Some days are like that …
After supper had settled, Simeon changed into a shirt that didn’t blend into the wall so well. Then he set up the cameras and microphone for the podcasts. Vladimir settled into his on-camera bed, the one made from an old steel in-box tray. Simeon got everything else ready, triple-checked that the remote control on the cameras worked, and set the first book on the stand. “Welcome to Bytes of Books! We are continuing with Space Cat by D. L. Brock. When last we left Peanut, he stood outside a mysterious, dust-colored Martian door as his humans sought a way into the ancient structure. All their questions would be answered soon.”
He paused, opened the book, and looked his question at the cameras. “Or would they?” After another pause, he continued, “Chapter Eight – Through the Dusty Door.”
“… Return next week for the dramatic conclusion of Space Cat by D. L. Brock. If you can’t wait, this and other exciting books can be found at your local library or bookstore. Remember, wherever you go, books can take you farther! Thanks for listening to Bytes of Books, your twice weekly bibliocast.” He stopped, then ended the recording.
It was eleven before he finished recording the second book, including some of the illustrations, and editing everything. Thanks be Pedro would be opening tomorrow. Simeon triple checked everything with the recordings, then went to bed.
#
“Buenos tardes, Jefe,” good afternoon, boss, Pedro said as Simeon finished removing Vladimir’s harness and paw covers. “Hi Vladimir.”
The cat waved a paw at him, then stalked to the front of the store to start his daily inspection.
“It’s not quite afternoon yet. Did you get my message?” Simeon tucked his Familiar’s equipment into the usual nook in the shelves in the storage/junk corner of the back room of the shop.
“Yes. I made space for her table and pots, and warned Mr. Devaca next door. He said fine. The art store down the street from him will be closed both days, so he’s going to set up his display on that side of the door.” Pedro counted off on his fingers as he spoke. “The delivery arrived on time, the rest of the mail is on the desk, and I sold the last copy of Cactus and Corruption.“
“I’ve ordered more, and they should arrive on Monday, if anyone asks.” He stopped. Vladimir was backing out of the regional fiction area, ears flat. “Excuse me.”
Simeon shifted to seeing magic. “Another one?”
“Hurry!”
What—? A stench like brimstone, dead mouse, and worse boiled out of the section. “Be Thou my battle shield,” Simeon whispered, making a ball-shaped shield and wrapping the charm. He swaddled it in silk and magic and hustled the folded paper out the back door.
“I’m right behind you,” a woman said. “That’s nasty! Do you have a— Good! Can you break it?”
“Not easily. I can shield.”
“Do that, please. I’ll break it.”
He set the silk and paper in the green circle, then drew more power from Borsht. “Ready?”
“Ready. One, two three!”
He raised a shield on the circle, flowing rosy-tan magic out and around. Dark blue-purple power surrounded the page and the spell. “In the name of all that is good and holy, be cleansed,” the woman commanded. He sensed a fight inside the shield, then sickly yellow and green power oozed from the paper onto the ground. Indigo magic caught the flow and scrubbed it free of corruption as he held everything inside the shield. The curse collapsed into ashy gray, then vanished as she scoured the paper and the pavement under the circle. “It is finished, amen, Selah, so mote it be.”
“Amen.” He crossed himself, then pulled the power in from the shield and sent it to Borscht. “Thank you.”
A small woman in a brilliant green blouse and rainbow striped skirt pulled a glove out of her pocket, picked up the page, and glanced at it. She wrinkled her nose. “Quick, crude, but effective. You need to let the authorities know, the legal ones, not the magical kind.”
“Let’s go inside, please, before that car tries to fit into the alley.” He opened the door. Vladimir hurried, mostly, into the building. His mage and the stranger followed. “Some people do not believe the signs,” Simeon sighed.
“No. There’s always one who has to be a horrible warning, especially in this part of town.” She set the page on the desk. “Did you touch it with your bare hand?”
“No, ma’am.” He fed Vladimir, then offered her a can of fruit nectar. “Thank you for dealing with that. It might have been more than we can do after yesterday’s working.”
She took the can, drank it, then said, “You’re welcome. It’s been a while since I last broke a three-level curse. Those are miserable. How did you make the circle?”
Vladimir sniffed. “Was there when signed lease. Spray painted outside of bucket, da?” He licked his chops, then drank some water before finishing the tin of seafood special cat food.
“I’m Claudia Stravato, sorceress of shadow. Working name Nastro.”
“Simeon Isaacson, Deckle, and Vladimir, Borsht.” They shook. “Could you tell who cast the spells, ma’am?”
She finished the fruit nectar and put the can in the can bin, then said, “A sorceress, not blood-path but not nice, either.” Mrs. Stravato touched her upswept black hair. “Which reminds me, do you have regional cookbooks that are not tourist food?”
He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. This way, please.” He led her back into the shop and to the cookbook section. “This has traditional, pre-WWII recipes, including organ meats. This one,” he handed her a second volume, “Is more modern, but not the latest in restaurant or experimental New Mexican food.”
She glanced at the index, then at a random recipe, and smiled. “Perfect. Thank you, sir. I hope the rest of your day is less exciting.”
“So do I, ma’am. Pedro can ring those up for you.” She took them to the front counter, and he tidied the shelf, straightened the table display in the center of the aisle yet again, and retreated to the back to eat something and call the police.
Officer Sandoval arrived half an hour or so later, record time for a non-emergency in tourist season. She took his statement, slipped the note into an evidence bag, and read it. “That’s a new one. Any idea why someone would make threats against the store?”
“Some people take offense at what I sell, ma’am. Some get unhappy to the point of rage at what I don’t sell. However,” he spoke slowly and carefully. “I think this might be related to the potter who rents sales space from me on occasion. She’s Native American but does not currently exercise tribal affiliation.” That was neutral and honest.
He could almost see the wheels turning, then gears meshing in the Hispanic officer’s mind. “Ah. I can see where that might be considered … inflammatory, sir?”
“Inflammatory is an excellent word, ma’am.” Especially given the threat in the note. “Some people are rather protective of tradition. However, since Ms. Fredricks has not violated the terms of her contract, I have no reason to refuse her temporary space.”
Officer Sandoval made more notes. “Understand, sir. Sign here, and here, please, and I need Vladimir Isaacson’s signature as well.” Vladimir hopped onto the table, which creaked but didn’t tilt more than usual. “Shoo, cat.”
“You said you needed my signature, Officer,” Vladimir stated, tail thrashing. As the officer stared, he continued, “I am a registered Familiar, on file with Santa Fé county, and am a legal personage, of age and able to testify in a court of law. The precedent case is Koswolski vs. Chicago.” He sounded bored.
“Um, ah, Dios mio.”
Simeon found the stamp pad he used for envelope seals, and dampened a scrap of rag. Vladimir dictated his part of the morning’s events, then read over the transcription, and made his paw stamp on the appropriate line. Officer Sandoval initialed as witness and dated it as Simeon wiped most of the ink off Vladimir’s paw pads. The officer departed, still shaking her head and murmuring, “Why me? This is so strange, why me?” under her breath.
The delivery man trundled his cart and three boxes in through the front door. “Sorry. Alley’s blocked by a stuck car.”
“We were due, and thanks. Have a quieter day,” Simeon assured him, then hefted one of the boxes and lugged it to the back as Pedro finished checking out a distracted college student. The kid paid with one hand as he scrolled through something on his phone with the other, eyes on the phone. Vladimir, watching from atop one of the shorter bookcases, muttered something unflattering in Russian.
“Da, Tovarish,” his mage replied in passing. That was how people became statistics, even in Santa Fé. Pedro got the second box, and Simeon moved the third. Only then did Vladimir relocate to his nest behind the counter for his early afternoon nap.
“Boss, what was the commotion about earlier?” Pedro asked when they had a customer-free moment.
Simeon glanced at the bill of lading, and the invoice, and checked both of them against his order list. “A threat against the store. Because of Ms. Fredricks.”
Pedro shook his head, then returned to grabbing books to restock the regional shelves. “I don’t get it. She’s not competing with anyone, doesn’t claim tribal membership, what’s the problem?”
“She still does pots. That’s the problem, according to someone.” He had a guess who, or rather which group, but that was only a guess and one he did not voice aloud. “Different topic, I’ll shelve these.” He pulled a smaller carton out of the “pending” stack. “Four new authors, so things will get shuffled.”
Pedro made a face, then headed for the back door for a bit of fresh air. And a hit on his vape, probably, since he didn’t smell like cigarillos today. Simeon shrugged and carried the open carton to the appropriate section and began moving books and removing a few.
(C) 2026 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved
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