Novelas y relatos de Kobo Gallery Seattle

My company. The bookstore helped. It was small, cramped, full of old books that smelled like paper and time. I found myself in the art section, looking at books about modern artists. One featured a Seattle gallery. I flipped through it and found a small mention of Elara's space. "Emerging gallery with promising vision," the review said. I bought the book. At six forty-five, I walked to the gallery. It was smaller than Elara's Seattle space but just as carefully curated. Elara stood near the entrance talking to an older woman, both of them animated. She'd changed into a black dress, simple but elegant. Professional.

It was only a brief moment, but I would recognize that tattoo anywhere. On the left peck of the man's chest, swirling ink formed a huge snowflake with a snarling wolf. I knew that picture. It was the sigil of house Caldore. I had seen it in books and read about it in stories. The older witches whispered it in the tales they told my village at night. Wolves with hearts as cold as ice and skin that snow melts upon. I was in Northwood, and what was worse was that I knew the man who was rummaging angrily through the books in his room. I should have realized it the moment I saw his glowing blue eyes.

Then I went back to my shop, locked the door, and lay down on the cot. My phone buzzed one last time. Mia: She sold three pieces, Killian. Three. And the Portland gallery wants a meeting next month. I stared at the ceiling. The paint streak was still there. The scar the room was trying to hide. For the first time since I'd moved to Seattle, it didn't bother me.

Waiting. Which was why he was in place to see Ken Taylor when he arrived. Ken and his wife, Gemma, ran the gallery/gift shop in town that mostly catered to tourists who came up the mountain for snow skiing in winter and boating on the lake in summer. Their shop sold local artisans’ work… everything from paintings to jewelry to candles to the hand-made furniture and decor that Kaleb made.