Shopping Trip

(plz read description first)

    “Well,” Michael said as he walked Persephone along the makeshift thoroughfare, dodging a cart selling rat corpses and trying to ignore an aggressive palm reader, “we got ye candy. Now we ought to be findin’ Mr. Mortality before the market closes. And we really ought to stop buyin’ things…”

    Barely had the words left his mouth, when Persephone gasped aloud.
    “Michael, look at that knife!!” she squealed, giving his arm a tug and jabbing a finger at a nearby stall.
    “Percy, I don’t think we should be lookin’…”
    But she dragged him toward it anyway.

    “Look, look at it!” she cried, eyes sparkling.
    The knife was old looking and beautiful: elegant, yet sturdy, with a handle decorated with veins of swirling silver and mother of pearl. But the blade itself looked deadly.
    “The knife is a cursed knife,” a solemn voice intoned.
    They looked up and stared. The man behind the table had long white hair, and his eyes were rolled back in his skull.
    “The blade is the very one thrust into the back of John the Highwayman by his best friend. A day and a night it soaked in the blood of betrayal. And with it, in a spirit of revenge! Now all who wield it are doomed to die! …Eventually.”
    (This man was born to be a salesperson.)

    Persephone clapped her hands as though she had just heard a new toy described.
    “Michael, we must get it!”
    “We are not buyin’ a cursed knife!” Michael exclaimed, “and besides, Mr. Mortality told us not to be spendin’ any money here! And I already bought ye that witch candy…”
    “We could steal it,” she suggested in a conspiratorial whisper.
    “We are not stealin’ a cursed knife either!”
    The girl’s smile turned mischievous and Michael dreaded what it meant. To his relief this was when Mr. Mortality arrived.

    “Ah, Mr. MacBranain, there you are!” he observed brusquely, “I see that you’ve managed to keep the little devil alive then.”
    Persephone bounced on her heels.
    “Mr. Mortality, Michael won’t let me buy this knife! I’ve been a good girl all day too, I haven’t stolen a thing yet.”
    “The knife is a cursed knife, sir,” the man with hidden eyes interjected darkly, “The blade is the very one thrust…”
    “Yes, so I see,” Mr. M interrupted; eyeing the sign on the stall that Michael had somehow failed to notice.
    (“Cursed Curios for the Collector of the Curious and the Curious Collector”, it proudly proclaimed, and Michael had to admire the superb alliteration, even as he backed away a few steps in terror).

    “Miss Archer, we are neither buying nor stealing a knife that was used to assassinate a famous thief and soaked in his blood and rage for twenty-four hours,” Mortality said, curtly putting an end to the matter, “You don’t know where it’s been since then! Nor do you know by what less-than-savory means this man obtained it.”

    The ghost seller shrugged, seemingly un-offended.
    “A man has to make his living,” he observed in the same ominous tone.

    “Come along then,” their employer continued, ignoring Persephone's pout, “There is work to…”

    But that’s when he saw the books for sale, and all hope was lost.

    “Mr. M, sir, surely you don’t plan on buyin’ all of those!” Michael cried as his employer stacked the tomes with a childlike enthusiasm.
    “I do,” the reaper responded, “I haven’t read a single one of these titles!”
    “But surely they’re cursed!”
    “Cursed books, sir!” the ghost seller with weird eyes assured them urgently.
    “Yes, yes,” Mortality responded with a dismissive wave of his hand before the dark back-story could be narrated, “But Mr. MacBranain, you don’t understand! These are books I have not read before. Do you have any idea how rare it is for me to be able to say that? Do you have any idea how dull it is? How much magic has been taken from life, that I have all the time in the world and not enough books to fill it? And yet, here are books! And I swear by all that is Holy and Good, should all the demons and spirits between Heaven and Hell come after me, I will not let a single one of them keep me from my books! Or my tea, but that’s another matter for another time.”
    “But that’s not fair!” Persephone fumed, crossing her arms, “You get cursed (probably) murder books, and I don’t get a cursed murder knife?”
    “Miss Archer, I am an adult,” Mr. M tutted, “I’m a hypocrite by definition and don’t have to be fair.”

    “I thought ye said we weren’t to buy anythin’ in the Ghost Market so as not to support their unsavory practices,” Michael pointed out in a last, desperate attempt to be the sensible one and keep devil books out of the house where he slept.
    This seemed to give the Grim Reaper pause.
    “Alright,” he said slowly, “I suppose we won’t be making any purchases then.”

    And then, suddenly, he was sprinting away with an armload of cursed books.

    “QUICKLY, MISS ARCHER, GRAB YOUR KNIFE AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT!”