Derek opened the magic shop on Main Street out of necessity. His supplier for mountain ash online only did bulk orders and the price for a Thesulan orb wasn’t worth it if you didn’t buy more than eight. So if he could have a side business of selling charms and crystals to high schoolers and hipsters to pay for his extra circular magic then where was the harm. What he couldn’t deal with was the public relation side of owning a business.
“You need to vamp to your customers,” says his sister looking at the near empty shop.
“I am not wearing a wizard robe,” Derek glares. He’s a warlock. He has some class.
“Harry Potter is mainstream,” says Laura. “Wizards are cool.”
“No,” he growls.
“Well, you’re going to need some customers,” remarks Laura, unaffected. She never is. She’s a spirit medium. She makes her business from playing up the whole psychic schtick. It doesn’t help that a venture capitalist ghost helped her build a solid 401K.
“Your demonic sacrifices for good fortune aren’t a permanent fix,” continues Laura. “Besides, lesser demons find fiscal solvency boring. How many minor demons did you have to bargain with to make rent?”
Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily. “Either dust or get out,” he sighs, straightening his thick rimmed glasses.
Laura wrinkles her nose in disgust “I don’t dust. I’m here just to remind you that Mom wants you home for Sunday dinner. No excuses. Stay out of trouble, Derbear,” she says before flouncing out of the store.
Derek sighs. He should have stayed in New York City. Dealing with poser warlocks and guild politics was better than this.
The shop bell rings sharply as a man stumbles in and blinks owlishly at the shadowy shop.
“Is this the magic shop?”
“I don’t, is it?” Derek says dryly. He debates throwing out the lookie-lou and closing early. He’s left his familiar alone in his apartment too long anyway. She’s probably chewed through all his good furniture. He’s only just finished fixing the giant gaping hole in the wall from his last spell.
“Funny guy,” mutters the customer before straightening his open button downed plaid shirt that is like the fourth layer he’s wearing.
“I’m not allowed to insult the customers directly,” replies Derek before deciding to ignore the customer and finish his translation of archaic Latin for his next monograph.
The customer huffs a snort of disgust before ambling off into one of the main stacks of the shop. Derek actually forgets that he’s there until a book is dropped on the till’s counter.
“Lycanthropy,” says Derek, shooting his eyes up to the customer who actually looks insolent. Like he’s ready for an argument. Derek is in no mood to deal with another Twilight fan so he just scans the bar code.
“34.67,” he says.
“What? That’s highway robbery,” sputters the customer.
“I could charge you the Canadian book price,” says Derek with a glare.
“Urgh, fine. I hope Scott appreciates this,” the customer mutters before shoving a credit card at Derek. The name unpronounceable. Something Stilinski. Derek is sure it won’t go through. Fake credit cards are the bane of his shop insurance. The receipt prints as if to spite him. And the customer signs his name of the paper with a glare as Derek bags the book in one of the store’s cloth eco-friendly bags.
“Thank you for shopping at Moonlight Magic Shop, now get out,” says Derek.
“Not much for repeat business, are you?” says the guy, grabbing the bag.
“Just leave so I can close,” Derek says. And the guy takes the hint before sauntering out into the sunlight. Derek can’t help but be distracted by his gait. He must he desperate if he’s considering someone who bought a beginner’s guide to werewolves. At least he made a profit today. Even if he won’t see Stilinski again. He’s never good at having a good customer base.