Witch Eyes by Scott Tracey Page A

tools for your magic?”
    That was another difference between casting spells with just your will, and casting them with tools. The former used a lot more power, and that power called attention to itself. Ritual spells, meanwhile, could float under the radar. “Yeah, I remember.”
    “You probably haven’t picked up anything, have you?”
    I shook my head, not even considering that he couldn’t see me. So finally I added, “No.”
    “There’s a place on Fourth Street. It’s called Gregory’s ’Mix. Don’t be shocked at what you’re going to see.”
    Before I could say anything else, the phone went dead. Uncle John was gone.
    ¤ ¤ ¤
    Most occult and New Age shops had an overly bright display of everything even remotely mystical. There were friendly people behind the counter full of good intentions and pseudopsychic vibes. And there was always, always a prominent display of pentacles and runes spread out throughout the building.
    Gregory’s ’Mix was none of those things. In fact, as far as I could tell, it wasn’t even an occult store. There weren’t any voodoo dolls hanging in the window, no elaborate knives or chalices displayed in the front window. The windows were reserved for names like Alan Moore and Frank Miller. Posters for comic book characters I’d seen on television, but never read, were plastered everywhere.
    I had to have the wrong place. John had to be messing with me. If it hadn’t been for the tingling at the corners of my eyes, a vibration in the air that suggested old magic, I might never have gone in.
    The man behind the counter wasn’t as young as the store itself would suggest. Comic book stores appealed to kids, or so I thought, and I figured whoever was working would be closer to my own age. At first I thought he was Uncle John’s age, somewhere in his forties, but his novelty T-shirt and messy hair suggested younger. He had a laptop opened next to him, the screen turned away from me.
    “Help you?” He had light gray eyes underneath his glasses, the color of the sky after a particularly strong storm had let up.
    “This is just a comic shop?” I wasn’t sure how to say ‘Hey, is there magical contraband hidden in another room?’
    The man’s expression grew guarded. “It’s my comic shop, if that’s what you’re asking.” Oh, so this is Gregory . “But you need an adult for anything you’re looking for. Unless it’s the new Wolverine.”
    Well, that wasn’t the reaction I was looking for. By far. “You have anything Old World?” I asked instead. It was a term I’d heard my uncle use before, an expression that was supposed to refer to the old days when magic and monster s had still walked the earth.
    The man’s expression intensified even more, but ultimately he shook his head. “No adult, no access. This is not the store you’re looking for.”
    “But you have something,” I pushed. I craned my head over the iron racks that held this month’s comics, to look for a do or, or an entrance. Nothing I could see.
    The man turned back to his laptop and started typing furiously. “Another scoop for me. Haha, beat that Legendseeker10.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I wasn’t talking to you,” Gregory said loftily. “I’m talking about the S.A.C.”
    He sounded so serious, and so self-important, that it was probably not a good idea to laugh. My lips definitely twitched though, a lot. The sack? I’ll admit, part of me wanted to snicker. “The, uh, what?”
    “Belle Dam’s Supernatural Apparitions Committee,” Gregory said. “Maybe you haven’t figured it out yet, but there’s more to this sleepy little hamlet than what you can see.”
    “Oh.” A website about the weird in Belle Dam? This I’d have to see. “Right. Anyway, I need to get into that back room,” I said, trying to turn the conversation back around. I had a feeling that if I let Gregory go, he’d ramble on for an hour about ho w awesome he was.
    “Like the fact that I’ve got a witch standing in