I automatically glanced at Fluffy. The taxidermied alligator who'd become our shop mascot wore a bright blue-and-red scarf today and had a strip of orange duct tape wrapped around its tail to cover up the bullet hole where Eleanor had shot it.
She'd been trying to shoot Jack at the time.
By the time the first of the GYSTers pushed open the door, Eleanor was standing behind the counter with a smile pasted on her only slightly pale face.
I turned to face them and smiled. "Hello, and welcome to Dead End Pawn. Donut?"
For the next almost-hour, everything was absolutely, wonderfully normal. People shopped and oohed and aahed. They showed me photos of sunburned and deliriously happy grandchildren wearing mouse ears, they showed me photos of the alligators they'd seen "up close and personal" on the airboat tour, they asked each other in low tones if I might be an actual witch or other magic practitioner, when they looked at the locked magical potions case, and they bought Dead End Pawn merchandise by the truckload.
I'd been skeptical about getting a logo designed (Fluffy the mascot was front and center), but the tourists loved it.
A husband and wife I knew from other GYST Mondays ambled up to the counter. I conservatively estimated their combined age at a hundred and eighty and secretly hoped I was still as active when I was that old.
"Mr. and Mrs. Sharma! So good to see you again!"
They were both about five and a half feet tall, with warm, brown skin, bright, dark eyes, and lovely silver hair that still held strands of glossy black. The last time they'd been in, it had been their seventieth anniversary, and I've given them a beautiful Art Deco clock as a gift, because that kind of love should be celebrated.
"Lovely to see you, Tess," Mr. Sharma said. "You know us, we enjoy riding the bus once a month or so, even though we live in Orlando. It's nice to meet the young folks on the bus."
The "young folks" on the bus averaged mid-seventies.
Mrs. Sharma was perusing the jewelry selection while we talked, and she tapped the counter and smiled up at me. "Ooh, Tess, may I see this, please?"
Eleanor was helping another customer at the other end of the counter, so I unlocked the case—it held the few really valuable pieces of jewelry we had in inventory—and pulled out the tray.
"Which piece?"
"That copper brooch in the shape of a leaf! What exquisite craftsmanship that is," she said, all but bouncing with enthusiasm.
Itwaslovely. Eleanor had taken it in as a sale the week before—the owner hadn't wanted to bother with pawning it, she'd said. It was delicately shaped and had etching on it that almost looked like writing if you stared at it for too long.
In fact … I picked up the brooch and held it on the palm of my hand. Could those be runes? They reminded me of the mysterious markings in Jack's well. But why would—
A sudden spike of pain slammed into the back of my skull, and I dropped the brooch back on the tray and clutched my head, unable to prevent the moan from escaping.
Eleanor was instantly next to me. "Tess? Honey, are you okay?"
I tried to smile through the pain. Didn't want to scare the customers. "It's nothing. Just this headache. I've never really had a bad one before, and ever since yesterday … I can't seem to shake it."
"Oh, sweetie, you should have said," Eleanor said. She yanked the drawer open and reached into her giant purse. "Peppermint oil. I swear by it. You just smooth some on your forehead, and the scent will get rid of the headache in thirty minutes at the most."
I sidled away. "Oh. Thanks, but no. I don't really like the smell of peppermint. I can't—"
"Tess, come here, darling," Mrs. Sharma said, her hand inherpurse. "Self-cooling strips. You just pull this paper here—" She demonstrated. "And then slap it to your forehead." She leaned over the counter and pressed it to mine before I could demur. "The cooling effect will get rid of that headache in no time."
"Did you say headache?" Mr. Holby, the GYST bus driver, strode over. "Breathe in a paper bag for five minutes. Works every time. I have some barf bags on the bus. I'll go get you one."
Before I could protest, he was out the door. The way my head was hurting, I might very well be sick before long, so maybe a barf bag was a good idea.
Suddenly, the counter was crowded with GYSTers offering helpful suggestions.
"Here, take mine."
"No, mine."
"Here, young lady, have some of this."
Hands waved brightly colored bottles of every kind of over-the-counter pain medicine known to humanity, plus not a few orange prescription bottles.
