by Ben Reeder
“You…leave my shop this instant!” he hissed as he hurried to set the box down on the cloth covered counter. “I'll have nothing to do with you!”
“Huh? Hey, I just wanted to buy stuff for a rod, that's all, dude,” I raised my hands to show open palms.
He pulled a black wand out of his vest and pointed it at me, and I could feel the soft static against my aura as the spell focused on me. Red runes blazed along its surface, and the soft static turned into a cold buzz.
“You can't fool me, boy. You're the apprentice Count Dulka cast out. You cast your lot when you took up service with the powers of Hell, and you'll get no sympathy from me.”
“He didn't cast me out, I kicked his ass and left on my own!” I said hotly. “I'm trying to…”
Whatever I intended to tell Ashkhabad, it went away when the spell hit me in the center of the chest and threw me over the wall and across the alleyway. I came up hard against the wall on the far side and shook my head. My vision cleared to the sight of him manhandling Synreah out the door with his hand wrapped in the hair at the nape of her neck, and I scrambled to my feet with an Infernal oath on my lips. Tossing me around was one thing, but getting physical with a girl, even a half-demon prostitute, pushed the wrong damn buttons with me. He shoved her to her knees outside his shop, and backhanded her across the face when she protested.
“Silence, whore!” he snarled and drew his hand back again.
“Back off, asshole,” I said as I came across the alley at him.
He recoiled as he saw me, and I saw the glimmer of black flames reflected in his eyes. I raised my left fist to find it engulfed in Hellfire. Somewhere along the way, I must have uttered the activation words for the spell. Just using it tainted my soul, but at the moment, it was worth it to see the look on Ashkhabad's face as I drew up in front of Synreah.
“Touch her again, and I'll burn you so bad there won't even be a stench left.” My teeth ground together as I snarled the words at him, and he backed over the threshold of his shop. Depending on how strong his door wards were, he could probably shrug off most of what I could throw.
“Take your filthy bitch and leave,” he ordered from the safety of his shop. The Hellfire flickered and went out as I lost the anger I needed to sustain it, and I offered Synreah my other hand. She got to her feet on her own, and I tried not to let the hurt show on my face at having her refuse my help.
“From where I'm standing, the only bitch I see, Ashkhabad,” Synreah said, “is the sniveling wand-crafter who isn't man enough to take two steps out of his shop and put a woman in her place.” She turned her back on him to add to the insult, and took my hand. My laugh was loud and long as she led me away from his shop.
“Are you okay?” I asked as she led me toward one of the broader alleys.
“We both made an enemy of him,” she said softly. “You'd better lay low if you come back to the Hive any time soon.”
“What about you?”
“I'll manage. And…thank you for what you did back there. No one…ever helped me before.” The words came out slowly, like she wasn't used to saying them.
I gave her a shrug and a half smile. If she was anything like me, it had cost her a lot to say that. The best thing I figured I could do was just let it go and press on. But…it felt good to hear it. The next place Synreah led me to was Arianh-Rod's. It was one of the few permanent shops in the Hive, in the middle of a fork in the lane, a full two-story stone building, shaped like a wedge. The door faced straight into the lane. A round turret rose above the doorway, and the shop’s sign hung beneath it: a plain black plank with the shop’s name and the silver wheel of seven spokes that was her maker’s mark below it. Windows showcased the front of the shop, where she displayed an assortment of wands in velvet-lined cases.
It was one place Dulka never wanted me to go. He had a thing about not letting me get my hands on a focus, especially a wand. The spells I had thrown at him during my escape had been potent, but sloppy. Magickally, I was the equivalent of a blunt object. A very blunt object. Say, a Mack truck, or a car, if you were feeling generous. I made a heavy club seem like a precision instrument by comparison. Dulka’s training had concentrated on stamina, strength, and knowledge, but he’d left me painfully short on things like fine control and theory. I could memorize an incantation, cast it from a circle perfectly and repeatedly, but I had to pour a ton of energy into it each and every time. To cast spells outside of a circle, I needed to have a focus and barring another eight years of training at the feet of a real mage, wands were the best tools for the job.
I held the door open for Synreah, who gave me a bemused smile as she ducked her head under the lintel and slipped inside. The threshold here was strong enough to leave goose bumps across my skin as I crossed it, and the sounds from outside faded to almost nothing as the door creaked shut. A half-circle display case held some of the more expensive wands, and served as a barrier between the front half of the shop and the back. A selection of staves lined the walls on either side, and the back wall held drawers and cabinets with labels on them that I couldn't read in the soft light. A curtained doorway was set in the middle of the back wall, and from behind it, I could hear a rhythmic hissing sound. The smell of sawdust was a pleasant tang in my nose, and Synreah's boot heels made a sharp counterpoint to the hissing sound as she crossed the floor. There was no one else in the shop but us, and I wondered if we were going to get the same reception we'd gotten at Ashkhabad's.
The hissing sound stopped, and I heard movement in the back. Then the curtain parted, and I found myself face to face with the glowing crystal tip of a power rod.
“Ye'd best turn about and leave,” the woman behind the rod hissed at me in a soft brogue. She was a little taller than me, maybe five foot ten, and slender, with pale blonde hair and almond-shaped violet eyes that suggested fae blood. I wondered what would fall out of her family tree if I gave it a good shake, as I concentrated on standing verrrrry still. The power in the length of silver metal she was pointing at me was strong enough that I could feel it pressing against me without it being truly focused on me. If she cast the spell that I could feel pointed at me, I was pretty sure I was going to end up splattered across a good-sized chunk of the Hive. Of course, the whole front of her shop would be equally obliterated, as well.
“Okay,” I said, “I'm going.” I turned and opened the door for Synreah, who hadn't moved an inch.
“What?” Synreah sputtered after a moment. “You're not even going to try to defend yourself?”
I sighed, already tired of being treated like this. “She's no different than Ashkhabad. She's gonna believe what she wants to believe, and I can't change that. No point arguing with her about it over a charged weapon. Let's go. I don't feel like getting blasted out of another shop.” Synreah shrugged and started across the floor toward the door.
“You stop right there, ye little strumpet! And yew! Close that fecking door and get yer arse back in here!”
I looked at Arianh-Rod with a frown. “You made your point; we're leaving.”
“Ye'll be doin' nae such thing! I'll not be treated like I'm a fecking idiot. Believe what I want to believe, indeed. D'ye think I dinnae know when a body is after calling me stupid? And I'll be thrice damned if any man can say I treated him the same as that wrong-headed bastard, Ashkhabad.” The silver rod came down, and she nodded toward Synreah. “Besides, it's the first time I've heard a whore speak up for a man. Says a lot about ye, it does.”
“Don't call her that again, Arianh-Rod,” I said.
Arianh-Rod gave out a bark of laughter and smiled at me. “That says a lot about ye too. Best ye call me Ari, if we’re ta be talkin’ much more, lad. Ye'd be the apprentice the Red Count says he let go then, wouldn't ye?”
“I wasn't his apprentice, I was his slave. I escaped. End of story.” I managed to keep my cool when she looked to Synreah and raised an eyebrow.
“Biladon Garnet believes he's a good kid, Ari” Synreah said. “And so d
o I.”
The wand-wright gave me an appraising look, then nodded. “I'm willing ta take a bit on faith. What were ye needin' today, anyroad?” she asked. The rod had disappeared, and she leaned on the glass of her display case.
I blinked at the sudden change while my brain tried to catch up with things. “Uh…a stylus for a copper force rod, and sigils. And…” I hesitated, but there was no way to avoid looking like a total wanna-be with the time I had. “I need a charging spell for it.”
“Needin' it quick, then are ye?” she asked with a smile that made the pride I'd just swallowed go down a little easier. “I can do ye for all of that, but ye'll also be needin' some garnet and carnelian powder and a chrism of hawthorn to anoint it with.”
The knot between my shoulders loosened when she didn't call me out as a fake. Most magi could charge their own tools, but warlocks had a well-deserved reputation for taking shortcuts. Most of the time, it was why they chose to serve a demon. And the last thing I wanted people to think of me was that I'd chosen to serve Dulka.
“I can get the gems and the hawthorn oil,” I told her. “I just need the spell and the stylus quickly.”
“Aye, I have both ta hand, to be sure. The stylus will be twenty sterling, and the sigils forty. The charging spell, that's another sixty on its own.”
I pulled the pouch out of my satchel, and ended up with only a handful left to buy the oils and powdered gems. But, one good thing about the Hive, the art of haggling was still alive and well. After about twenty minutes of wrangling, I worked her down to a hundred ten sterling, and figured I got a good bargain. With a show of grumbling over how I was cheating her, she went back into the back and started rummaging around.
“Ari meant no disrespect,” Synreah said from over my right shoulder.
“I know, it's all part of the deal,” I said. “This isn't the first time I haggled a price down.”
“When she called me a whore. It's what I am…what I do. From her, it was no insult.”
“Oh,” I said slowly. I didn't know how to put what went through my head into the right words, and years of being slapped down if I said something the wrong way paralyzed my voice while I struggled with my thoughts. “It makes you…less,” I finally managed to get out. “It maybe what you do, but it isn't who you are.”
“That's sweet, but it is who I am. I enjoy what I do. Sex is power for me; it’s in my blood.” She shrugged and leaned toward me. One full breast brushed my arm as she gave me a knowing smile. “But I like that you treat me nice.”
Ari came out of the back room with a wooden box that was stained a dark red, and laid it down on the display case. The lid opened with a slight creak, and she turned it to face us. Inside was a scroll wrapped around a slim stylus. I could see the pale tan butt of the wooden handle and the bronze point of the stylus sticking out of the scroll.
“Here it all is, then,” she said proudly. “Sigils, charging spell, and stylus. One hundred ten sterling, as agreed.” I laid a couple of trade bars and the last of my gems on the countertop, and she closed the lid on the box and slid it across to me. With my money pouch a lot lighter, there was plenty of room in the satchel for the case, and I gave Ari a nod before we made for the door.
“Good luck, then, Chance Fortunato,” she said, as I opened to door for Synreah. I muttered thanks to her and slipped out into the street.
Synreah led me to an apothecary's squat a couple of turns down the way from Ari's shop, and I ended up walking away from the little man's trailer setup with almost all of the rest of my trade silver gone, and a glass vial of hawthorn oil and two paper envelopes with a couple of grams of carnelian and garnet chips in each of them. Enough to do the job right the first time.
“Here's the rest of what I owe you,” I told Synreah after we made it back to the main alleyway.
The topaz sparkled between my fingertips, but her eyes didn't seem to shine as bright as they had earlier. Still, she took the yellow gem with slender, black-taloned fingers, and it disappeared into the chasm behind the top of her corset.
“Don't go getting any ideas about getting your money back,” she joked, then turned hot eyes on me. “Then again, I wouldn't mind it if you tried.” She leaned forward and squeezed her arms together and leather creaked as she displayed another few inches of barely contained bosom. I took in the view that she was offering, but I shook my head at the other offer.
“Here's a bonus,” I told her, and put the onyx pendant over her head. “You earned it, and a lot more. Thanks for sticking up for me at Ari's shop.”
She shrugged as she touched the pendant as it lay in the cleft between her breasts. “If it weren't for this, I'd be almost disappointed that you didn't try anything. A girl might think she was losing her touch. Other than that, you're all right.”
“I'm on a tight schedule,” I told her as I closed the satchel up. “Maybe next time.”
“Promises, promises,” she said with a half-smile.
I headed for the gate. I had a tracking spell to cast and a force rod to craft, all the while having to dodge the Conclave, and keep my Mom from finding out I was a warlock. And if that wasn't enough, I had to get it all done before my mom got home from work.
Yeah, that was me, livin' the glamorous life of a teenage warlock.
Chapter 10
~ Justice is cold and swift, and often leaves both parties unsatisfied with the outcome. Vengeance however, finds favor only in the hearts of the aggrieved. ~ John Dee, 17th century Wizard
The school's parking lot was mostly empty by the time I made it back there on Mom's bike. There was only one news van left, and only two police cruisers near the entrance. Another, unmarked police car was parked behind them. The news crew was filming the reporter's wrap-up as I slipped around the edge of the building and headed for the back of the school to play junior psychic detective. I passed the first two wings of classrooms and turned to my right between the second and the third when I saw the yellow strip of crime scene tape fluttering in the light wind. The cops had strung it across the end of the breezeway between the second and third wing, under the still-gaping hole of the lab's missing window. The cloudy, gray sky did a pretty good job of mirroring my mood as I eyed the black square that marred the building like a missing tooth. The hole in my life seemed a lot bigger.
I left Mom's bike leaning against the building and headed across the damp grass on foot. My boots clomped against the covered concrete walkway that ran between the wings, then I was out from under the beige-painted breezeway, and standing at the yellow line of tape, suddenly not sure of what to do. How was I supposed to do this? I looked back at where I'd walked across the grass and wondered if I'd trampled on anything important. But the whole area looked pretty much stomped flat, so I figured I wasn't making things much worse. Now what? My gaze went back to the area inside the tape.
The window, frame and all, was still on the ground outside the science lab, about fifteen feet from the wall. I looked up at the hole it used to occupy, and blinked. The window wasn’t right beneath the opening. It hadn’t been knocked out; it had been torn out and tossed aside. I slipped under the tape and went over to the frame. Four parallel furrows ran across the pale wood sill, and I remembered the gray lines scored in the concrete column in the lab. There was no blood on the wood or the glass. I looked up at the concrete pillar that ran up the outside of the building, and saw another set of claw marks in the pillar, level with the window, but this set had something the others didn’t: a fifth claw mark on the adjacent side of the pillar. The killer had an opposable thumb. It ruled out a lot of things, but still left a pretty long list of possible species for the perp. Hence, my spell.
I moved back into the breezeway and pulled some of my new purchases out of the satchel Billy had given me. As I held them in my hands, they looked pretty innocuous. Copper tubing, a few sandwich bags from Mom's kitchen, a file, a piece of purple chalk, and a piece of amethyst on a chain. In anyone else's hands, they were harmless: completely unconnec
ted. In mine, they were tools that would cast a finding spell.
I looked back up at the gray gap where the window used to be and wondered if I was ready for what I was about to step into. Right now, I was almost where I wanted to be, just a normal kid, going to high school. If I wanted to, I could turn around and leave this to the cops. If I wanted to, I could be done with this. I didn't have to get involved, and my life could go on being almost normal. The question running around in my head was, “Could I really?”
My teeth ground together as my heart answered the question in my head. The cops would never find the killer. The Conclave might be able to find them, and if they did, they'd exact their own brand of justice. I'd seen their retribution before, when a warlock got careless. Conclave vengeance was cold, calculated, and almost always done from a distance. Mr. Chomsky deserved better than that. He deserved better from me. I couldn't walk away.
A cold stillness spread from my center, shutting down any thought that wasn't about finding the killer, and I knelt there in the middle of the sidewalk. First, I inscribed a rough circle on the ground, making the ends touch but not overlap, then broke out the file and a short length of copper tubing, and went to work. After a few minutes effort, I had a small pile of copper filings on the ground in front of me. I drew the sigils for divination around the inside edge of the circle before muttering “Circumvare,” to close the circle.
The world went ripply for a second as I felt the circle close around me, then the normal feeling of static in the back of my head faded, and I was left with a pure, clear focus on the spell. “Velle potestatem quaero, videtur tacta, soluta tenere,” I chanted as I concentrated on my goal.