Read Online A Quarrel Called: Stewards Of The Plane Book 1 by Shannon Wendtland - Free Book Online
Authors: Shannon Wendtland
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out of the way so that she would have room to search
for what she was looking for, and while she did that, I turned to help the
customers who had walked up to the register. I rang up their purchase and gave
them their change.
“Here it is,” Esme said, handing a little malachite pyramid
to Melody. “Keep this also on your bedside table. Malachite protects against
negative entities.”
“A pyramid?” Melody took the small
green and black pyramid and squinted at it.
“Hmm, perhaps you are right. You do not seem like a pyramid.
I think you are a sphere.” Esme turned to dig in the cabinet again. Before
long, she stood up, holding a small malachite sphere and handed it to Melody in
exchange for the pyramid. “Same thing. Keep this next
to your bed. It will help.”
Melody took the sphere, smaller than a golf ball, and hefted
it. “I can’t just keep taking things from you for free. How much is this? I’ll
pay for it.”
Esme smiled approvingly. “It is good to receive gifts, but
it is better to also give back. The sphere is twenty dollars. But for you, I
will take twelve, which is what I paid when I purchased it from my supplier.”
Melody smiled and dug some money out of her pocket.
“Thanks,” she said, her hand curled protectively around the sphere.
I grinned. “Hey Esme, I don’t suppose you’re hiring someone
to work the counter, are you? Because I could really use a job...”
Her laughter rang out and I could almost feel it like the
wind she was talking about. It was infectious and made me laugh, too.
“Tara, how did you know?” She gestured at the help-wanted
sign she had filled out earlier that sat idly on the counter. “Come see me
tomorrow. We can work something out.”
15. SAM
The walk with Melody that morning had felt strained. There
was not a lot to talk about without rehashing the night’s events, and neither
of us wanted to do that. And if I didn’t talk about that, I would end up
admitting that I had an EVP recording sitting at home on my DJ rig, waiting for
me to scrub it. So I didn’t want to talk about that, either. Not until I had
listened to it myself and knew for sure what was or wasn’t there. Melody’d had enough shocks for now.
I lugged another crate of fruit over to the dolly and
stacked it. Four crates and I could take it into the produce section and get
out of the cooler. I liked being inside during the summer, don’t get me wrong,
but after a while, being stuck in the back where it’s fifty degrees or colder
all the time was enough for me to crave the chance to bring in some carts from
the steaming hot parking lot once in a while. But those guys sweated like pigs
and probably wished they were me.
“Hey, Sam,” said Tyler through the door. “ Me and Colton are heading to Main Street after work. Want to come?”
“Sure, as long as we hit Trader’s Village while we’re over
there. I need some old tracks for samples.”
Tyler shrugged. “It’s cool with me. Catch you after.”
I gave him a nod and went back to trucking fruit. I had just
managed to hold off listening to the recording for at least a few extra hours.
Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. By the time we got back from Main Street,
it would be dark out, and somehow, listening to evil ghost crap after last
night was not turning me on.
#
Trader’s Village was the mecca of music for someone like me.
They had everything, and I mean everything, from old forty-fives and
eight-track tapes, to recent vinyl pressings, CDs and an MP3 vending machine.
The store was arranged just the way I liked it – edgy-and-hip meets
old-and-industrial. I’m not sure how they managed to take old mangled furniture
and recycled gymnasium flooring and turn it into such a cool look, but the
place didn’t scream lounge—it oozed it.
I hovered in the oldies section, and by oldies, I mean
eighties. I wanted something cool yet simple with a hard downbeat that I could
layer with some of the newer tracks that had been
for what she was looking for, and while she did that, I turned to help the
customers who had walked up to the register. I rang up their purchase and gave
them their change.
“Here it is,” Esme said, handing a little malachite pyramid
to Melody. “Keep this also on your bedside table. Malachite protects against
negative entities.”
“A pyramid?” Melody took the small
green and black pyramid and squinted at it.
“Hmm, perhaps you are right. You do not seem like a pyramid.
I think you are a sphere.” Esme turned to dig in the cabinet again. Before
long, she stood up, holding a small malachite sphere and handed it to Melody in
exchange for the pyramid. “Same thing. Keep this next
to your bed. It will help.”
Melody took the sphere, smaller than a golf ball, and hefted
it. “I can’t just keep taking things from you for free. How much is this? I’ll
pay for it.”
Esme smiled approvingly. “It is good to receive gifts, but
it is better to also give back. The sphere is twenty dollars. But for you, I
will take twelve, which is what I paid when I purchased it from my supplier.”
Melody smiled and dug some money out of her pocket.
“Thanks,” she said, her hand curled protectively around the sphere.
I grinned. “Hey Esme, I don’t suppose you’re hiring someone
to work the counter, are you? Because I could really use a job...”
Her laughter rang out and I could almost feel it like the
wind she was talking about. It was infectious and made me laugh, too.
“Tara, how did you know?” She gestured at the help-wanted
sign she had filled out earlier that sat idly on the counter. “Come see me
tomorrow. We can work something out.”
15. SAM
The walk with Melody that morning had felt strained. There
was not a lot to talk about without rehashing the night’s events, and neither
of us wanted to do that. And if I didn’t talk about that, I would end up
admitting that I had an EVP recording sitting at home on my DJ rig, waiting for
me to scrub it. So I didn’t want to talk about that, either. Not until I had
listened to it myself and knew for sure what was or wasn’t there. Melody’d had enough shocks for now.
I lugged another crate of fruit over to the dolly and
stacked it. Four crates and I could take it into the produce section and get
out of the cooler. I liked being inside during the summer, don’t get me wrong,
but after a while, being stuck in the back where it’s fifty degrees or colder
all the time was enough for me to crave the chance to bring in some carts from
the steaming hot parking lot once in a while. But those guys sweated like pigs
and probably wished they were me.
“Hey, Sam,” said Tyler through the door. “ Me and Colton are heading to Main Street after work. Want to come?”
“Sure, as long as we hit Trader’s Village while we’re over
there. I need some old tracks for samples.”
Tyler shrugged. “It’s cool with me. Catch you after.”
I gave him a nod and went back to trucking fruit. I had just
managed to hold off listening to the recording for at least a few extra hours.
Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. By the time we got back from Main Street,
it would be dark out, and somehow, listening to evil ghost crap after last
night was not turning me on.
#
Trader’s Village was the mecca of music for someone like me.
They had everything, and I mean everything, from old forty-fives and
eight-track tapes, to recent vinyl pressings, CDs and an MP3 vending machine.
The store was arranged just the way I liked it – edgy-and-hip meets
old-and-industrial. I’m not sure how they managed to take old mangled furniture
and recycled gymnasium flooring and turn it into such a cool look, but the
place didn’t scream lounge—it oozed it.
I hovered in the oldies section, and by oldies, I mean
eighties. I wanted something cool yet simple with a hard downbeat that I could
layer with some of the newer tracks that had been
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