The Witch's Apprentice

Oliver pushed open the heavy wooden door, wincing as the ancient hinges shrieked. A silver bell chimed above his head, the musty smell of old, well-loved books dancing into his nose. A small smile spread across his face. 

The bookstore, aptly named Forgotten Treasures, was cluttered with trinkets. The bookshelves stood still as statues, tall as giants, their shelves full of domino stacked books and little metal figurines. Display cases of old jewelry and strange rocks lined the isle to the checkout counter. 

He crept towards the granite counter, his spindly piano-playing fingers curling around his worn satchel. 

“Morning, Ms. Dalton,” he greeted, his hazel eyes clashing with those of the withered lady, cataracts crowding her grey irises. She wore her standard dark cloak, the edges tattered, a large red pendant dangling from her neck. When they first met, Oliver felt it necessary to question her obviously horrendous fashion sense, only to be lectured about the importance of free will. Ms. Dalton, though wise, surely had her moments of insanity.

Ms. Dalton slowly shuffled around the counter, her familiar face framed by wisps of silver hair. She opened her arms wide and Oliver rolled his eyes, accepting the hug. Stiff limbs wrapped around him, the scent of fresh ink clogging his nostrils. 

“It’s been a while,” Ms. Dalton crooned as she released him. 

Oliver ran a hand through his curly, pale brown hair, sadness flowing into his eyes. “I was here yesterday.”

Ms. Dalton tutted. “Of course, of course. I know, dear. Silly me.” She scampered to the other side of the counter, hopping up onto her padded stool. 

Oliver slipped his satchel from his shoulder, setting onto the counter. He grabbed a drawstring sack from within, coins jingling together as he handed it to the old woman.

Her grey eyes widened. “What is this?”

“I found what you were looking for,” he explained.

“I wasn’t looking for coins,” Ms. Dalton said, raising a slim eyebrow.

A blush spread across Oliver’s pale face. “I know. But—Well, you see, the owner paid me to—Well—not buy it from him. Something about curses.”

Ms. Dalton chuckled. “Willis, that damn dragon. He knows nothing of curses.” Her laughed turned into a dark cackle and Oliver shuddered.

She placed the bag of coins under the counter. “I have an appointment in thirty minutes.”

Oliver leaned forward, his elbows resting on the cool countertop. “Oh?”

“Some couple’s having problems with their child.”

“So they’ve decided to contact a witch?”

Before Oliver realized what was happening, Ms. Dalton wrapped her claw-like fingers around his throat, yanking him forward. He groaned as his ribs slammed into the counter.

“Not a witch!” she snapped, spittle splattering on the lenses of his glasses. “A psychic.”

She dropped him like a rock and Oliver stumbled backwards. “Right, I didn’t mean to offend.”

Ms. Dalton muttered nonsense under her breath, leaping from her stool, and disappeared into the backroom where she took her clients.

Oliver huffed out an awkward laugh and began to unpack the boxes of new books that rested in the corner. He placed each one randomly among the shelves, knowing that Ms. Dalton would become anxious by the meticulous order that Oliver prefered. 

Sometime later, the bell chimed. 

Oliver straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans, fiddling with the sleeve of his blue sweater. He rounded the counter to get a view of the customers. “Welcome to Forgotten Treasures. My name’s Oliver. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

He studied the newcomers for a moment. Both stood tall, the women was clad in a flowy floral dress, stockings climbing up her legs. The man, who Oliver assumed to be her husband, had a stoney exterior, more business-like. His black tie and white button up was enough for Oliver to question his place here.

A third person, a boy around Oliver’s age, leaned against a dusty shelf, his face shielded by the black hood of his sweatshirt. Oliver’s heart thudded a little bit harder. Adults he could manage just fine, but peers were a whole other issue. 

“We having a meeting with Ms. Dalton,” the man said, his cold voice booming through the shop.

“She’s right through there,” Oliver said, pointing at the velvet curtain hanging on the back wall. The man dipped his head, his fingers locking with his wife’s as they approached the curtain. 

Oliver’s eyes drifted back to the boy, appraising him. The boy remained still. Even so, Oliver could feel his gaze.

Oliver swallowed thickly and knelt down, returning to his task of unpacking the new books.

“What is this place?” the boy asked, his voice far deeper than Oliver had expected. 

“A bookshop that’s been around since the 1800s,” Oliver said quickly, the words falling out of his mouth. Light footsteps padded over, lace-up black combat boots halting right beside him.

“I don’t understand why my parents believe in this crap.”

Oliver glanced up at him, frowning. The boy’s skin was pale as if he never saw the light of day, his eyes dark, almost black. It was his hair, a bright blonde, that shocked Oliver the most—it was much too cheery of a color.

“I know what you must be thinking,” the boy said. “Yes, I was adopted.”

Actually, Oliver had been thinking that the boy was rather attractive. Oliver cursed himself in his mind as heat flushed up his neck, coloring his face. 

The boy offered down a hand and Oliver stared at the long fingers for several seconds before accepting. The boy pulled Oliver to his feet. Oliver stood several inches shorter, his eyes level with the boy’s broad shoulders.

A tingling sensation trailed up his arm, abruptly cutting off when the boy dropped his hand.

A slow smirk grew across the boy’s face. “The name’s Emerson. I use they, them, their pronouns.”

“Oh—Ah,” Oliver stammered. “Oliver. He, him, his.”

The smile grew wider. “I know.”

The boy—the person—Emerson laughed, spinning on their heel. They trailed long fingers along the shelves, studying each title with great focus. 

“New in town?” Oliver asked lamely, following Emerson’s movement. 

Emerson glanced over their shoulder. “Something like that. Now, back to the witch—”

“She’s a psychic.”

“Whatever. Back to her, why?’

“Why what?” Oliver asked with a frown.

“Why does she think she’s a witch—ah—psychic.”

Oliver scratched at the back of his neck. “Because she is one?”

Emerson rolled their dark eyes, unimpressed, maybe even a little disappointed. 

Emerson’s mother burst through the curtained archway, tears streaming down her face. “We’re leaving!” the woman shrieked. “Come on, James!” 

Emerson’s head dipped slightly, a deep scowl  on their face. “I think I’m gonna hang out with the witch’s apprentice for a while.” 

The woman’s face turned read. “This charlatan said there’s no way to fix you. So we’re going to find someone else. Come on!” Her husband trailed behind her, a blank look on his face. 

Emerson waved a hand, adding extra flare as if casting a spell. “Begone!” Oliver failed to muffle a laugh and Emerson sent him a wink. “Damn,” they muttered. “It didn’t work.” They turned an accusing glare to Oliver. “I thought you said it was magic?”

Oliver raised his hands in defeat. “Sorry, pal, only certain people have the touch.”

“Oh,” Emerson said, slumping. “That’s a shame.”

A sudden burst of bravado raced through Oliver and he faced the parents. “Begone!” He waved his hands widely, even throwing in a touch of sign language to make it look cool.

Horror flashed across their faces, the woman paling. She reached back and grasped her husband’s hand tightly, practically sprinting out of the shop. Oliver caught of sliver of the frantic words, something about devils and hauntings. 

Oliver and Emerson watched the parents leave with matching expressions of astonishment. 

“Did that just…” Oliver started. 

Emerson raised a fist and Oliver knocked it. “Right on,” they said. “You got anymore anti-parents spells around here?”

Oliver tilted his head back and howled with laughter. “Yeah, a whole section actually. 

Ms. Dalton might even let you borrow one.”

Emerson grinned, locking their arm with Oliver’s. “Lead the way, good sir.”