Chapter 2 A New Customer
He stood silhouetted against the waning light, a gaunt figure whose clothes hung loosely on his frame. His eyes, when he turned to face me, were unnervingly blank, like polished stones. He moved with an odd, jerky grace, as if his limbs didn't quite belong to him. His voice, when he spoke, was a dry rustle of leaves.
"I require a special blend."
I straightened, my professional mask firmly in place. "Certainly. What seems to be the trouble?"
He took a step closer, his blank gaze unsettling. "Protection. From what cannot be seen. From what encroaches." He spoke with a quiet intensity that prickled my skin. "A tincture of dragon's blood. Essence of nightshade. A dram of mandrake root. And a whisper of grave dust."
My brow furrowed. I stocked some of those, but not in the way he meant. Dragon's blood was a simple resin I used in protective incense blends for anxious clients. Nightshade—belladonna—was a powerful, regulated cardiac medication I dispensed by the microgram. Mandrake was a historical poison, not a remedy. And grave dust… that was the stuff of grim folklore, not pharmacology.
"Sir, some of those are... archaic terms. And others are highly controlled substances." I kept my voice even, though a prickle of adrenaline began to hum through my veins. "I can't dispense something like nightshade without a proper prescription and diagnosis. What you're describing isn't a remedy. It's a weapon."
He made a soft, dismissive sound, like sand shifting. "Conventional medicine holds no sway over what I seek to ward off. This is… an older matter." His gaze lingered on me, a strange, possessive intensity in their blank depths. "You possess a certain… resonance. A promise."
I felt a sudden, irrational surge of discomfort. The man's aura was not that of eccentric poverty. It was something deeper, colder. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white. "I'm afraid I cannot help you with such a request. Perhaps you've mistaken this for a different kind of establishment."
He inclined his head, a gesture of unsettling formality. "Perhaps." He turned then, his movements still too abrupt, too silent. At the threshold, he paused, his gaunt frame framed by the dimming light of the street. He looked back at me, those blank eyes now holding a glimmer of something vast and ancient.
"The promised one," he murmured, his voice barely a breath. "Order cannot hold the chaos forever."
Then, he was gone. He simply… melted into the gathering twilight, leaving only a lingering chill in the air and the faint scent of ozone.
I stared at the empty doorway, my heart hammering against my ribs. The promised one? Chaos? I shook my head, trying to dislodge the unsettling words. The adrenaline surged, cold and sharp.
I reached for the lock, twisting it with a decisive click, pulling the blinds down with a snap. The sudden solitude was a desperate need. My hands trembled slightly as I moved to the security monitor behind the counter. I fast-forwarded through the footage, my gaze fixed on the exact moment the man had spoken.
The screen flickered. A burst of static, a momentary blankness, then the street outside, empty. The man was simply not there. He had walked out of my life and out of the digital record.
Dread, a cold, insidious vine, began to coil around my heart. It was impossible. I rewound the footage, watched it again. The static. The blankness. The absence.
The unsettling energy in the room intensified, triggering a full, vivid recall. The Event.
It wasn't just smoke this time. I smelled burning plastic, felt the searing heat on my skin. Saw the red glow from beneath the collapsed timber. Heard the frantic shouts, the sirens wailing in the distance, closer now, then abruptly fading. I was so small, so utterly powerless, watching the world unravel around me. The screams of the dying, the terrified sobs of survivors. The acrid taste of fear, thick and metallic in my throat. I tried to move, to run, but my legs were rooted to the spot. My throat burned from a cry that never came. The crushing inability to predict. The horrific surprise. The chaos. The death of my parents.
I gasped, pressing my hands against the cold counter. My vision blurred, the pharmacy tilting around me. The memory was too vivid, too immediate, as if it were happening again, now. That day had taught me the world was a treacherous place, unpredictable, cruel. Control was my only defense. My only weapon.
I leaned heavily against the counter, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the invading images, the sickening sensation of reliving my greatest nightmare.
A sudden, violent rush. Not a memory. Something new.