Page 5 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

This man was different from them. He had the air of someone who’d arrived here with a purpose, even if he was reluctant to admit it.

Augustine watched him drift back towards the crystal shelves, fingers hovering but not touching, gaze unfocused. There was something restless about him, something pent up and jumpy, so she cleared her throat gently. “Are you sure you don’t need any help? I’m right here if you do.”

He startled — actually physically startled — like he’d temporarily forgotten she was there. Then something seemed to pass through him, quick and sharp. His shoulders squared and his jaw set. Was it resolve, maybe?

He crossed the shop in a few long strides and stopped at her desk. Augustine looked up at him — what was this guy, six foot? Maybe more? — and then promptly blushed.

God, he was still so unfairly handsome.

He cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said carefully, his voice surprisingly low and soft for someone so large. “I think I do need some help.”

Augustine tilted her head, curiosity blooming. “All right,” she said, as warm as ever, trying not to look too deeply into those eyes. “How can I help you? Are you looking for a gift? Maybe some more menopause related items for a special lady in your life?”

He hesitated, just for a fraction. “No. Not a gift.”

“Oh. So, it's something for yourself then?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. For me.”

She waited for him to expand. Waited for him to go on. He didn’t though. He just stood there and gazed at her, steadily and patiently, and something in Augustine’s stomach shifted as their eyes met again. Honestly, she had to stop looking into this man’s eyes. Not only was it sparking an attraction she couldn’t explain, but there was also something definitely familiar about him.

“Do I . . . do I know you?” she asked him slowly, trying to place the atmosphere that had suddenly fallen around them.

Augustine knew the weight of omens. She was witch-born, after all. She knew when the universe was clearing its throat; knew when the cosmos was staring down at her, and right now, it felt like both were trying to beat her over the head with a frying pan. Threads tugged at the edge of her awareness, invisible and insistent, suggesting something was trying very hard to get her attention.

The problem was, she couldn’t read it. She couldn’t read him.

That, more than anything, unsettled her. In her world, people were always stories. Messy ones, loud ones, soft ones, troubled ones. Their stories were always written all over their faces, built into their postures. All sceptics and troublemakers gave themselves away eventually, and you didn’t need magic to see it. This man, though, felt like a page she couldn’t turn. Blank where there should’ve been ink. Augustine chewed on her lip, staring at him.

He shook his head. “No,” he said, a faint crease appearing between his brows. “We haven’t met before. I don’t think so, anyway.”

I don’t think so.

That little addendum snagged in her mind like a burr. Augustine studied him openly now, manners momentarily forgotten. If they hadn’t met, then why did it feel like she knew him? Why did her mind hum ever so softly, the way it did when she was standing at the edge of a memory she couldn’t quite grasp?

It’s déjà vu, that’s all, she tried to reassure herself. Honestly, you see one attractive man and fall to pieces? Pick yourself up and make a sale — your bank account needs it.

“Okay,” she went on. “Well, what can I get you today then? A candle, some herbs, maybe—”

“No,” he interrupted, suddenly firm. “The help I need . . . it isn’t a thing. It’s more of a . . .” He paused, as if weighing up the words he wanted to speak. “It’s more of a service.”

Prickles ran up Augustine’s arms. The kind that raised every fine hair on her skin and sent her stomach dropping hard, like she’d missed a step on the stairs.

She straightened instinctively, smile thinning. “I don’t offer services here,” she told him, lightly enough, but with a very definite edge creeping into her voice. “Just things. Candles. Incense. Crystals. You know—” she waved her hand — “things.”

“Tarot cards?” he asked, and Augustine froze.

“I, um, sell them.”

“But do you read them?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no reply came out. She was flustered, her heart picking up speed in her chest, and a small sweat broke out on her neck. “Well, I, uh . . .” Words deserted her.

“I’d like you to read the cards for me. I understand you do that.”

She shook her head quickly. “No. I, um — no, I don’t do that. I mean, I can, I just . . . I don’t. Not any more.”

The room fell quiet as her words settled between them. Somewhere, Augustine could hear the gentle ring of a windchime, while the sun drifting through her window caught the crystal charms hanging from her ceiling, scattering colour over the room. He seemed to think, a frown on his lips.