by Rita Webb
down. “Not that you look like an athlete. Too
skinny. What about a potion to give you some
luscious curves?”
I glance away from her beady-eyed stare.
“There’s a guy—Jason—who doesn’t know I exist.
He’s got his eyes on my sister.”
“Ah, I see. So, you want to make her hair fall
out, give her horrible body odor, oozing sores? By
the time we’re finished, he will run screaming from
her.”
“She’s my sister!”
“Of course. Don’t want to chance the parents
finding out. Good thinking.” She grins at me, and I
notice several teeth missing. “Maybe you could
change her into a fish, or perhaps a nice magical
poison, totally undetectable by scientific means. I
have a few I’ve been aching to try …”
“I don’t want to kill my sister; I just want to
make him fall in love with me. Can’t you just mix up
some kind of love potion or something?”
“No, I can’t help you with that.” She gives me a
flat look. Turning back to her shop, she waves a
hand around the room. “Look around. Let me know
if any curses strike your fancy. I have the best in the
business.”
I rummage through the books on one of the
tables. A little leather-bound one and on the
bottom says On Matters of Love across the front.
Yesss, a love potion.
He deserves to see me for who I really am.
You dessserve a chance.
Maybe if he just had the chance to see me
without my sister in the way. He could get to know
me and love me for real.
You dessserve this.
I deserve this. I’ve been thoughtful and helpful. I
brought him homemade cookies at Christmas—
baked them myself. I talked to him about the cars
he’s been fixing up even though I hate cars.
“How much is this one?”
The old lady glances at the book in my hand
and, shaking her head disapprovingly, scowls at me.
“Bah, love potions—disgusting little abominations.
They take away the target’s free will and replace it
with such a pitiful emotion.” Huk huuuk pluth. She
spits a disgusting green glob at my feet and
splatters my new Candies. “I won’t make them.
Besides, you have to get the blood of a siren or a
succubus or certain types of fairies. Drain every last
drop of blood. You are too prissy to put a simple
little curse on your sister. You can’t handle this
potion.”
“Drain the blood? Won’t that kill it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Wait a minute—sirens don’t exist.”
“Then neither do love potions, and I’m not a
witch. Now out of my shop.”
She studies me as if she could see the bones
under my skin, the voices squirming inside my
head, and I look away to hide from her piercing
gaze.
Sirens are monstersss.
I can’t do it.
They lure they’re prey with song.
I’m a good girl.
Then drown their victimsss.
Maybe.
You’d be doing the world a favor.
“Then what do I do?” I ask.
She throws her hands up in the air. “What do I
care what you do next? Mix it into his beer or put it
in his coffee. I’ve known some who put it in the
frosting of a cake. Up to you.”
“How do I find a siren?” I ask.
She sniffs in disgust. “That information will cost
you.”
I reach for my wallet, but my pockets are empty.
“Oh, I don’t want your money. Magic like this
demands a higher price.” She reaches for my
ponytail and wraps my hair around her finger.
“Perhaps a lock of your hair.”
“That’s all you want?” Odd request.
Dooooo it.
“Okay.”
Cackling, she cuts a chunk out of my hair and
tucks it into her pocket.
“And how much for the book?”
“Just get that revolting thing out of my shop.”
The book of spells tucked under my arm, a
name—the Hunter—and an address to a bar in my
hand, I stumble out of the store and into the street.
I’m going to finally get the one thing I always
wanted.
So why do I feel like I just sold my soul to the
devil?
You dessserve thisss.
I do. I deserve one kiss from his lips.
Chapter 8
~ HUNTER ~
The man pours a crimson liquid into a goblet.
Too thick to be wine, and he doesn’t look like the
tomato juice type. I sniff the air. Under the smell of
demon and filthy magic, I catch the smell of human
blood.
I feel sick. This sorcerer has sold so much of his
soul to demons for power he’s turned himself into
a vampire. All these creatures chained in his circus,
easily available for food.
The soul is in the blood. That’s why witches use
blood sacrifices to boost their power. Why
sorcerers and demons drink blood to take
someone’s magic. Why you should never let
someone get a hold of your bloody bandages.
“What is it you hoped to find? Gold, artifacts,
spell books, lists of names?” He twitches a finger
and releases his control of my jaw.
I search my brain for a quick lie, but my lips spill
the truth before I can stop it. “I came to retrieve
something you have stolen from its rightful owner.”
“Oh, I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific
than that.” An amused smirk plays across his face.
“A bracelet, stolen recently from the sorceress
Jezebarra, who you used to apprentice under.”
“Is that what she said?” He throws his head back
and laughs. “I’m afraid you are misinformed.”
“I’m supposed to believe you didn’t steal it?”
“Oh no, I definitely stole it, but not from her. If
she wanted it so badly, she should have tried to get
it herself. But then Jez has always been lazy. She
duped you. Plain and simple. And she said I had
once been her apprentice? What a joke. She and I
both apprenticed to the same master, and she
convinced me to help her kill him. When the deed
was done, she betrayed me and kicked me out of
the castle.”
Interesting. Why did she pretend otherwise?
“Now you are my prisoner.” He studies me over
his goblet. “And as you can see the bracelet is still
mine. You have failed.”
Alistrad reaches into his pocket and pulls out
something. I think it was the bracelet, but as soon
as he pulls it out, it flashes and disappears with a
loud crack.
The teleportation coin. It must have taken the
bracelet and delivered it to its master. Jasper didn’t
tell me it would leave me behind.
That bitch Jezebarra betrayed me.
“NO!” The sorcerer tosses me across the room.
The binding spell doesn’t even allo
w me a chance
to soften the landing, and my left arm snaps
underneath me. A flare of white hot pain engulfs
me.
Black bolts of lightning crackle around the room.
An invisible hand lifts me and drags me to him.
“What other surprises do you have on hand?”
He removes the rings that let me bypass the
wards, takes the Stetson, the small rattle that let
me hack into the safe, and an extra dimensional
pouch. “I can feel the craftsmanship on these
items. Your first job for me will be to retrieve the
creator of your items. I could use a new talent in
my services.”
“Not on your life,” I grind out between clenched
teeth. It hurts to push against the power of the
spell.
He smiles. “They all object until I break them.”
I growl.
“What have we here?” Reaching into the extra
dimensional pouch, he draws out the dagger. As he
holds it up to inspect, he seizes, crumpling to the
ground, writhing in pain.
The spell on me shatters, consumed by the
dagger. I step over him.
Well, Plan C worked.
“Someone should kill you and put the rest of us
out of your misery. But I won’t do that bitch’s dirty
work for her.” I step on his arm and, with my good
arm, wrench it up, snapping the bone in half.
“Help me. I’ll pay you,” he whispers hoarsely.
“I don’t want your money.” I grab my gear and
run.
Nobody stops me on the way out. The siren is
no longer singing. The spectators are back to
gawking, and the workers bustle through their
chores. I’m just one more chimera in the crowd.
I put my Stetson back on as I step out of the
circus and into the public street. The sun is low in
the afternoon sky.
In. Out. I’m still alive.
Chapter 9
~ ANGELINA ~
“Hungry? I’ll order us a pizza,” Emma says.
I don’t tell her how unhealthy pizza is, that it will
make her fat and give her zits. “Yes, pizza will be
fine. Order me a side salad with it.”
Saturday Sister Study Session—we meet every
week at her campus apartment. Emma just calls it
study time, but I like my alliterated version better.
The living room is small, the couches lumpy and
ragged, but I like it here. It’s quiet, and for the first
time all week, I can spend time with someone else
without feeling judged.
Even the voices whisper as if afraid Emma can
hear them. Our weekly visit is my only moment of
blessed peace.
Spread out before me, I have the notes for my
psychology report on schizophrenia—symptoms,
treatments, types. Fear squirms in my stomach, a
ball of writhing worms weighing heavily inside me.
Hallucinations.
Delusions.
Paranoia.
Disorganized speech.
Disorganized behavior.
Setting down my pen, I rub my aching eyes, the
words still bombarding me, pricking me like little
needles in my brain.
It’s all in my imagination. I don’t have to listen
to them. They can’t control me. If I wish it hard
enough, they’ll go away.
At least, I’m not disorganized. I have everything
under control.
The voices cackle. My skin crawls and prickles
with fear.
Emma looks up sharply. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“What are you working on?” Emma picks up one
of the printouts sitting in front of me. I resist the
urge to snatch it back. “Schizophrenia—ha, you’re
working on that freshman psychology report where
you have to describe the symptoms of one disease
of your choice.”
“Yeah.” I squirm uncomfortably as she studies
the pamphlet in her hand. She doesn’t know about
the voices, I remind myself. Nothing in there will
reveal my secrets to her.
“Everybody always self-diagnoses themselves.
Our professor warned about spotting phantom
symptoms.” She hands me back my pamphlet.
“Don’t worry. You’re the least schizo of anyone I
know. Straight A’s, completely logical and
organized. If I was a psychologist, I’d diagnose you
as OCD.”
I nod, avoiding her eyes.
She looks back to her book. “Back in my
freshman year, I picked OCD because I thought it
would make me understand you better.”
“Does it make you mad?” I ask.
“Of course not, I realized that you’re Virgo, not
OCD, and you just like things to be a certain way.
Which I love about you. We’re all unique, Angelina;
that’s what makes us special.”
The room is quiet for a long moment, and then
she laughs. “For weeks, I couldn’t walk down the
sidewalk without avoiding stepping on cracks. This
stuff messes with you.”
“Does it?” I’m afraid to ask more, worried I’ll
reveal my secrets.
“It’s like most first year medical students. They
start thinking they’ve got every disease in the
book.” She laughs. “At least, you have nothing to
worry about. Little Miss Perfect.”
“I’m not so perfect.” A tear slips down my
cheek, and I brush it away.
“Angie baby—” Using her childhood name for
me, she sits beside me, hugging me to her. A sob
breaks free, and the tears stream, the sudden
kindness breaking the dam of pain I built around
myself. I feel loved, warm, safe.
Emma wraps her arms around me, and I cry in
her shoulder. Her hand pets my hair gently. “Hey,
girlie, what’s wrong? Let me help.”
“Nothing.”
She holds me at arm’s length and studies me, a
worried frown creasing her forehead. “Bottling it
up never works. Look how well it works for Dad.”
I open my mouth to tell her, to give her every
last secret and beg her for help, but nothing comes
out. The presence of the voices pushes on my
tongue, cleaving it to the roof of my mouth. Spikes
of pain twist through my skull, and I close my eyes
and take a big calming breath.
“I can’t. I just can’t,” I finally squeak out.
“Okay, okay, but if you ever need me, don’t you
hesitate. Promise? Even if it’s in the middle of the
night, I’ll come rescue you no matter what.”
“Yeah.” My voice hitches and quavers from the
crying, and I take another shuddering breath.
“Yeah, I promise.”
The door bell rings, and standing up, Emma
places a comforting hand on my shoulder and gives
it a squeeze. “That’s our pizza. I’m starved.”
She leaves the room, and I can hear her talking
with the pizza man as he flirts with her. But as
usual, Emma is oblivious.
I pick up the list again. “‘Lack of emotional
expression,’” I read. “
‘Inability to cry or express
joy.’”
Definitely not me. I just cried my heart out.
I just have an overactive imagination, and I need
to ground myself in reality. Most important thing is
to realize these voices don’t control me.
Forget this whole stupid love potion thing. I
imagined the witch and the Hunter. It was all born
from my wishful thinking about Jason.
Sudden pain rips through my head, tearing and
shredding my brain, and I stumble to the floor as I
grip my broken skull in my hands, trying to keep the
pieces together.
“Oh shit, are you okay?” Emma’s arms are
around me, lifting me up.
“Headache. From the concussion a few weeks
ago.” I whimper.
“I’ll drive you home and tuck you into bed.”
Curled into a ball, I sob into my pillow, my ratty
old teddy bear clutched in my arms. Emma made
me tea, gave me some medicine, and tucked me in.
Sweetest sister a girl could ask for.
Guilt squeezes my heart. I don’t deserve her
kindness and love.
She doesn’t love you. She’s using you.
No, it’s not true.
How could she love you? She knows how evil you
really are. She can see your wickedness, how
twisted you are inside.
This is the schizo paranoia talking. You’re not
real. This is all my imagination.
I shove them away, but the voices scream only
louder in my head. They pound against the walls of
my skull until I think my head will shatter. Until I
want to tear my head off just to get away from the
pain.
Their claws rake across my skin. Their teeth
gnaw on my bones.
I don’t want to make a love potion and murder
an imaginary Siren. Maybe I don’t want Jason’s
attention anymore.
“Let me go. Set me free.”
You will obey usss. Pain slices through my head
like ice picks through my skull.
“Yes, yes, anything you want.” I sob. Anything to
appease them—steal, destroy, sell my body on the
street corner, sell my soul to the devil … though I’m
not sure I still have a soul.
Good girl.
Euphoria fills me, replacing the pain. I giggle like
a maniac.
My masters approve of me.
I clutch the leather-bound book in one hand and
the card with the old witch’s scrawl in the other.
The address leads me down another deserted alley.