“Huh.” James chewed his cheek. That was unexpected. He took a more careful look at her and wondered if she was one of those doomsday preppers with an underground shelter full of MREs. Maybe more like his clairvoyant mother, whose head sometimes swam with an inkling of disaster, but never with enough detail to do much.
“You’re asking about prophecies,” he said. “We’ve got books.” He let the leather cord loosen and fall from his hand, the intricacies of the pattern lost to conversation. “But if you believe in the kind of apocalypse we’d shill in an occult store, my advice is to skip the batteries and canned beans.”
James got off his stool and eased around the counter, passing the black stone between his palms.