Prologue
Medea willed the roots to rise up and pierce the still-warm flesh. No point in transporting this body back to the graveyard—it was already near capacity and she had limited use for corpses these days. Let it replenish the soil.
She’d been reading in the forest when he’d interrupted her—that alone should be a mortal offense, but that’s not why she’d killed him. He’d been with her what, three years before initiating the challenge? Apprentices seemed to have grown more impatient these days, yet if they were going to turn on her, she preferred they get it over with. This one had been a half-rate necromancer, barely able to reanimate a squirrel, yet he fancied himself talented enough to best her. The insult still stung.
She picked up her discarded book and sat, propping her back against a tree.
What a waste. Not of his life, but of hers. Immortal she might be, but sometimes she felt like Sisyphus, forever rolling a boulder uphill only to have it slide back at the last moment.
Too many apprentices had gone this way over the last few centuries. There had always been a sizable percentage interested in so-called dark magic, but ever since the Collective’s crackdown, it seemed that’s all she got. She counted one apprentice in the last eighty years that was interested in anything else—ONE—and he’d only sought her out to learn how to combat dark magic. At least he hadn’t tried to kill her.
The rest though . . .
Bunch of devious, self-centered ingrates. Never mind that she was a grand master healer and fleshweaver. No one came to learn that anymore, or nature magic, or summoning, or any of the dozens of other specialties she’d mastered over the years. Hell, these days she spent so much time correcting bad spellwork, apprentices barely scratched the surface before they decided to turn on her. She had half a mind to stop training people.
Belatedly she realized she’d been scanning the same page for ages. She made a frustrated noise and shot a glare at the body, now wrapped in vines.
“You realize you’ve ruined my whole day.”
The glassy eyes stared vacantly at the sky. One barbed tendril snaked into the mouth, which hung open in slight surprise.
She snapped the book shut and stood. “How could you possibly fail to see this is how it would end? Do you have any idea how much I hold myself back during sparring matches? And you couldn’t even best me then.” She paced as she spoke, accelerating the decay of tissue until little more than clothes and bone remained.
That’s it—no more apprentices, not unless they wanted to learn something different. Or maybe not even then, because people would just lie to get accepted. Dark magic practitioners were always liars.
She reached out with her magic, intending to scorch the remains—couldn’t have new apprentices stumbling across dead ones—but pulled herself back, though it took far more effort than she wanted to admit. There would be no more apprentices, not this time. The skull observed her in quiet admonishment.
“None.” She nodded curtly to herself and retreated from the forest.
The Letter
Ireland, 1955
People could be sorted into two categories: Useful and Useless. Useless people simply existed alongside you. They took up space and there was no benefit to interacting with them. Useful people had things Nikolai wanted. Money. Sex. Influence. A nice apartment.
When he’d first come to Haven seeking training, the good places were already rented. Nikolai could have boarded with someone, but roommates were annoying, so he found a building owned by a middle-aged couple—the Gallaghers—and quickly made friends with the wife. He made friends with her nightly as he fished for information about her tenants.
Nikolai found a satisfactory target—a nervous gentleman who had trouble paying his rent on time but had lived there forever and so the Gallaghers let him stay. Nikolai approached the man and offered to split the rent in exchange for a bed.
Getting rid of him was easy. All Nikolai had to do was drop the social mask at home. For some reason, people found his acerbic remarks and lack of emotional expression unnerving. Three days later, the man banged on Mr. Gallagher’s door, pleading for help removing his new flatmate.
“Afraid? Of me?” Nikolai feigned confusion and glanced down the hallway at his flatmate, who ducked out of view behind Mrs. Gallagher. “Did he say why?”
“No, not exactly,” said Mr. Gallagher. “Only that you, uh, made him uncomfortable.”
Nikolai projected his voice down the hall to his flatmate. “I’m terribly sorry if I caused offense. I’m still learning the local customs.” He shook his head with a sigh.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Mr. Gallagher. “Sometimes these things just don’t work out. In any case, Davis has been here longer, so—”
“And here I thought Haven upheld the Collective’s rule of welcoming fellow Magi, no matter their nationality.” Nikolai met Mr. Gallagher with an icy stare. He had no idea if a formal rule even existed, but it didn’t matter. Societal pressure enforced cultural norms better than laws ever could. Mr. Gallagher would be ostracized if word got out. “I guess I was wrong.”
Mr. Gallagher blanched. “No, no! It’s not like that.” He spun, frowning at Nikolai’s flatmate. “It’s not like that, is it Davis?”
The nervous man peeked out from behind Mrs. Gallagher, who edged away from him. “I don’t . . . uh . . .”
“Christ, Davis!” Mr. Gallagher spat.
“No! It’s . . . he’s . . .” Davis’ eyes darted between Nikolai, who wore a benign face, and the increasingly concerned Mr. Gallagher. “You don’t know what he’s like when no one’s around!” he finally blurted. “I just . . . I want my place back.”
Mr. Gallagher turned away from Davis with a scowl. “I’m sorry, son,” he said to Nikolai. “We don’t do that here. I can see if another tenant would be willing to—”
“You know, Mr. Gallagher,” said Nikolai, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Davis doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d be prejudiced. Perhaps it’s something else.” He glanced sheepishly down the hall, then leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve seen the picture on the mantle. His son was my age when he died, wasn’t he? And we both have dark hair.” It was about the only thing they had in common, Nikolai being rakishly handsome and Davis’ son stout and homely, but Mr. Gallagher would welcome anything that absolved the prior accusation.
“I suppose you do look a little like him.” Mr. Gallagher rubbed his chin. “But I can’t ask a man to be around someone who pains him.”
“Of course not,” Nikolai said with feigned concern, “but living estranged from his family hasn’t done him any good either. Just yesterday, he received a letter from his daughter begging him to visit. He’ll never admit it, but he wants to go. Perhaps it’s time he mended that bridge. Lay old ghosts to rest.”
Before Mr. Gallagher could ask Davis what he thought, the Useful Mrs. Gallagher bustled forward to throw in her support for Nikolai. Davis was out on his ass that afternoon, ostensibly to visit his daughter. Nikolai got a furnished apartment, and Mrs. Gallagher visited him regularly for sex, which reduced the number of times he had to actively seek it. Fuckable wasn’t a strong subcategory of Useful, but it was the most fun.
If only finding a Useful mentor had been as fruitful. Black magic was illegal, and those who practiced it usually weren’t the sharing sort. Nikolai had contacted as many as he could prior to graduation, but few responded to his inquiries. Petrov was at the top of a very short list. Nikolai had tracked him to Haven, where he owned an enchantment shop, and exchanged his not-inconsiderable skill as a salesclerk for an apprenticeship. A fortuitous arrangement, or so he thought at the time, but in two years the man had failed to teach him anything of value. Either the man didn’t know as much as his history suggested or he’d gone soft.
Nikolai entered Petrov’s shop, prepared for another dull shift. He brewed tea, watered the ficus, and set to work sorting through the stack of orders waiting on the counter. Haven wasn’t large enough to support much local trade—most of their business was conducted by mail. An hour into his shift, Nikolai had barely made a dent.
As he sliced through yet another envelope, a wink of blue caught his eye. Nikolai peered at the heap of letters, but nothing stirred. Must have been a trick of the light. This client wanted a Luck bracelet. Thankfully, they had plenty on the display hooks.
Nikolai moved to retrieve one, pivoting at another flash of blue. His hand dove for the source and came back with a letter from the bottom of the pile. Strange blue symbols shimmered across the envelope, which had no name or address. How had it gotten here? Nikolai ran his finger over the letter and the blue symbols shifted to form text:
To Mr. Petrov
He sliced the envelope, but before he could extract the contents, new text appeared at his fingertips:
You’re not Mr. Petrov.
Interesting. The spell wasn’t one he recognized, but he knew enough to appreciate its complexity. Conditional spells required a degree of talent beyond the reach of most practitioners.
“I am Petrov’s apprentice,” Nikolai said, not knowing if anyone could hear. “I am authorized to open mail on his behalf.”
The letter did not respond. Apparently whatever enchantment lay upon it was not triggered by auditory input. Nikolai removed a folded page from within. More text appeared along the crease.
There is a price for reading another’s correspondence. Continue only if you wish to pay it.
That gave Nikolai pause. He placed the letter on the counter and picked up his wand. Petrov had taught him several reveal spells, but they only checked for standard enchantments. A custom curse might not be detectable. He waved his wand over the envelope and spoke the incantations. Nothing.
Nikolai stared at the folded paper. He could give it to Petrov and that would be the end of it, but his curiosity was piqued. What price would it exact if he attempted to read it? Perhaps the threat was merely a bluff to ward off potential snoopers. Then again, whoever sent it was talented. But were they skilled enough to enchant it with something undetectable? The possibility only intensified his desire to read the contents.
He glanced over his shoulder. Petrov’s office door was closed while he tackled the ledgers, a task which would keep him occupied for some time. It would be easy enough to reseal the letter, and he could always talk himself out of trouble if discovered. Sorting and opening mail was one of his tasks. It would be an honest mistake if he were to open personal correspondence. Nikolai picked up the letter and unfolded it.
The sheet was blank.
Disappointment stabbed him. He should tear the letter into a hundred pieces. Burn the damned thing. No, that was rash. The message was probably hidden. He would hide the envelope, pretend it never arrived, and plumb its secrets in private. Before he could pocket the letter, words appeared and danced playfully across the page:
I hope you enjoyed reading this.
There was a pause, and then sharp black letters slashed the parchment:
It will be the last thing you ever see.
No sooner had Nikolai’s brain registered the words than his sight winked out. He blinked several times and waved his hands in front of his face. Nothing.
Nikolai groped along the countertop for his wand, irritated but not panicked. Anxiety and fear were outside the realm of his experience. As a child, he could never understand why his brothers cried and cowered when the metronome announced another air raid. Nikolai would run to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the destruction. Mother always shooed him away, and he had to satisfy himself with picking through the crumbling buildings after the fact. It wasn’t until he learned telepathy and dipped into the minds of Mundanes that he saw what fear could do to a person. Until then, he’d half thought people made up the emotions they claimed to display.
Emotions had to be the Useless byproduct of some evolutionary chain, though he couldn’t fathom what benefit they were supposed to offer. One didn’t require feelings to solve a problem.
Nikolai continued his search of the counter. His hand smacked painfully against the register and sent something long and narrow clattering to the floor. It was too good to hope that was a pen.
He slowed his search of the counter until his fingers found both the letter opener and pen. Damn. Kneeling gingerly so as not to snap his wand, he searched the floor. His fumbling disturbed a fine layer of dust that set him coughing.
At last he felt the wand lying snug against the bottom of the counter, nestled in a crack between the floorboards. He reached for it, but his fingers could not get purchase. Every time he thought he had it, the wand slipped back into the crevice. He cursed and punched the floor. Several minutes passed before he had the sense to grab the letter opener and use it to extricate the wand. Nikolai stood, aimed the wand at his eyes, and spoke the incantation for a counter curse.
Something punched into his face, hard.
His eyes pounded in his skull. Rubbing them with his free hand, he tightened his grip on the wand to avoid losing it again. The wand . . . the handle felt wrong. A quick palpation told him it wasn’t his. Who knew how long this wand had been hiding under the counter?
“Blyad!” he swore. Where was his wand?! He knelt again, this time expanding his search. A few minutes later he found it near the ficus. Triple-checking the feel to make sure it was his, Nikolai set to work casting every counter curse he knew. Either he’d permanently damaged his eyes with the wand misfire, or his counter curses failed to work. As much as he hated to be discovered in this state, he needed assistance. He called loudly to Petrov several times, fighting to keep the irritation from his voice. Eventually he heard some sort of reply followed by shuffling footsteps.
“What’re you hollering about, boy? I’m trying to work!”
“I’ve been blinded—some sort of curse on one of the letters.” Nikolai felt around for the letter and thrust it at Petrov. He could almost hear the man recoil.
“Don’t give it to me! Put it back on the counter. Good. Now tell me what happened.”
Nikolai recounted the events, emphasizing that he was only doing his job as a dutiful employee, conveniently leaving out the initial warning he’d received and ignored. He heard Petrov approach the counter and pick something up, probably the envelope.
“That explains it,” Petrov said. “Medea and her bloody integrity . . .” There was the scratching of pen on paper.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m writing the damnable woman. If you’re lucky, she’ll consent to remove the curse. If not—well, let’s just hope she says yes.”
Nikolai gripped the counter, jaw clenched. How far had the letter traveled to come here, and how long would it take to return? Would he be blind for days? Weeks? What if she said no? She had better fix it. This was all her fault.
“There,” said Petrov as the scratching ceased. “I hope for your sake she’s listening right now.”
“Can she hear us then?” He hoped she hadn’t heard his fumbling and cursing.
“I meant listening as in watching for a response to her letter. Whatever I write on this paper comes out on her end, or so she explained to me.”
Petrov drummed his fingers on the counter as they waited for a response. Concerned the old man would go back to his ledgers, Nikolai broke the silence.
“Who is she, this Medea?” He mentally added her to his list of people who needed to die.
“You haven’t heard of her? Surprising, given your . . . interests. She’s the most powerful Magi in the world. Deadly in duels.”
“Does she know much black magic then?”
“She would tell you there’s no such thing, but yes. If it has to do with magic, Medea knows it. She identifies items for me whenever she’s in town—that’s what the letter’ll be about. Spells fall out of fashion like anything else. She’s ancient. If she can’t identify something, then no one can.”
“How ancient?”
“I dunno . . . five hundred? A thousand? One time I had her identify a brooch for me. It was silver, shaped like a lizard with two ruby eyes. She recognized it, if you can believe that. Belonged to a friend of hers in the 1600s—quite grateful to get it back too.”
Immortal and skilled in black magic? Nikolai collected every myth and legend he could regarding immortality. Abundant though the stories were, none of them went into detail regarding the method of such a thing. Had she found an ancient relic, like the Holy Grail? Made a bargain with a demon? Located a Fountain of Youth? He had to talk to this woman.
“How does she keep herself alive?”
“Who knows? She refuses to share her secret with anyone.”
Nothing a little manipulation, telepathy, and torture couldn’t cure. Everyone had their pressure points.
“We’re in luck! She’s writing back.” Petrov paused a moment, made a frustrated noise, then began frantically scribbling. “You’re a damn apprentice, not a bloody spy! What’s she doing cursing a letter like this anyway?”
The whole thing was intolerable. If Petrov couldn’t convince her to release the curse, he’d have to figure it out himself. Every spell had a counter. It might take time, but eventually all would be put to rights, and then he’d make the bitch pay.
“There. She’s agreed to lift the spell. Uh, hold on.” A pause, then a tearing of paper. “Give me your hand.”
Something pressed into his palm. Nikolai closed his fingers around it. “A wad of paper?”
“The bottom third of the letter, yeah. You, uh . . . need to eat it,” Petrov said apologetically.
Nikolai shoved the wad into his mouth. Bitterness bloomed and he almost gagged. What kind of ink was this? His mouth filled with saliva as his body rejected the ghastly taste. With great effort, he forced the wad down and the world came into sharp focus. He scanned the room for some way to remove the taste and spotted his morning cup of tea. It would do. He swished the lukewarm liquid and spat it into the ficus. Still the bitterness lingered. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his tongue. It helped, though not enough.
As he continued to dab, his eyes fell to the remainder of the letter. A new message mocked him from the page:
Repentance is such a bitter pill to swallow. I hope you enjoyed yours.
He froze, mind awhirl. Had she . . . had she made it taste bad on purpose? Had it even been necessary to eat the damn thing? He scowled at the words. He could almost feel her laughter ringing through the parchment.
He was going to kill her.
Nikolai grabbed for the pen, but Petrov snatched it up first.
“Whoa there! You don’t want to say anything rash. She’s not someone to mess with.”
“Neither am I!” He made another grab for the pen. Petrov held it out of range and put up a forestalling hand.
“Boy, listen to me. I saw her kill a man once. There was no investigation from the Collective. People just shrugged it off. If anyone discussed it, they used the same tone they would for someone who died of disease. It was sad, but that was life—as if a force of nature killed him, rather than a person. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“If the old hag is so powerful, how come I’ve never heard of her?”
“Eh, she’s not exactly popular. Given her reputation, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a forbidden topic at the Academy. Besides, she mostly keeps to herself. Shows up in town once in a while, stays a week or two, then vanishes again. Sometimes she won’t be seen for decades—long enough for people to forget about her.” Petrov scooped up the letter and wagged it at Nikolai. “She’s only dangerous if provoked. Don’t provoke her.”
Nikolai made a conscious effort to relax. She had information he wanted, making her Useful, and Useful people had to be approached with care.
“You said she takes on apprentices?”
“Don’t get any ideas,” said Petrov. “Most of them don’t survive. Besides, you owe me two more years.”
“They die from the training? Is it really that dangerous?” Obviously the others hadn’t been good enough. A challenge would be welcome after Petrov’s lackluster lessons. Anything to hinder the boredom that was Nikolai’s constant companion.
“Perhaps some do, but many die afterward. She kills them.”
Nikolai frowned. That didn’t make sense. Why would she train people only to kill them? Perhaps she took on apprentices because she was lonely, eliminating them when they became too much of a nuisance.
If that were the case, surely he would succeed where others had failed. Lonely women were easy to manipulate. Nikolai knew how to listen, or at least fake it. His passage across Europe had been paid for by a string of wealthy older women. Had he not had greater aspirations, he could have been the consort of a number of them.
Petrov interrupted his reverie. “She’ll be here in three days. Given . . . recent events, it might be best if you take that day off.”
“No!”
Petrov held up a hand. “I can understand the appeal. Believe me, I can. But I don’t want to lose my apprentice because he can’t hold his temper.”
“I won’t. This—I was upset, but that’s over now. I have to apologize to her in person. You know how good I am with customers.”
“True, but Medea is nothing like my customers. Flattery won’t work on her, and if you try telepathy like you do on the Mundane patrons—”
“I know better than to use telepathy on one of our own.” Did Petrov think him an idiot? Magi could sense that kind of intrusion, even if they weren’t strong enough to repel it. “I’ll be careful. You know me. I’ll treat her with the utmost courtesy and respect.” He flashed a reassuring smile.
Petrov didn’t look convinced. He shook his head, but before Nikolai could press his case, he said, “Alright. You can stay. But you must let me do the talking.” He went back to his office and shut the door.
Nikolai returned to the letters. Three days was plenty of time to devise a plan to meet with Medea alone.
The Ancient One
Nikolai peered at his reflection one last time. He smoothed his dark hair and straightened his collar. Nothing could be out of place. First impressions were important, and he did not intend to mess this one up. Medea was to arrive around twelve thirty. Before opening the shop, he posted a small sign reading Closing at Noon Today in the window, thinking thirty minutes would be enough to wrap up with any customers. He did not wish to be disturbed.
Rather than trying to persuade Petrov to let him meet with Medea alone and thus making his desires known, Nikolai simply poisoned him. Nothing too serious, of course—just something slipped into his morning and evening meals the day before to loosen his bowels. To avoid suspicion, he first dosed a few other families and spread rumors of illness within the village.
By closing time yesterday, Petrov was pale and weak, and resigned to spending the following day abed. The epitome of concern, Nikolai helped the old man home and tucked him in, even going out of his way to check on him the following morning, where, under the guise of making a restorative tea, he dosed Petrov again. No point in risking him feeling better too soon.
Despite his weakened state, Petrov gave Nikolai firm instructions on how to interact with Medea. He asked for her original letter so he might let her know he would not be there, and as he wrote he attempted to shield the words from view. Not one to be denied, Nikolai hovered a small nearby mirror behind Petrov’s shoulder.
Petrov scribbled, “Won’t be in tomorrow. Apprentice will show you the items.” He paused for a moment and added, “Please don’t maim him.”
The words disappeared shortly after they were written, and a response appeared. “No promises.”
Petrov cautioned Nikolai to be polite, without flattery or useless ceremony. Medea was curt and valued honesty. Under no circumstances was he to compliment her appearance or do anything that could be perceived as flirting. “I know you do well with the ladies, but this one is different. She doesn’t like men. She doesn’t like anyone really, but amorous men in particular. Just stick to business and you’ll do fine.”
Easier said than done. True, he laid the charm on thick when he needed to, but often enough he’d done nothing to ingratiate himself with the doughy middle-aged women who seemed enamored of his company. Older women didn’t bother him as they did some men—Mrs. Gallagher was in her late fifties—but a woman Medea’s age? A shriveled old hag with scraggly grey hair and chipped, yellow teeth? The real question was whether he would acquiesce to a tryst should she show interest. It depended on what knowledge she had to offer.
Nikolai didn’t plan to lock the doors at noon, as he wanted Medea to enter unhindered, but would instead politely turn away any customers who happened to wander in. As luck would have it, the shop was unnaturally busy all morning. The news that several families had fallen ill spread rapidly through Haven, and most of the patrons sought disease-warding amulets. Within an hour they sold out. He should’ve poisoned the villagers ages ago to drum up business and alleviate some of the boredom of working in Petrov’s shop. Today, the bustle was inconvenient. Nikolai spent the morning taking orders. Eventually requests for the amulets died down, word having spread that Petrov himself was home sick.
As noon approached, Nikolai found himself with one last customer. A dowdy woman had stomped in and promptly asked for a “gift” for her “no-good cheating husband.” Nothing Nikolai suggested seemed good enough. Noon crept ever closer and his patience wore thin. His problem was compounded when another group of customers entered.
He projected his voice to the newcomers—a portly middle-aged man accompanied by an attractive blonde half his age, and an elderly crone dressed all in black. “We will be closing at noon today. We’re all out of disease-warding amulets, but I have a list here if you want to be added. If not, please let me know what I can get you.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the man, only half listening, “won’t be but a moment.” He whistled amicably as he moved away from his young companion to peruse the Virility collection.
The crone shuffled across the store, leaning heavily on an intricately carved walking stick. White tufts of hair poked haphazardly from under the rim of her black hat. With gnarled hands, she inspected a number of items around the shop, holding them close to her face and mumbling to herself. Thinking she might be Medea, Nikolai attempted to catch her attention, but she took no notice.
Rebuffed, Nikolai brought his attention back to the scorned woman at the counter, who was now staring daggers at the man’s blonde companion. The younger woman wore a floor-length red dress that accentuated her lovely figure, though the effect was somewhat ruined by her sour expression. She wandered idly as her beau shopped.
“Is that your husband?” Nikolai asked, nodding to the portly man.
“What? No.” The scorned woman turned back to him momentarily and hissed, “But he has a ring and she doesn’t.”
He had to get the woman to focus on something else or she’d never leave. “Maybe she’s his daughter,” Nikolai offered.
“Do these things work?” called out the portly man. He raised a Virility bracelet in the air.
Like he’d say anything if they didn’t. “Yes, sir,” said Nikolai. “You’ll be as potent as a young stallion.” No wonder the blonde looked irritable. What did she expect, attaching herself to such an old lover?
The man giggled like a child selecting sweets and chose two bracelets, which he held up for his companion to see. “What do you think?” he asked. The blonde waved at him dismissively and muttered something about function over form.
Across the shop, the crone was now rummaging through the bargain bin. Every so often she would extract an item, cluck her tongue, and put it back. If it was Medea, she seemed a bit addled. No matter. It would make her easier to manipulate.
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am,” Nikolai said to the scorned woman, tapping the counter to draw her attention. “This bracelet is a good choice. It will give the wearer boils in a most sensitive location. And this”—he pointed to a locket—“will bring bad luck to whatever target you please. Simply add their picture and a lock of their hair.”
The scorned woman paid Nikolai no notice. She looked as if she’d like nothing better than to strangle the blonde with one of the necklaces. “A pretty face,” she mumbled to herself. “I gave him years of my life, and he left me for a pretty face.”
Time for another tactic. Nikolai leaned in conspiratorially and kept his voice low. “It’s not fair, is it?”
“What?” The scorned woman turned slightly, enough that she could listen more closely, but not so much that she couldn’t glare at the blonde.
“It’s not fair that a man like him gets a woman like that. He should be with a good woman his own age.”
The scorned woman leaned closer, and Nikolai knew he had her.
“What does she see in him?” he continued. “There’s no accounting for taste, I guess. It’s unsightly.”
“Indeed! ’Tis disgusting! Men, bah! Oh, I don’t mean any offense to you, my dear.” She chuckled and patted his hand.
The conversation flowed again, and Nikolai showed her several more selections, none of which pleased her. It was clear that although she was angry with her husband for leaving, she didn’t want to harm him. Most of her ire was directed at whoever had “stolen” him away. She ranted about the “no-good harlot,” her diatribe intensifying as the blonde approached.
Oblivious to the raving woman beside her, the blonde casually leaned back with her elbows against the counter, a bored expression on her face. The unladylike posture pushed her hips forward and her breasts up. Was she aware of how enticing it was? The scorned woman certainly noticed, for her glare deepened.
Nikolai blinked away the distracting thoughts the blonde conjured and glanced at the clock. It was now a quarter past noon. Where was the old crone? Shit. He couldn’t see her anywhere. Had Medea given up and left?
“Please, ma’am,” he said. “I’m going to have to ask you to make a selection.”
“I just . . . I just don’t know.” The woman stared at the items on the counter.
The blonde groaned and spun around. “Non possum diutius audire.” She pointed to the locket Nikolai had shown his customer earlier. “Hand me that.”
“I’m still deciding!” snapped the scorned woman. “I was going to buy it.”
“No, you weren’t,” said the blonde. “None of these items appeal to you because you want your husband back. Why you’d want a man who betrayed you is beyond me . . .” She shook her head. Then, to Nikolai, “The locket.” Her hand poised expectantly.
“Don’t you dare hand it to that . . . that . . .” The scorned woman seemed incapable of using the word “harlot” to the blonde’s face.
“That what? I’m not the one who fucked your husband. He’s the culpable party. If he gave a damn about his vows, he would never have strayed in the first place.”
The scorned woman gasped, placing a hand to her chest. “Such language . . . can’t believe . . .”
Nikolai froze, unsure how to proceed. On any other day, he would have been delighted to watch their spat unfold—maybe even encouraged it. Today, he needed them gone.
“Fine,” said the blonde, and the locket zipped into her hand.
It was Nikolai’s turn to gape. Some Magi could perform telekinesis without a wand, but it was erratic—a self-defense mechanism fueled by instinct. This woman used it intentionally.
The blonde cupped the locket in one hand and gestured over it with the other. He could sense magic being performed but couldn’t understand how. Enchantments required incantations and wands, not finger wiggling.
When the blonde finished her spell, she grabbed the scorned woman’s hand and thrust the locket into it. “Here. Put his picture and a lock of his hair inside, just as the boy said—”
The boy? What?
“—then wear it about your neck. Your husband will be impotent as long as you wear the necklace. Take it off, and he’ll work just fine for you—if you want that sort of thing.” The blonde’s face made it clear how little she thought of “wanting that sort of thing.”
The scorned woman stared at her hand, flabbergasted. “I . . . uh, he left. I don’t have a lock of his hair.”
Undeterred, the blonde continued, “Do you have anything of his? Something personal? Something he’s touched? Clothing works, but it must be something he alone has worn.”
The scorned woman nodded. “Yes, he didn’t take all of his clothes when he . . . when he left me.”
“That will do. Cut a patch of cloth from an area that gets sweaty. Armpit or groin works best.”
“I will.” Then, as an afterthought, “Thank you.”
The scorned woman turned to go, but the blonde stopped her. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Payment perhaps?”
“I . . . oh, yes, I’m so sorry.” She turned to Nikolai. “How much do I owe you?”
Nikolai recited the price for the locket, took the woman’s money, and watched her leave. It was only then he realized he was alone with the blonde.
“Looks like she scared off your friend,” he said.
“Who?” The blonde looked confused.
“The man you were with, I think that lady scared him off.” For someone who could cast complicated magic, she seemed a bit slow.
“Oh, him. We didn’t come here together. By the way, I saw him pocket a bracelet and sneak out while you were busy.”
Nikolai cursed. Petrov would no doubt blame him. Nothing was going right today. He had to get her out of the shop before anything else went wrong. “Thank you for what you did. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to come back tomorrow. We’re closing at noon today, and it’s well past.”
“I see.” The woman remained where she was and gave Nikolai a calculating look. “Why close so early?”
“We have a . . . delivery. A special delivery that’s arriving today.”
“A delivery? Really?” She smirked. “Seeing as it has not yet arrived, I should be able to conduct my business. It won’t take long.”
Nikolai bridled. He didn’t need to be dealing with customers now. Medea would be arriving any moment, if she hadn’t already left. God, he hoped the crone hadn’t been her.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to ask that you come back another time. It really isn’t—”
“A delivery wouldn’t normally require that customers vacate the premises.”
Nikolai kept his voice professional. “Once it arrives, I need to catalog the contents. My master is out sick and there is no one else to man the counter.”
“Why not just catalog it later?”
“I need to make sure nothing is broken or missing. It’s a very important delivery,” he said with a tone of finality.
“I see.”
Thinking he had finally made her understand, Nikolai walked to the entrance, assuming she would follow. When he glanced back, he saw to his chagrin she hadn’t moved. One side of her mouth quirked up into an infuriating smile. Why did the weird ones always show up right at closing?
“You’re waiting for someone. Why not just say that? Why the lie?” She put a peculiar emphasis on the last word.
Helpful or not, she was being deliberately annoying, and her reference to him as “the boy” still rankled. Sure, she was pretty, but she was too skinny. Her unkempt hair fell lank about her shoulders and, he noticed with distaste, she wore no shoes. The more he looked at her smug face, the more he disliked her.
He abandoned all pretense. If Petrov lost a customer, so be it. “Because people want to feel important! If I said I was waiting for someone, they would feel slighted. Isn’t their time just as valuable? Isn’t their money just as good? A delivery is less personal.”
She didn’t speak for a moment, then ventured, “I suppose that makes sense.”
Nikolai relaxed. “I’m sorry, but I do have an important appointment and I need you to leave. Please.” He gestured once again to the door.
She sighed. “Very well then.” A flick of her hand and the curtains were drawn, the door locked. “Show me what Petrov wants identified.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked toward the storeroom, leaving Nikolai standing with his mouth slightly ajar.
He rushed to catch up. “You’re Medea?”
“Obviously.”
She didn’t look much older than his twenty-two years. On closer inspection, her red dress was rather dated, like something from the middle ages. He’d seen similar dresses in plays, often with a zigzag of ribbon across the bodice begging to be pulled, sadly absent here. Long sleeves extended to her wrists. The cuffs, neckline, and waist were trimmed with gold filigree, and she wore a thin leather belt. He could imagine his hands about her slender waist, among other places. A pretty picture, though likely an illusion. God, how he hated illusions.
“Are you using a glamor spell to look like that?” He tried to keep the acid from his voice and failed. Thankfully, Medea didn’t seem to notice.
“No. This is how I truly am.” She spun to face him with her arms spread wide, walked backward a few paces, then turned around again. The move nearly caused her to walk face-first into a stack of boxes, which she narrowly avoided by jerking her body awkwardly to the side.
Such grace.
“Everyone expects me to look older,” she continued. “I don’t really see the point in living forever if your body is so decrepit it can’t function. Is this the room?”
“Yes. It’s the box on top, the one made of metal. How do you stay young?”
“Sheer willpower and spite. I see it.”
“Here, I’ll have to open it. Petrov taught me the spell to—”
But the box was already unlocking itself. The lid opened, and a parade of objects flew into the air, where they hung suspended for a moment as a nearby table cleared itself. The motley collection of amulets, bracelets, weapons, and a few other items placed themselves neatly upon the table.
“How are you doing that!?”
Medea waved her hands theatrically and smiled. “Magic!” At his expression she amended, “I didn’t get to this age by being terrible at what I do.”
She touched her belt, which until now had looked purely decorative, and a small brown bag expanded into being. From it she withdrew several sheets of paper and sent them gliding to the table, where they aligned themselves neatly, one next to each object. She clapped her hands together.
“There we go! Nice and organized. I am going to identify each object in turn. A description will be written upon the sheet next to each item. If you wish you may stay, and I will give you a verbal summary as I go, but do not interrupt. Or you can go back up front and reopen the shop, though you seem disinclined to do so. Staying then?”
She’d rattled it off so fast he barely registered when she finished. “I . . . yes, I’m staying.” This was not going at all how he’d planned, but there was no way he was leaving now. In the thirty minutes since she’d arrived, he’d witnessed incredibly advanced magic.
Medea gestured to the first row of items. “Most of these are junk. Minor spells that have all but worn off over time. Petrov would do better to dispel their enchantments and start over.” She moved on to the second row. “This dagger imbues the holder with incredible speed. This one is cursed. When it inflicts a cut, the wound will bleed endlessly—very nice.”
Medea identified half a dozen more items. When she came to a Luck pendant, she offhandedly mentioned the spell was dead. He attempted to ask what she meant, but she sternly reminded him not to interrupt, and by the time she finished, he’d forgotten.
The last item was a tall but slender earthen pot sealed and stamped with wax. Medea placed a hand on it and said, “This is my payment.”
Petrov had told him she would choose an item—either from the shop wares or, more likely, from the unidentified items—as payment. It didn’t matter what she chose, and he wasn’t to question the selection, as it was usually odd or worthless.
“One time it was a pouch of seeds. Another, a book on flowers. She’s partial to books and scrolls. I’ve started including something eccentric and useless each time”—Petrov had laughed—“and she nearly always chooses it. Last time she took a shard of glass. Glass!”
And now she was choosing a pot.
“Can you tell what’s inside?” Nikolai asked.
“No. It is obscured with a magic I do not wish to disturb just yet. However, it is stamped with the Ouroboros.”
The name was familiar—probably mentioned in one of his classes—but he couldn’t recall what it meant. Nikolai moved closer. There was a circular impression in the wax, but age had blurred the details. “What is it?”
“A snake consuming its own tail. The symbol is Egyptian, though it can be found in many other cultures. It represents an endless cycle of death and rebirth.”
That was interesting. “Any thoughts on what it contains?”
She shrugged. “Pots such as this were usually storage for foodstuffs, so it could be nothing.”
“But it’s protected with magic. Whoever sealed it must have hidden something important inside.”
“Not necessarily. It could merely be an antitheft measure. What matters to one person may mean little to another. Look at Petrov—he attempts to placate me with what he considers junk so I won’t choose something more valuable. The Ouroboros means nothing to him, and so he passes over a potential treasure. It’s probably nothing, but it could be something. He cares not for books, unless they contain spells he can monetize—not that he could even translate most of what he’s offered me—and so he doesn’t see their value. All this”—she waved toward the items on the table—“I could easily replicate on my own, had I the need. What use is a dagger of speed to me?”
“I don’t know—what if it lets you cast spells faster?”
“Interesting hypothesis.” She grabbed the dagger. “Let’s test it.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” Medea glanced around and gestured to a wide wooden beam. “There. Pick a low-mana dueling spell. Something basic you’ve cast before.”
Nikolai tried to think of a spell. His dueling repertoire didn’t contain anything that basic. Bleed, Pummel, Lance, Amputate, Lightning—these were the kinds of spells he collected. Defensive spells like Gust and Flash didn’t have the same appeal, though he did know a few. What did he know that was small?
Ah, Puncture. The spell was a favorite among novices at the Academy, as it did little more than simulate being stuck with a pin. They loved to cast it on one another and unsuspecting instructors.
“Got it.” He drew his wand and moved into position.
Medea gave him a look of distaste.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
Something had irked her, but he didn’t press the issue. “How will you measure?”
“With my mind. Cast it several times so I can get an average.”
He aimed his wand at the beam. “Punctum, Punctum, Punctum, Punctum, Punctum!” Tiny puncture marks pocked the wooden beam in rapid succession.
She shook her head. “I already know how this is going to end. No matter. Here is the dagger.”
He accepted the golden handle and aimed his wand once more.
“PunctumPunctumPunctumPunctumPunctum!”
He laughed. His hand flew like lightning. The words rattled from his mouth with no breath between. He’d have to figure out how to weasel the dagger away from Petrov. Perhaps he could forge a new document claiming it was worthless. “Definitely faster!” He turned a grin to Medea and was surprised to find the same look of distaste. She must be irate at having chosen the pot. Her loss.
“Yes, well, when you cast spells in the slowest manner possible, anything that increases your speed will improve your performance.”
He bristled. “I’ll have you know that I was the fastest dueler when I left the Academy.”
“That is truly disheartening.”
He stepped forward and loomed over her. It wasn’t difficult. The top of her head barely came up to his chin. He brandished the dagger in her face and spoke slowly, “You’re just upset you didn’t pick this.”
Her mouth curved into a smirk and she nodded toward the beam, which instantly became pocked with a hundred tiny holes. He’d felt no spell emanate from her. It was as if the spell began and ended at the wood itself. Petrov’s scrawled words rose to the forefront of his mind. Please don’t maim him.
He took a step back, but she closed the distance between them. Somehow she managed to look down on him from below.
“When you cast spells with word or wand, you only slow yourself.” Her voice was low. Not menacing, but careful and measured. “Tell Petrov I said you should keep the dagger. Clearly you could use the extra help.”
With that, Medea marched around him toward the door. She paused with her hand upon the knob, then rolled her eyes and stalked back to the table, where she snatched up the earthen pot and muttered, “Forgot this.” The bag on her hip expanded and she hastily crammed her prize inside, arm disappearing to the elbow. When she withdrew her hand, it clutched something small. “And this.”
She tossed it to Nikolai—one of the Virility bracelets the portly man had been examining.
“I removed it from his coat as soon as I realized he was stealing it,” she explained. “If you hadn’t been so keen on throwing me out, I would have returned it to you sooner.” With that, she marched back out, the door closing with finality behind her.
Nikolai stared at the wooden beam, as punctured as his ego.
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