Free The Calling by Cate Tiernan Page B

“I know Robbie’s trying,” she acknowledged. “But so am I.” She frowned, put the dress back, and moved on to a rack of pants. “This is just the way relationships go.”
    â€œOnly because you steer them that way.”
    Bree sighed. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I’m hitting the dressing room. Are you going to try anything on?”
    â€œI’ll meet you in there,” I told her. Obviously the conversation was over.
    I quickly scooped up a couple of V-necked T-shirts and a few camisoles. Camisoles were my official choice for underwear. Having nothing to put in the cups, I’d given up on bras.
    There was a line for the dressing rooms, so I shouted for Bree. She yelled back that I should share her room.
    I found Bree wearing a stretchy bronze-colored top with black knit hip-hugger pants. She looked amazing. “Think Robbie will like this?” she asked.
    I groaned and slid down onto the floor of the tiny cubicle. I decided to try one more time. “Listen, I know for a fact that Robbie loves you. And you obviously care about him. Why can’t you trust that and stop trying to undermine all the good stuff? Why can’t you just let yourself love him and be happy?”
    Bree rolled her eyes. “Because,” she said with absolute certainty, “in real life things just don’t work that way, Morgan.”
    Didn’t they? I wondered. I thought again about Bree’s mom walking out on her and her dad. That had to be the root of all her warped ideas about love.
    Or did Bree really know something I didn’t?

    Twenty minutes later Bree and I left Diva’s, each of us carrying a neon pink shopping bag. Bree had bought the bronze-top outfit, a chartreuse day pack, and a black T-shirt for Robbie. I’d gotten a cobalt blue tee and a lilac camisole, which pretty much shot my clothing budget.
    â€œWhat’s next?” I asked, cheered by our retail therapy.
    Bree looked thoughtful. “There’s a fabulous shoe store right around the corner, and there’s a shop close by that specializes in African jewelry. There’s also an aromatherapy place off Wooster,” she added.
    â€œLet’s check that out.”
    We hadn’t gone more than a block when my witch senses began to tug at me. “Bree, can we go this way?” I asked, pointing down Broome Street.
    She shrugged good-naturedly. “Why not?”
    I followed my senses the way a spider follows its own silken thread and found myself in an alley off Broome Street. Hanging over a narrow doorway at the end of the alley was a square white banner with a green wheel printed on it. In the center of the green wheel was a purple pentagram.
    â€œThe Wheel of the Year,” Bree said. “The diagram for the eight Wiccan sabbats.”
    The feel of magick grew stronger with every step we took. When we reached the shop, a sign on the black cast-iron door made me smile: Gifts of the Mage: Specializing in Books of Magick and the Occult. And beneath it in smaller letters: Welcome, Friends.
    I pushed open the door, causing a brass bell to ring, and stepped into a cool, dim, high-ceilinged space. I didn’t see the sort of general Wiccan supplies that Practical Magick stocked, but a wall of cabinets behind the counter held essential oils in bottles that looked positively ancient. A deep balcony ran around the walls halfway up, with more bookshelves and shabby armchairs in alcoves.
    Bree walked toward mahogany shelves stacked with tarot decks. “Oh, they have a reproduction of that gorgeous Italian deck I saw in the Pierpont Morgan Library,” she said.
    My witch senses were still prickling. Was there something here that I was meant to find? I glanced up at the black metal staircase that led to the balcony floor.
    â€œAlyce recommended a book on scrying,” I told Bree, “but she didn’t have it in stock. Maybe I can find it here.”