1. ISAAC

Chapter one

ISAAC

EARLIER THAT DAY

I t was early. Too early to be out of bed and drinking burnt coffee because the only spot open at the arsecrack of dawn was the greasy service station cafe in the next town over. But, there I was, hands clasped around a chipped mug, listening to my brother whinge about his week, trying not to screw up my face with every mouthful.

It was rare that we could meet—every month or two, when our schedules aligned—so I had to lump it, sticky tables and all. Wayne had called me yesterday, harping on about how I distanced myself whenever I was struggling, and how getting me to socialise was impossible, so despite the ungodly hour, I was here, proving him wrong.

In actuality, I'd just been too busy running a business into the ground to stop and chat. Nothing personal, but still. Part of me knew I had to make more of an effort .

It really had been too damn long since I'd seen his cheery face.

"Have you signed up for the flower show yet?" he asked, taking a sip from his own cup, his eye twitching as he swallowed.

We were nothing alike in appearance. He was as broad as he was tall, his hair a dark brown, and he smiled more often. If it weren't for our matching nose freckles, and the fact that we both had our mum's eyes, no one would ever peg us for brothers. It was a running joke between us that I'd come from the milkman.

"No, and I'm not going to." He was talking about the Flower Festival, a huge event held in our county every two years. It was the event for anyone even remotely into floriculture; a weekend filled with all things floral, and it was my favourite place on Earth.

Florists came from all over Britain to compete in the revered Sunday Show to prove their talent and attract new customers. I'd only ever taken part as a spectator, even with Wayne's constant insistence that I should enter. I'd have loved to. It had been a dream of mine since I was a kid, from the very first time our mum thought I was old enough to appreciate it and I'd watched the competition through awestruck eyes. But I wasn't ready.

He knew that.

Or at least he was aware that I knew that .

"Come on, Iz," he said, nudging my foot under the table like we were five. "It's been four years since you set up shop. I know you want to."

I scoffed, brushing my thumb along the rim of my mug. I couldn't bring myself to drink any more. "It has nothing to do with wanting ."

If it had, I'd have signed up years ago.

"You just need to have more confidence in your abilities."

"I'm confident that I'm not cut out for it," I said with a humourless laugh. "For any of it."

"Course you are." He said it with conviction, setting his cup on the edge of the table. I guessed neither of us could stomach finishing the swill. "And besides, you don't mean that. Otherwise, you'd have given up by now."

I hummed. "That's what Mum and Dad would want."

It was spite that kept me from quitting, not confidence. It was one of the main reasons why I was closer to Wayne than my parents. Unlike them—my mother especially—he'd never once told me to give up the flower shop. He understood how much it meant to me, and he truly believed I was capable of showing everyone who doubted me that I could handle it. He offered his support, knowing that I wouldn't take it because I was stubborn and thought accepting help would ruin my whole MO, but it was the principle. He didn't force the easy way out.

He respected my decisions, however irresponsible, and I was grateful for it .

"They just worry about you, Iz," he said, telling me what, deep down, I already knew. It was just hard to see it that way sometimes. "It's not that they don't think you're good enough. You don't open up, and all they see is their golden boy struggling and they can't do anything about it except tell you there's no shame in waving the white flag."

"I know, I know. I just…" I scrubbed a hand over my face, already done with this conversation. "The constant negativity, even the good-natured kind, gets so fucking grating. I'm tough enough on myself, I don't need it from outside sources, too."

He nodded. "They do love you, though. I promise."

"Yeah." It wasn't intentional, but the discomfort had my gaze drifting to the clock behind the counter, noticing with a start that I had forty minutes until my shop was due to open. We'd been there for an hour and a half already, and awful drinks aside, it had felt more like ten minutes.

Huh .

I'd almost forgotten why our meetings weren't a regular thing.

Wayne huffed a laugh, drawing my attention back to him. "Look, I know you're chomping at the bit to get out of here…" He shot me a look when I tried to argue, forcing my mouth to clack shut. "But there was a reason other than missing your crabbit face why I wanted to meet up." He reclined in his seat to go fishing in his jeans pocket. "I have something for you."

"I swear to God, if it's another cheque—"

He snorted. "Fuck no. I learned my lesson the last time." I'd put it through my shredder, and had he produced another one, thinking it was safe in a public setting, he'd have been wrong. "No, some guy at work gave me an address, told me to check it out if I ever needed a bit of a boost. It made me think of you." Finally triumphant in the battle against his skintight jeans, he slid over a crumpled piece of paper, which I eyed sceptically. "Apparently, the guy behind the counter can help with whatever you need. No judgement."

Not suspicious at all. "I'm not interested in loan sharks," I deadpanned, before tacking on, "Or therapists."

"It's nothing like that, I swear." He smiled, shifty yet hopeful. "Just go and see. Trust me, it's nothing dodgy. I'd never put you in danger, Iz."

I trusted him with my life, but there was definitely something he wasn't telling me; some important detail that he seemed to be purposefully leaving out for whatever nefarious reason. Well, I wasn't indulging his whims today. "I deal with shit myself."

"And that'll still be the case. This wouldn't be an instant fix like money or whatever, but…" He flopped against the table, laying the pleading dramatics on thick. "Come on, mate, you're up to your eyeballs, and you hardly ever seem truly happy anymore. It's okay to need a little… lift."

"I'm fine," I lied, but there were no flies on my brother.

"Don't bullshit me. I know you better than I know myself, and if you won't let me help you outright, at least let me involve a third party." It wasn't exactly a request, but he did raise a hand as if pledging his honour. "And hey, if you go and decide it's not for you, I'll never mention it again. How's that?"

"I seem to have given the impression this is up for negotiation. My mistake," I said dryly, with a glare to match.

He shrugged, unbothered, still grinning like a fool. "Gotta do what I gotta do."

After a beat, and no further response from me, his expression morphed into something soft and aware . I should have hated it, being caught under such an astute gaze, but from him, it didn't feel quite so condescending. Probably because he was the only person qualified in interpreting my silences and drawing out my internal debates. He no doubt understood clearly that I was fighting with myself, between accepting what he offered because I knew he meant no harm, and sticking to my guns. He always knew, and it made everything that much easier.

"I'm your big brother…" He reached over to pat my hand in reassurance. "And all I want is to get you back to your bright, chirpy self—the you that started this business. That's all."

I could tell him no and he'd abandon it. I knew that. But something about the desperation in his eyes, even masked by amusement, made me feel a little sympathetic to his efforts. He only ever had my best interests at heart and, I mean, he wasn't wrong. Even my pig-headed arse could admit that I'd lost a lot of my spark in the last few months, which must have been hard for him—as my big brother and closest friend—to watch .

I sighed.

I'd have felt the exact same in his shoes.

It was for that reason, and that reason alone, that I snatched up the paper, making absolutely no promises as I said, "I'll think about it."

I parked on the street, thirty feet from the address on the card.

Call me a bleeding heart, but Wayne would have been crushed if I hadn't, and since there were twenty minutes to spare until I had to be at work, and I was in the town anyway, why not humour him? For the sake of my eardrums, if nothing else.

Except, had I known more about this place—other than ‘the guy behind the counter will help'— before pulling up, getting out of my car, and finding the shop entrance, I'd have told him to go fuck himself.

The red sign above the door read, The Magic Shop, and with an eye roll and a grumble of his name, I cursed my brother—probably the best place for it—for making fun of me. He knew my opinion on the supernatural, how I thought it was all a crock of shite, but that was probably why he hadn't given me any information. He'd kept it vague to get me to the door, and honestly, I should have guessed his ‘offer' would involve something along these lines. Contrary to me, he loved anything occult, so I supposed I only had myself to blame.

Though, I'd be blaming him entirely whenever we spoke again. Bloody twat.

The shop's exterior wasn't all that impressive. Just a regular brick building with black wooden panelling, in the middle of a regular street, sandwiched between a charity shop and a newsagent. Nothing extraordinary. Though, the witchy window display gave it some charm—if you were into that sort of thing—and the black door was wedged open in invitation. There was also a smell coming from inside that reminded me a lot of my own shop. It was floral and sweet, but even squinting through the window, I couldn't see any flowers. I couldn't see much of anything except shadowed outlines in the dark. Had the door been shut, I'd have thought it was closed.

I could pretend it was, and leave, but it wouldn't surprise me if Wayne had the opening times memorised, or he was camped out in his car across the street, chuckling to himself at having finally tricked me over to the dark side. I had a quick glance just to be sure, but there was no one suspicious lurking around. There were empty cars parked at the side of the road, and a lamp post with a missing cat poster stuck to it, but that was about all I could see. No people, no hustle and bustle. It struck me as odd, but maybe it wasn't a particularly busy part of town?

I didn't live there, so how was I to know if the streets outside magic shops were usually popular or not ?

I was stalling, and after a look at my phone screen, I realised I was quickly running out of time. I could've just gone back to my car, driven home, and set up shop early, but I was already here, and despite there being no one to bear witness, I'd feel a right plum having lingered for so long only to turn back. So, with a deep sigh and a head shake at my own expense, I headed inside.

My eyes widened as soon as I stepped through the doorway.

The place was much larger than I'd expected, both wider and taller— brighter , too. The window must have been tinted. It appeared narrow from the outside, squashed between two other shops as it was, and not nearly big enough to swing a cat. But along the walls were shelves upon shelves of dusty old books, with scary-tall ladders leading to the top rows that made my belly swoop just imagining standing on them. The proportions were way off, and there was natural light streaming in that couldn't possibly be coming from one window. None of it made sense. It had to be some sort of illusion: mirrors or the like warping reality and fucking with the customers' minds.

It definitely worked.

I made my way down one of the aisles, scanning the array of pretty crystals and other occult supplies I had no idea what to call, or what their uses might be. The floral smell was much more potent inside, but there were still no flowers that I could see. It was likely coming from the bunches of dried herbs dangling from the shelves, but that didn't seem quite right. The scent in my nose was fresh and vibrant, not earthy or stale. I ignored it, putting it down to more simple trickery, but it gave me the heebie-jeebies nonetheless.

At the end of the aisle, I came face to face with a counter: a till to one side and a call bell that said ‘please ring for assistance' at the other. No one was manning the station, so I followed the instructions and tapped the button on the top. The chime echoed for a good few seconds—an ear-splitting sound that seemed to ricochet between every glass jar—before fading out with no one coming to answer its call. I turned to see if there were any staff milling around one of the other rows I hadn't walked down, but they were all just as empty.

Frowning, I turned back, intent on making my impatience known by ringing the bell again…

Only to damn near jump out of my skin, instead.

"Creeping Jesus!" My hand flew to my chest as I stumbled backwards, away from the six-foot-tall man who'd appeared behind the till without a peep. "I didn't…" I took a deep inhale to be sure I hadn't shit myself, then exhaled with a prayer of gratitude that I hadn't. "I didn't expect you to be there."

The stranger's eery black eyes dropped to the bell before flicking back up. "You rang."

"Yeah, but…" I trailed off, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. He must have come from the door behind the till—a back room, probably—but I swore, I hadn't heard it open. What kind of fuckery had I wandered into? "Never mind. "

The guy reminded me of the magician my brother had at his twelfth birthday party, clad in his bow tie, black suit complete with long jacket tails, and top hat. It was a fine line between tacky and distinguished. I mean, I couldn't exactly fault him for his commitment to the bit, but it seemed a little too well tailored to be entirely fancy dress.

Maybe he was just an avid fan of the Victorian era?

Isn't that the case for most people into this stuff?

He propped his hand against the counter's edge, lips curling into a polite smile. "How can I be of assistance?"

"I have no idea," I answered honestly, unsure how else to act. "My brother gave me your address, but I think it's some kind of prank 'cause—"

He cut me off, swatting at the air as if batting away the very notion. "I do not deal in pranks. Only spells, potions, tinctures, runes—anything of the magical persuasion—can be found in here." He tilted his head like a curious dog, a dog that could see right into my soul. "Is there anything specific you're in need of? A Tarot reading, perhaps?"

"Er…" I said eloquently, every thought I'd ever had fleeing my head for a beat.

The shopkeeper seemed to notice my malfunction and hummed in sympathy, his eyes roving over the whole of me as if assessing. After a few moments and a click of his teeth, his gaze returned to mine, his smile widening. "I believe I know exactly what you need."

That woke me up .

"If it's a big pile o' cash, then you'd be correct."

He huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. "Please wait here for three ticks."

With a twist of his wrist, a cane materialised from thin air—slid out from his sleeve, undoubtedly, but still a pretty impressive sleight of hand—before he disappeared into the back room, out of view. I released a slow breath, already baffled by the entire interaction and gagging to leave. But just as the thought of legging it came to me, literally three seconds later , the stranger returned, a small pouch and what looked like a playing card in his hand.

My brow furrowed.

"Here we are," he announced, resting his cane against the worktop so he could spread the items out. There was a feather there, too, long and orangey-red like a flame. Fucked if I knew any bird with feathers like that. It had to be fake. "Before I hand this spell over to you, you must understand that once you commit, it cannot be undone."

I hadn't the heart to admit I had no clue what was happening, or that I wasn't a believer. There was no benefit to ruining his act, or his fun, and the quicker it was over, the sooner I could go home. "Sure, I understand," I said, somewhat confidently. "Er, what exactly does it do?"

"It will guide you to all that you desire," he said. Keeping it vague, of course, 'cause who needed details, anyway? "That is why you are here, is it not?"

I was here because of Wayne. Why I was still here remained to be seen.

"If you say so," I muttered, taking the supplies when he handed them over. I wanted to stuff them into my pockets, but decided to wait until I was outside. "So, how much is this going to set me back, hm?"

The shopkeeper held up his hand, stopping me from digging out my wallet. "No payment is required today."

My scepticism festered as I glanced over my shoulder once more, half expecting to see a shadow with an ancient scroll, demanding I sign my name on the dotted line. Nothing was free, so this whole rigmarole was either a scam to squeeze money out of me later—top contender in my opinion—or some black-market organ trade that I wanted no part of.

Still, despite my anxiety and my sweat-slicked palms, I couldn't help but press on.

I was invested now.

"What does that mean?"

"Once a lesson is learned, the debt will be paid."

"Once… What ?" I waited for him to elaborate. He did not, and a stilted laugh that bordered on manic burst from my throat.

Riddles. How fun.

The feather was an awkward length, and I tried my best not to crush it in my hand, I really did. "Well, thank you for the cigarette ash. Should all my dreams come true, I'll be sure to leave you a review on yelp. "

"Wait," he called as I spun on my heel to leave.

The poor guy was just doing his job, and I felt the tiniest bit guilty for acting so irate, but all I could think about was how much I could've got done at the shop had I not come here. That wasn't his fault though, so with a silent sigh, and a mental fuck you to my brother, I turned around.

"Yeah?"

The stranger reached into his jacket and brought out a folded piece of paper before passing it to me. "Here are the instructions," he said, his expression serious. "Be sure to follow them to the letter."

I forced a smile and took the note, adding it to the pile of stuff I'd probably never be looking at again. "Will do."

"Good luck," he said with a chivalrous tip of his hat, and on that note, I left, the door slamming closed behind me.

I flinched, but with my feet back on solid pavement, the recovery was quick. I examined my loot, noticing the sunflower on the face of the card for the first time. It was smiling, the words The Sun printed underneath—not a playing card, then. It had to be pure coincidence that a flower, my favourite flower, was staring up at me instead of any number of ‘sunny' symbols, but after barely ten minutes in that shop, it was difficult to pretend it wasn't also fucking creepy.

I scoffed and shoved the supplies into my pockets, deciding it was pointless to think about it anymore.

Waste of bloody time.