Blackest Spells

by Phipps, C. T.

  Thus, it was with great joy that he took Mellie on a stroll through the city’s parks the following day, stopping in Market Square for a rare picnic lunch, doing a little light shopping for trinkets that caught the girl’s eye, and then taking in a masque at day’s end. Now, now, he felt like the kind of guardian the girl deserved. Now, he was truly worthy of the girl’s affections and trust.

  Except, of course, that he’d stolen another man’s youth.

  He pushed the thought aside like unwelcome relatives dropping in unexpectedly. Stolen wasn’t exactly the right word, he decided. He’d given the man something in exchange, after all. Somewhere in the city, the poor sap was receiving all the attention he could handle from his would-be lover.

  And there was Mellie to think of. Never had he seen her happier than she’d been today. Never had her eyes lit up with such wonder, never had she smiled with such abandon, never had her laugh seemed so lighthearted and carefree.

  That night, Chyrin slept well, comfortable with and proud of the good he’d done for the girl. His daughter. There it was, and he might as well own it, for she’d no one else in the wide world but him. She was his, and he, hers. It was bliss.

  The following morning, Chyrin fairly bounded from his bed, feeling both jubilant and famished. Ah well, that was to be expected, now that he’d been refilled with the energy of youth.

  “What would you like for breakfast, dearie?” he asked his Mellie as she shuffled, sleepy-eyed, to the table where they shared their meals. “If we don’t have it,” he said impishly, “I’ll summon it!” He waved his fingers comically and added, “Or I’ll send out for it!” Nothing could dampen his humor.

  And how Mellie laughed to see him in such spirits!

  They ate like royalty. Or he did, anyway. Mellie ate as she always had, but Chyrin was positively ravenous, devouring everything in the cupboards and still searching for more. “Not to worry,” he said, “I promised more, and more we shall have.”

  For the second day in a row, they ventured out into Market Square. It was such a rare occurrence that Mellie hardly knew what to make of it. Chyrin, however, relished the chance to consider a broader array of groceries than he typically allowed himself. Yes, he would spend a bit more today than was perhaps prudent, but his new-found youth needed fuel, and it was high-time, too, that he put a little more meat on Mellie’s bones. The girl had always been slight and likely always would, but there was no harm in feeding her more. With this in mind, the Shaper bought sausages, cheeses, a ham, a goose, two loaves of bread and a small pot of real butter. There were fruits and vegetables to be had, as well, but, for some reason, they didn’t excite him as much. Oh, he bought a small bundle of berries for Mellie, but he spent not another Shim on produce.

  During the day, a few customers entered Solutions, and he addressed their needs as well and as quickly as he was able, accepting their meagre payments and shooing them away before turning his thoughts to other things. As was his custom of an afternoon, he read a few fables to Mellie and asked her what she thought of them. Often, he derived great pleasure from doing so. Today, though, he felt an odd urge to return to the parks, perhaps even to climb a tree. Wouldn’t that be something? How many decades had it been since he’d last tried?

  Chyrin ate a large lunch, focusing mostly on meat, while leaving the bread, butter, berries and the sack of apples for Mellie. He was surprised how hungry he was—an obvious side effect of the youth he’d stolen—but wasn’t unduly concerned about it. He vaguely recalled having a monstrous appetite as a young man, himself, so it didn’t seem completely unwarranted now. Too, he’d noticed his skin seemed firmer and his muscles, more pronounced. He’d even gotten a bit hairier since the previous morning. At this rate, he wouldn’t have been shocked if he looked and felt like a man in his early twenties by week’s end.

  At one point in the meal, he found his daughter staring at him as if he’d turned into an exotic animal of some sort.

  “Oh!” he laughed, “I must seem a trifle odd to you, eh? It’s simple, really: I was ill for the longest time, and I’m finally healthy again!” It seemed a harmless enough lie. He really had not felt himself for a decade or more, and now he felt…wonderful! He made a silly face and Mellie giggled. “Shall we go climb a tree?” he crooned.

  In fact, they climbed several, or at least he did. Mellie joined him in the first tree, but Chyrin seemed downright obsessed with it, trying tree after tree, until one of the constables came by and ordered him to get down and stay down. He complied begrudgingly, but made faces at the man as soon as his back was turned, to Mellie’s delight. Well, Chyrin concluded, by the time they’d walked home, it would probably be time for supper, and he wanted a bite of that ham in the worst way.

  He had more than a bite, though. He devoured the whole damned thing as if he hadn’t eaten in ages, licking his lips, sucking his fingers, and he was still hungry. Mellie, understandably, was unenthusiastic about returning to Market Square for the third time in two days, so Chyrin instructed her to stay in her chair, playing, until he returned. He’d only be gone a few minutes, he promised.

  And that was what he’d intended. Until he set eyes on a woman so beautiful that he became immediately aroused and felt if he didn’t at least speak to her, his suffering would be unbearable. The thing was, he’d never been the sort of man to sidle up to a woman and win her over with confidence, charisma and wit. He was no courtier, he. No; he was, he had to admit, more of a skulker, someone who admired ladies from afar and tried to impress them with generosity and kindness. Today was different, though. Today, he felt possessed of an uncustomary swagger, an unfamiliar degree of self-assurance that seemed to propel him towards the woman. As she reached for a bolt of fabric in a nearby merchant’s stall, he bumped into her, accidentally-on-purpose.

  She turned to look at him with dark eyes, wide as saucers.

  “So sorry,” he said, offering what he hoped was a humble yet winning smile.

  Apparently, it was not, for the woman backed away, a look of mild distaste on her face.

  This irritated Chyrin. Who did this woman think she was, to sneer at him so? He took a step towards her, and she began to turn from him. Further annoyed, he accessed his talent, the better to compel her attention. It was not normally something he would have done, but the woman had effectively spurned him—yes, she had!—and he insisted she hear him out. Unfortunately, the moment he began to Shape, she cried out for help in the most powerful, strident voice. Chyrin had no choice to be leave the market immediately.

  He Jumped to another, smaller market, halfway across the city, where the prices were much steeper, but the wares were also typically of finer quality. Shrove Street Market, it was, and served the wealthy North Hill District. Everything here was well beyond Chyrin’s budget, but as he was still famished, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to purchase a little something to tide himself over.

  In short order, he happened upon a street vendor, hawking sausages right off his grill.

  “I’ll take five,” Chyrin told the wrinkled little man. “No, better make it ten.”

  The vendor was delighted to make the sale, but his joy dwindled somewhat as he watched his customer wolf the still-sizzling sausages down one-by-one in less time than a normal man might eat an apple.

  “I need more,” Chyrin complained.

  “It’ll take me a few minutes to cook ‘em up good.”

  “I’ll have them raw, then.”

  The vendor, keenly attuned to the attitudes and expressions of his clientele, then offered to sell the Shaper his entire supply, though in truth he was less eager to make money than to close up for the day and make as much distance between himself and his customer as possible.

  “Good, yes,” Chyrin mumbled, around a mouthful of sausage.

  The other man hefted a small crate of meat in the Shaper’s direction, doused his grill, and patiently/impatiently waited for his coin. Chyrin, focused almost entirely on his meal, fished a handful of lesser coins from his
ubiquitous pockets and dropped them into the sausage seller’s waiting palm. He didn’t even notice when the other man bowed briefly and walked away.

  Once he’d finished the sausage, Chyrin straightened up and wiped the grease from his face with a rumpled sleeve. That was when he became aware that he’d attracted an audience of horrified on-lookers.

  “I’ve been busy working,” he snapped at them. “Working for days without food, drink or sleep. I’m certain that none of you would understand!”

  Again, he was forced to Jump away. And he knew just where to go.

  He’d satiated his hunger—for the time being—but his sexual appetite remained unassuaged, and if he couldn’t win his way into a woman’s arms and charms via old-fashioned flirtation, then he would bloody well have to buy his way in. He was that desperate. Appearing just outside of Lendy’s Love Nest, he straightened his robes, tousled his hair, and slunk through the front door. Once inside, his senses were bombarded with exotic odors (both intoxicating and unpleasant), décor, and music. He hadn’t been there for thirty seconds before he was approached by an impossibly tall, possibly male madam, who gave him a sultry greeting and asked what he fancied.

  “I’ll need two girls,” Chyrin replied, with a slight tremor in his voice. “Or three. Might even need more.”

  “Really?” the madam asked in barely concealed disbelief. “I admire your ambition, friend. Have you the coin, though?”

  He had, though he was fast-exhausting his funds for the month. He did have magical means of reconciling his debts, however, and was not remotely concerned that he’d fall short. Consequently, he poured another handful of coins—these of higher denominations than he’d given the sausage vendor—into the madam’s hands.

  “Would you like to peruse my girls?” she asked with a satisfied grin.

  “Yes. No,” Chyrin contradicted himself. “Any two will do. To start.”

  The madam chuckled condescendingly, but she was willing to take his money all the same.

  She ushered the Shaper into a bedroom of sorts that smelled of sweat and worse, only partially masked by a cloying mixture of perfumes, oils and incense. There was a large, lumpy thing in the middle that looked more like a bag of corpses than a mattress, but a colorful quilt had been thrown over it, and Chyrin didn’t figure the aesthetics of the place mattered much, given what he’d come here to do. Nevertheless, he took a moment to delouse the place with one of his more common spells. No sense in making things messier than they needed to be.

  After a short period, two women came into the room, smiled seductively at him, and began to undress one another. Chyrin wore them both out in less than an hour and sent them limping away, whilst requesting several more be sent in. Gods, he felt like a beast! Never in all his life had he known such potency, such animal passion. More girls arrived and departed, spent like yesterday’s fireworks. Chyrin got rougher and rougher, biting several of them during climax, until, at last, he took a large chunk out of one poor girl’s shoulder, causing her to scream as if she’d been stabbed. She might as well have been, for all the furor and uproar that came of it.

  The madam burst into the room with two muscular bruisers by her side and demanded an exorbitant sum of money and then his immediate departure, never to return.

  Chyrin might have Jumped away again, he knew, but this was the sort of happening that got around, the kind of thing even the High Constable took an interest in, and so he resigned himself to settling with the woman, despite the cost.

  “I haven’t a great deal of cash on hand,” he began.

  “Not my problem,” the madam responded. “And don’t try to Shape your way out o’ this, neither! These men are my witnesses.”

  “Yes, yes,” Chyrin sighed. “Have you a paper, a bond I can sign for the monies I owe?”

  The madam snorted derisively and glanced at her bodyguard. “You think you’re the first man likes a little rough-and-tumble? ‘Course I have a paper!” She pulled a document out of the bosom of her dress and presented it with a flourish. “There’s quill and ink in the bed table.”

  The document attested to some ten Monarchs the signee agreed to pay one Lendy Lascivia for damages done to her girls and/or property. So, it was not an uncommon occurrence. But ten Monarchs! Alheria’s fiery bush! It would take him months to recoup that amount, and he had Mellie to think of…

  Suddenly, he was beyond anxious to sign and be out the door. In his hunger and his arousal, he’d quite forgotten about his beloved charge. He’d promised to return shortly. How much time had passed?

  Chyrin rushed through the agreement, his contrition, and even his getting dressed. He needed to get out of Lendy’s Love Nest and Jump home. Oh, but he looked a terrible mess and smelled worse. For all that, he still felt as strong, as vital as any three men. If his new appetites were the only consequence of his stolen vigor, he supposed he could manage, especially if it meant more active, meaningful years with Mellie.

  He could see she’d been crying the instant he walked through his front door and set eyes upon her. Mellie being Mellie, of course, she did her best to hide the fact, so as not to seem ungrateful or suggest that she didn’t trust her beloved ‘nuncle. His heart nearly cracked with shame. As he drew nearer to embrace her, she recoiled just the tiniest bit, and, again, he realized what a frightful picture he must have presented.

  “I fell into a pile of offal,” he lied, “at the market, whilst shopping for mutton and pork. Let me have a quick bath, and we’ll magic up a bit of supper. Would you like that?”

  The girl’s eyes sparkled. Despite his half-hearted attempt at breakfast the other day, Chyrin never really used his shaping to conjure meals. It wasn’t worth the subsequent Burning. But to Mellie, a magically summoned meal was a treat, indeed! She clapped her hands and bounced on the balls of her feet, so excited to have him home and promising such wonders.

  Chyrin excused himself to the back room, where his tub was located. He kept it empty at all times, lest Mellie should fall in and drown when he wasn’t looking. But he had several rain barrels on the roof of his place, which he accessed by means of a wooden pipe that he was able to pour into the tub whenever he wished. He was not given to bathing frequently, so there was plenty of water for this occasion.

  “Would you sing for me, dearie?” he called out as he began using his magic to heat the water.

  From the other room came the soft, sweet and slightly off-key voice of his child, singing a silly little tune about the Sod Man’s Son.

  “Bring-ee in ee sod,

  The cart’s so heavy, so

  The sheep they ‘gin to nod

  The Sod Man’s Son must go…”

  It was a wicked pleasure, summoning the food Mellie wanted, for, in his Shaping, Chyrin simply called it from someone else’s plate or table. Yes, it was stealing. Yes, it was wrong. But he did it so rarely, and surely those from whom he filched could endure the loss. And, anyway, why should such as they begrudge his darling Mellie a fine repast now and then? Both man and child marveled at the fine roast his spell-work had called in, along with stuffed quail, two or three kinds of oven-fresh bread, several tarts, and some egg creams. How Chyrin loved to watch his girl enjoy a good meal! And how he loved that meal, himself!

  A part of him, of course, felt mounting anxiety at his ever-growing hunger. He understood it was all a part of his renewed youth and vitality. Still, he couldn’t help hoping he’d reached the limits of his appetite—both for food and for sex. He couldn’t afford another scrape like the one he’d been in earlier—not financially, and not spiritually. He was, had always been, a man of thoughts and ideas, not appetite, not lust. He enjoyed his newfound strength, but he worried where it might lead if left unchecked.

  As he watched his child gobble down tart after tart, he resolved to find the man whose youth he’d stolen and learn more about him. It was what he should’ve done from the beginning, but he’d been too eager to be rid of his infirmities. Yes, he’d find the man and discover the orig
ins of his insatiability.

  He didn’t know the fellow’s name, didn’t even know which district he called home, but being a Shaper had its advantages. He searched the city for traces of his own magic and came upon a small apartment above a chandler’s, at the back of the building. Chyrin went out at mid-day, once more instructing Mellie to entertain herself with books, drawings and whatever toys she might make.

  Chyrin found an external stairway in the alley behind the building in question and climbed it to the second floor. There, he found a door that stood slightly ajar, and he opened it and went inside, into a short hallway with doors on either end. So: two apartments. He was able to detect his own magic behind the door on his left. Without waiting another moment, he strode towards it and knocked with authority. After a minute or two, a young woman cracked it a handspan wide or two. She was pale, gaunt and had large, riveting eyes. If Chyrin hadn’t known better, he’d have taken her for the Shaper and himself, the target. But no, she was the object of the compulsion he’d laid upon his customer, and now she was, clearly, deeply in its throes.

  “May I speak to the man of the house?” he asked.

  “What’s this about, then?” There was a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her hair hung limply and greasily around her shoulders.

  “I..er…I am his Shaper.”

  “Are you?”

  What an odd question! Why should she doubt him?

  “Wait here,” she said in a dull monotone.

  After what seemed hours later, the door opened wider and the woman again stood in front of him, her arm around the waist of a frail older man.

  “There must be some mistake,” Chyrin sputtered. “A young man came to see me the other day…”

  “That was me!” the old man cackled.

  Impossible. The man in front of him was easily into his seventies or eighties, withered, stooped, and with hardly enough hair to cover a mouse. But his eyes were the same.

  Chyrin gulped air, tried to compose himself. “I just came by to…to see how you’re feeling.”