The fallout from Steeped in Retail hit like a tsunami—and I was flailing in the waves, half-drowning, half-surfing. Three days after Jen's "Get with the Genie!" tease lit up X, my life went from chaotic to outright unhinged. Her post—"Local writer's magic tea muse spills retail secrets—get with the vibe!"—had detonated, racking up 10K likes overnight, comments flooding in: "Is this for real?"
"SereniTea's my new spot!" "Cologne Tyrant's my boss too!"
InkWitch Books emailed me a contract for a second printing, plus a signing at Trendy Threads—Jen's idea, pitched to Greg as a "sales booster" with her trademark grin. He'd grudgingly agreed, muttering about "legal still watching," but the buzz was undeniable. Customers swarmed the store, snapping selfies with me at register three, asking, "Where's the tea? Where's the Genie?" I'd stammer, "It's just a story," while Jen winked behind them, mouthing, "Get with it, cuz!" like a hype machine on steroids.
Zahir was losing his Djinn mind. "This is a disaster!" he hissed that night, pacing my apartment, his bells clanging like a fire alarm gone rogue. His misty blue form flickered, braids swinging as he gestured wildly, knocking a lamp shade askew. "Your cousin's turned me into a spectacle—10,000 mortals gawking at your words! They'll find me, Mira—the hunters will come, and I'll be their prize!"
"Hunters?" I asked, sprawled on the couch, still in my teal apron, scrolling X on my phone. The tea tin glowed faintly on the counter, pulsing like it was chuckling at his meltdown. "What hunters? You're paranoid—chill out."
He whirled on me, eyes blazing like embers, mist swirling tighter. "Not paranoia—truth! The Peace Bloom's magic drew seekers in my time—cultivators, mystics, thieves, all chasing its power across the Indus Valley. They hounded me, relentless, until Jasmin's betrayal sealed me in that cursed flower. Your fame's a beacon—they'll sense it, and I'll be caged again, dissected by your gadget-mad age!"
I sat up, frowning, setting my phone down. "That was two thousand years ago, Zahir. Who's left to hunt you? Chill—Jen's keeping it vague, just vibes."
"Vague?!" he snapped, bells jangling as he floated closer, looming over me. "She's screaming 'Genie' to your world! Subtle as a sandstorm in a teacup! You've no idea the forces you've stirred!"
"Okay, drama king," I said, smirking despite the knot twisting in my gut. "We'll handle it. Jen's got my back—she's a pro at spinning chaos."
He groaned, slumping—well, hovering—onto the couch beside me, his mist brushing my arm, cool and jasmine-scented. "Your back's a target now, my lady. Mark my words—the storm's brewing."
The next day at Trendy Threads proved him right—and then some. The signing was a circus on crack—fifty people crammed into the store, clutching books, snapping pics, Greg hovering like a vulture in a teal polo, his cologne a toxic cloud. Jen strutted around, hyping it like a ringmaster: "Mira Patel, retail rockstar—get your signed copy, feel the magic!" I sat behind a wobbly folding table, pen shaking as I scrawled my name, muttering, "Thanks for reading," to a line that snaked past the clearance racks into the sock aisle.
The fern—now a sprawling, leafy monster at my station—loomed like a diva, its vines curling toward customers who squealed, "Cool prop!" I forced a smile, whispering to Zahir (invisible beside me), "This is nuts—help me out here!"
"Nuts?!" he hissed in my ear, his voice a sharp tickle. "It's a powder keg! Look—your magic's slipping, and I'm not lifting a finger while that hunk moons over you!"
He meant Dave, who'd been hovering near the table, book in hand, dimples flashing every time he caught my eye. I ignored Zahir's jab—jealous Djinn nonsense—and focused on the chaos. Halfway through, a stack of hoodies levitated off a shelf, floating like lazy ghosts, their tags flapping. Customers gasped, phones out, filming as Greg barked, "Mira, what's this crap?!" I stammered, "Uh, drafty vents?" but Jen jumped in, grinning wide, "It's the Genie vibe—spooky retail magic, folks!" The crowd ate it up, X posts tagging #GetWithTheGenie trending by lunch, clips racking up views.
Then the fern got sassy. A vine snaked out, snagging a book from a kid's hand, holding it aloft like a trophy before tossing it back with a playful whip.
The kid shrieked, "It's alive!" and the crowd cheered, but Greg stormed over, face purple. "Mira, control your damn props!" The fern, undeterred, flicked a leaf at him, brushing his nose like a taunt—boop—and he swatted it, yelping as another vine tugged his shoelace loose.
Jen cackled, "Retail magic, Greg—chill, it's a star!" I whispered to Zahir, "Make it stop!" but he huffed, "Why should I? It's funnier than your stock boy's grin."
Dave chose that moment to sidle up, leaning on the table, book clutched to his chest. "Hey, Mira," he said, voice low, shy, his brown eyes locking on mine. "Read it last night. 'Oblivious Hunk,' huh? That me?"
My face burned, pen slipping in my sweaty grip as I scribbled a signature. "Uh, maybe? I mean, it's fiction—kinda?" I glanced at Zahir's invisible presence, feeling his glare like a hot coal.
Dave chuckled, scratching his neck, his Nirvana tee stretching over his arms. "It's cool. Flattering, actually. You're… talented." He paused, leaning closer, voice dropping. "Why didn't you say something? Y'know, before the book? I'm not that oblivious."
"Say what?" I squeaked, heart hammering, my pen leaving a blotch on the page. Zahir muttered, "Oh, this fool—pathetic," and I elbowed the air, hoping it clipped his smug mist.
"Y'know," Dave said, shrugging, dimples deepening, "that you liked me. I mean, I kinda guessed—sometimes you'd stare in the break room. Thought it was cute." He grinned, and I nearly melted into the table, my brain short-circuiting.
Zahir's hiss was venomous: "Cute?! He's a lumbering oaf—look at him, grinning like a puppy! You deserve better, Mira!" The fern agreed, apparently—it lashed out, snagging Dave's shoelace, yanking it until he stumbled, catching himself on the table with a laugh.
"Whoa, your plant's got attitude!"
"Tell me about it," I muttered, glaring at the air where Zahir sulked. Jen swooped in, slinging an arm around Dave, saving me from combusting. "She's a genius, right? Genie-powered! Sign his book, cuz—make it snappy, line's growing!" She winked, shoving him off as I scribbled, "To Dave, stay hunky—Mira," my hands shaking like I'd chugged espresso.
Zahir grumbled, " 'Stay hunky'—disgusting. He's no match for me—look at those clumsy paws!" The fern punctuated his rant, flicking a leaf at Dave's retreating back—thwap—like a jealous sibling. Dave just laughed, oblivious, and I hissed, "Knock it off, both of you!"
By closing, I was a wreck—fame soaring, magic leaking, Dave's words looping in my head like a cheesy pop song. The fern had escalated, wrapping a vine around Greg's ankle as he locked the tills, tugging until he hopped, cursing, "Mira, I'm suing!" Jen spun it: "Genie vibes, boss—customers love it!" X was ablaze—20K likes on Jen's post, a viral vid of the hoodie float captioned, "Retail magic IRL!" But it got darker as I locked up.
Two figures lingered outside—tall, cloaked in dark coats, faces shadowed under hoods. They didn't approach, just watched, their presence a cold prickle on my neck, sharper than the autumn wind.
Zahir materialized beside me, tense, his bells silent for once. "Hunters," he whispered, voice a blade. "They've found us."
"Who?" I asked, gripping my bag, the tin inside glowing hotter, its pulse syncing with my racing heart.
"Seekers of the Bloom," he said, low and urgent, eyes scanning the shadows. "Old enemies—or their heirs—from the Valley's days. Cultivators who craved Lashame's gift, thieves who'd kill for it. Your fame's a flare—they'll want the tea, the power, me. Run, Mira."
I bolted home, sneakers pounding pavement, Zahir's mist trailing me like a storm cloud. Inside, I slammed the door, panting, as he paced, ranting, "I told you! Your cousin's stunt woke them—centuries quiet, and now this!" The tin pulsed brighter on the counter, a vine sprouting from my sink, curling up the faucet, then—thwack—slapping the counter like an impatient hand.
"Jen didn't know!" I snapped, dropping my bag, the tin clattering out. "And you didn't warn me about cloaked creeps—just 'hunters,' vague as hell!"
"I did!" he shot back, bells clanging as he floated closer. "You laughed—'paranoid,' you called me, while that oaf batted his eyes!"
"Dave's not the issue!" I yelled, pacing too, mirroring him. "What do they want? The tea? You? Lay it out!"
"Both," he said, stopping, eyes dark as coal. "The Bloom's magic is rare—peace, power, creation, all in one. They'll rip it from us—cage me in some arcane trap, drain you for wielding it. We're exposed, Mira—your fame's their map."
My phone buzzed—Jen: "X's at 20K—signing vid's viral! You're a star, cuz! Next stop, talk show!" Then another ping, a DM from an unknown account: "SereniTea's secret isn't yours to keep. Surrender it—or we take it." No name, just a chill that sank into my bones.
"Zahir," I whispered, showing him the screen, my hand trembling. "They're here."
He cursed in a tongue I didn't know—sharp, ancient, Indus Valley harsh, like stones grinding. "They've tracked the tea—your words lit the path. They're close."
"What do we do?" I asked, voice small, the sink vine now wrapping my toaster, giving it a squeeze like a possessive hug.
"Wish," he said, stepping close, hand brushing mine, warm despite the mist, his touch steadying me. "Or fight. Your call, my lady."
I stared at the tin, the glow a dare, Jen's hype a ticking bomb, Dave's smile a distraction, those shadows a threat—and the fern, now twirling a leaf like a smug little diva, mocking us all. Fame had cracked my world open, and something old, something tied to Zahir's past ,was clawing through the fissures.
"Fight," I said, smirking despite the fear, the buzz of it all surging back. "Jen's not the only hurricane here."
Zahir grinned, bells jingling, a spark of mischief cutting through his worry. "Madness. I love it—though I'd love it more if that oaf tripped into a ditch."
The fern flicked a leaf—thwap—like it agreed, and I laughed, the sound raw and reckless. "Deal," I said. "But you're on plant duty—keep it from flirting with Dave too."
"Flirting?!" he sputtered, but his grin widened. "Disaster's our brand now, my lady."