivering mass of tears. When I got into a mood I could send the toughest, hardened, ex-military criminal sociopath crying home to his mommy. I’d done it a few times.

When I came out of the bathroom Fatima was in tizzy, screaming at the much taller Juliet, in a voice so shrill that if it got any higher only dogs would be able to hear it. I gave into my ever-increasing foul mood and decided to step in and save Juliet.

“That’s it! Get out!!!” I yelled.

My yelling stunned Fatima and Juliet so much they both turned and looked at me. “You heard me,” I said, making solid eye contact with Fatima. “I don’t really care if you come in here every week and buy a hundred dollars worth of merchandise. You won’t yell at my employees or me anymore. If you don’t like it then I suggest you take your business elsewhere. For now get out!” I roared. I was glad for a Viking upbringing. I could scare people with my battle cries, which is exactly what they were designed for.

Fatima just looked at me in a state of shock and when she finally came to understand what I said her eyes welled up and she ran out the door. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a year,” I said to Juliet with a sigh of relief.

“Wow!” Juliet exclaimed. “I’ve never seen you yell at anybody before,” she added.

“I know. I don’t lose my temper often, but when I do I can be harsh,” I said.

“That wasn’t harsh. She deserved it,” Juliet said.

“Thanks for that. You’re right. It really wasn’t harsh. I’ve yelled at a few people in my life and believe me, when you make a General who lost a limb in a war cry, you get a special medal for harsh bitchiness. I even