It was like a stereotype straight out of a teen witch movie, like Hocus Pocus or The Craft. He saw it in commercialized venues all over the countryside, there to attract tourists into thinking a bottle of rose scented water could attract true love – or some bullshit like that. The truth of it? It was literally a bottle of rose scented water that some Wiccan wannabe sold for ten bucks a pop in order to bloat their bank accounts from a sucker's gullibility. Shops like these gave the presence of antiquity without there ever being anything of real value on their shelves. Usually, their shelves were filled with Amazon sell outs spinning rubbish on how just<i>anyone </i>can do magic, or see fairies, or mix up a spell to convince your mom that you don't need to clean your room.<br/><br/>And what was Three Wolf Moon anyhow? No one buys that.<br/><br/>So like a scene out of Hocus Pocus or The Craft, here was a girl named Lane Barnes' little niche of a bookshop, in which she also sold her herbs and wares like some alternative medicine guru selling home remedies. A child's dream from too many story books and the Internet's influence. But here he was just the same, his face cringing at the tinkling bell that announced his arrival on sacred ground. Guilt-struck and shameful to be caught dead in a shop like this, the man lashed his fingers through short-cropped dark hair that was just shy of needing a good cut again before shoving his hands deep into his jean pockets to touch his keys, his phone.<br/><br/>His nerves stemmed from the fact that he was not here just as a tourist looking for a kick inside the mystery of<i>witchcraft</i>, or a desperate hypochondriac hoping for a fast remedy for something that was all in his head.<i>Ma'am, I need something to help get rid of this odd rash...</i><br/><br/>He was here because he had done his research on Ms. Lane Barnes before the name was even a thing. The fact of the matter was that he had started his research on someone<i>else</i>, someone who had died long before this generation and their understanding – or lack thereof – when it came to certain arts. She had in her possession, whether she knew it or not, an ancestor's book that he hadn't seen since it was first written. No publisher would have touched such things back then. In fact, the writing's original owner was<b>burned </b>for her heretics and dabbling in Satan's craft, just as her ancestor before her had during the Spanish Inquisition.<br/><br/>Needless to say, history was not kind to the preternatural forces, and as time wore on, beliefs became diluted and died off into fantasy novels, video games, and shitty TV series like Supernatural. It was neither that easy for a demon to possess a human or for Dean to kill a demon. There was no magic<i>poof </i>blade that he had ever heard of that sent them back down to the fiery bowels of hell, which in itself was a crock of shit, considering the mythos derived from Earth's fiery core and the heavens from the unknown celestial body of space. He just hadn't expected the young woman running the shop to look so much like the past.<br/><br/>James Sinclair's well thought out story went numb in his brain as the cogs slowed, then came to a complete stop along with his steps into the store. For a long time, he stared at the blond with the kind of dumb, slack-faced stupidity that stoners get when they're gone that far down the rabbit hole and straight into outer space, then abruptly shook himself, which caused a very visible tremor to shake his body. A smile slid like oil across his face, forced there by pure mental force of will until he found the ability to move again. Olive green eyes shifted away from the young woman and her brother as if he were interested in what she had on her shelves. He even pulled his hands from his pockets and, feeling like they were made of lead, picked up some trinket or another and rolled it around in his palm.<br/><br/>“I'm looking for something to help with insomnia. I've been having a hard time sleeping recently, and I'd rather not get into pill popping to do the trick.” He glanced up and over again, brow quirking. “And maybe something to help with pain. I've got an old war injury.” He patted his left thigh to emphasize the last.