by L. J. Longo
“That might make things easier,” Porter said. “If you want me.”
Goddess, he knew. Most likely, he’d known all the time and… Emaula tried to keep her face cold to deal with her shame. How could she possibly respond? And what did he mean by bringing this to her? Was he giving her permission?
“Porter, I—”
“They grow by the waterfall.” Porter sounded casual, but he gripped the counter nervously. “I could take you to the waterfalls. There’s a lot of magic there. I’d like walking with you if you’d like to see them. Once the guests go away.”
And then tonight, if she understood his meaning, she could have him as a lover again. The root sat in her hand, asking to be sliced and savored. “Are you sure?”
Porter chuckled. The sound surprised her so much that she nearly dropped the root. “It would be dumb for me to bring this to you if I wasn’t.”
He carefully took the moonwort from her and picked up a knife. He sliced off a small sliver and offered it to her, the way he would slice a bit of pear or banana for her to sample.
Emaula took it and placed it under her tongue an instinct to hide and spit it out later. The way she did with all the food her mother gave her.
Only when Porter ate his own, did she swallow the shard of magic.
Porter grinned warmly. “This time, maybe, your magic will trust me and let me touch you.”
“Was that my magic holding you back, last time?” Emaula flushed until she thought her cheeks would break. “I thought… I thought you were being … I don’t know. Flirty?”
Porter laughed and then reached for her. He stopped just shy of taking her hand, remembering the bite of her curse. He said with the eagerness of a little child, “Since I know, I’m going to make the world for you.”
“What a romantic notion.” Emaula laughed. Then when he tilted his head, she realized he was serious. “I didn’t realize a man could.”
“I don’t know that a man normally can. But Emaula…” Goddess, his smile was tortuously sexy. “I’m a porter.”
****
The inland route was safe even with the threat of another torrential rain, so Half-Ear lead the militia and many of the merchants down after breakfast. That evening was much more subdued. Not as much wine circling the room, much quieter music. Porter kept smiling at her from across the room, flirting silently while he played cards with Nav and some guests. She drank tea with Jasprite and the merchants in front of the fire and said very little. All day, she’d been consumed with thoughts of Porter, the moonwort, the delights awaiting her in dreams. It made preparing dinner with Porter delicious torture. He offered her tastes of the sauce to roast the venison and watched her savor the flavors with hungry eyes. When she tried to return the flirtation, offering carrots she’d prepared, he nibbled them off the fork, licked his lips, and made her nearly too weak in the knees to continue cooking.
“Emaula’s a potion master,” Jasprite said. “I do believe she could make anything anyone could possibly want if she’s given the right recipe.”
Emaula only half-listened to the conversation because Jasprite mentioned her name. Jasprite was always selling, and Emaula didn’t mind her skills being one of Jasprite’s many wares. But just now, she couldn’t really focus enough to do her part. “That’s kind of you, Jasprite. Mostly I know blessings and very simple healing potions.”
“Yes, of course, but given the right recipe,” Jasprite said, a bit crossly. “Madame wants a witch to create a dragon fire potion, and she has a recipe to base it on.”
“Oh.” Emaula blushed. “So sorry. Absolutely. My mother trained me to pick apart recipes from at least three different styles to evaluate their efficacy, purpose, and usefulness. Our coven is known for it. I could certainly make a dragon fire potion.”
Jasprite cringed a little behind her teacup, and Emaula wasn’t sure what she’d said wrong until Madame Riosu said pleasantly. “Ah, a coven witch? Who are you affiliated with?”
“Oh, not me. My mother’s coven… I—” Emaula glanced to Jasprite for aid.
Jasprite didn’t let her down. “She’s decided to travel the world and learn more about magic arts before committing to the coven that raised her.”
“Indeed,” Madame Riosu said, politely. “How admirable. To be a scholar.”
Emaula nodded quietly and hoped she hadn’t ruined Jasprite’s business relationship with this woman permanently. She glanced across the room at Porter, who winked at her and smiled. She smiled back.
Though, if she’d managed to pass her ordeal, she would never have learned the little pleasure of flirting with a handsome man. Emaula laughed at the thought and announced blithely, “One coven is so limiting. I think it’s a very outdated mode of learning. Consider if we applied such limitations to merchants. Why, Jasprite would only trade in the things her father had! What? Only tea and lumber?”
“Oh yes, some coal. And livestock, of course. But he never touched silk, and that’s where I make my money.” Jasprite quickly adapted. “And his father only dealt in horseflesh. Why, if the Doughtons were a coven, I’d be stuck in the west, picking shit out of hooves.”
The merchants all laughed.
“Exactly,” Emaula said. “My mother’s coven, The Whispels, are very skilled in potion-craft and charms, and I learned from them and very well, indeed. My mother was a fierce taskmaster. But what about the magic of the jungle? Or of the sea? Or of dragon’s fire? How could I resist such knowledge and confine myself to one … tower of learning, so to speak?”
Jasprite gave her a stunning smile and said, quietly, “Atta girl.”
Madame Riosu reached into her bag and drew out a little notebook. “Well, then what do you make of this recipe? I have all but the most common ingredients. Can you understand it?”
The potion was painstakingly thorough, but well-hidden in three different languages of magic. Emaula knew them all and regarded the recipe without fear. Some conjurer hiding the tricks of her trade, probably from a prying apprentice. “Oh, absolutely. This is … yes. You don’t need these two as they cancel each other out. It’s a display potion.”
“Display?”
“Well.” Emaula smiled. “If I wanted to make this potion in front of you today a dash of distilled lightning would make for a flashy effect, but I’d need to nullify the effects of all that electricity with the deep-sea moans. I’d be happy to make it according to the recipe, but I’m telling you it’s for effect. I’ll make it my adapted way as well, and you can compare.”
“How soon?” Madame Riosu leaned forward.
“Well, unfortunately, being a fire spell, it does require a particular amount of sunlight, so I wouldn’t recommend before noon. When do you leave tomorrow?”
Riosu leaned back in her chair. “As soon as I have my dragon fire potions if the weather permits. I’ll have the ingredients brought in after breakfast.”
Jasprite applauded silently over the merchant’s shoulder, but when Riosu glanced over, Jasprite was already drinking her tea like a proper lady. Then Jasprite lowered her teacup and said, “Now about payment…”
****
Emaula went upstairs less than an hour later, her head swimming with the price Jasprite had eventually negotiated. She hadn’t thought the potion was worth more than a few coins since Riosu was providing the ingredients. But in that one sale, Jasprite had entirely covered Emaula’s traveling expenses, her room and board, the cost of the silks, the magic chest, the books, really everything Jasprite had gifted her. And that was only Jasprite’s percentage. Emaula had to pause on the stair a moment, to reconsider everything her mother had taught her about money and the cost of keeping someone. Of course, these dragon fire potions were very large bottles and very costly, but … it made Emaula feel like crying. All those years she’d spent crushed with the guilt of being a burden when a merchant was willing to pay so much for her wares.
She floated around on this thought until she saw a dim light on in her room. She smiled a little, romantic candlelight?
Porter waiting to tease her before they dreamed together. She threw open the door expecting him inside.
“Porter?”
The light came from a dim lantern with some incense attached. Something—not Porter— held the paper lantern aloft. And the light cast strange shadows on a pale face and wild white hair. Its eyes flashed a pale green with hate.
Emaula’s magic flared with fear, and a bright orb of light swelled in the middle of the room.
“Damn.” Sock growled. He squinted at the ceiling.
Above, the tendrils of smoke tangled in a dense network of dark webbing on her ceiling, but with the stronger magic of her orb, the tendrils popped. The webbing disappeared and the cleansing incense dispersed normally. Her magic defensively swept away the cobwebs of something it did not like.
“What is that in your lantern, wolf?”
“Can’t you tell by the scent? Sage.” Sock crouched on her alchemists’ desk. “To cleanse dark energy.”
If anyone suffered from negative energy, it was him. Emaula found it deeply unsettling to see him alone in her room, mostly because the magic clinging to him so gruesomely wanted her to see it. Those barbs cutting through his skin, his cloudy eyes, and wrists forced her to see him with the True Sight.
“There’s no dark energy in my room,” Emaula insisted. She had dream catchers and cast blessings, and … damn it, she used her own sage. Unless some physical object in the room held the darkness, but that wasn’t possible. “What are you doing in here?”
“Obviously, snooping.” He didn’t even flinch. He peered over his spectacles at her spell-book, and his neutral expression darkened.
“If you want to look at my spell-book, you should have asked. I’m hiding nothing, but I might have attached a curse to it.”
“Ms. Witch, do you really think I’m afraid of your curses?” Sock grinned.
He made a good point. The sight of the curse he lived with every day, made her squeamish. She wasn’t going to do worse.
He hopped off her desk. “Besides, asking permission gets in the way of snooping, Ms. Witch. I wanted to see if you’d hidden anything that only shows magic in the evening.”
Like moonwort.
“I ought to tell you, I sneak in here to check at least once a week but never had the opportunity at night before. Sorry you caught me. Pardon my intrusion.”
It jarred her to hear her own crisp formality coming at her from such a diseased man.
“I have nothing to hide.” Emaula crossed her arms. The moonwort was in Porter’s room, and he’d given it to her. “So, carry on. Feel free to search the drawers as well, sir.”
“Thank you. I already did.” Sock turned and leaned against the desk. He glanced at the ceiling with his cloudy eyes, and Emaula wondered if he could see something even in his half-blindness that she could not.
She followed his gaze, letting her True Sight take in the ceiling. But there was nothing there. No dark energy. Either her magic masked it now, or his sage had dispelled it. “I don’t see anything.”
“Yes. It hides very well.” Sock answered. Then abruptly changed the subject. “Our Porter’s a sweet man, isn’t he?”
Emaula’s magic prickled at his voice around that perfect name. “Indeed.”
“But not too bright.”
Emaula frowned. “I think he’s brighter than any of you give him credit for and an excellent judge of character. He certainly picked a loyal pack. Very fearless.”
“Nice of you to say.” Sock fluttered the pages of her spell-book. He paused on a particularly nasty curse her mother favored and studied it with disinterest. “Though I’ll tell you honestly, he ended up in this pack because he can’t say no. He must have marginally been part of three before Half-Ear beat up the other alphas. Porter just gravitated his way because his other ‘friends’ wouldn’t talk to him for fear of the scrapper.”
Terrible way to make friends. But she could she really judge?
Sock turned another page. “Damned fool doesn’t know he can disobey orders, sometimes.”
Emaula thought about Porter’s quiet acquiesces, his sad smiles and far-off gaze, and the contract she’d signed in blood. “I … I’m sure I don’t understand.”
“What’s not to understand?” Sock adjusted his glasses. “He was trained to never tell a witch no. Whether he wants to do something or not. He’ll go out of his way to obey a person he feels even moderately friendly toward.”
Sock chuckled. “One of our primary delights, when we were in prison together, was to command Porter to start fights with people or go ask the guards idiotic requests. Porter hates conflicts, but he couldn’t bear to disappoint us, so he’d subject himself to all sorts of humiliating things. Nav and I usually stopped him, but Half-Ear let him get into some real pickles.”
Her heart sank.
“Imagine how much more conflicted he would feel to someone … nice. Some who makes him delicious food. Someone pretty, who smells good.” Sock closed the spell-book. “Say, did he did tell you about his old witches?”
“Of course.” Sock couldn’t lord superior knowledge over her. “He was their servant. A messenger of sorts.”
“Messenger? That’s very diplomatic for Porter. He must not know the right words.” The little man chuckled. “He was a prize. Something handsome and young to be distributed nightly to whichever girl earned him.”
Emaula felt a little sick. Was that what those doors were? All those keys…
“I mean, only in dreams of course. Most of those witches were cursed like you. Can’t risk maidens becoming mothers.” Sock headed for the doorway. “Anyway, old habits can be difficult to shake. But I’m sure he’s in no danger from you, Ms. Emaula.”
The little wolf casually opened her chest of magical herbs and peered inside over the rim of his spectacles. Could he see with True Sight? Mother said only witches could. He sniffed the air, then closed the chest.
“Thank you for forgiving my intrusion. I thought I smelled moonwort, but I couldn’t find any. Then I saw that dark energy, which can’t possibly be yours.”
“I have an oath I’m keeping after all. To do no harm or die.”
“Indeed, you do.” Sock nodded as if it puzzled him. “So, what the hell got into Porter last night if it wasn’t you?”
Was there actually some dark presence here? Her mind jumped at once to her mother, but why would Mother bother a wolf? Surely, she had stronger magic to snare her daughter.
“Perhaps a bit too much wine, coupled with a dear friend’s suspicion, and his own imagination,” Emaula said. “Or perhaps his witches haunt him.”
“No. His witches can’t reach him.” Sock scratched at the magic circling his neck. “He’s locked them out. It’s someone else.”
Her magic whispered again Mother. But that was ridiculous. Mother could not find her. Not here.
“You fear is incredibly persistent, Mr. Wolf. Your witch must have been very cruel.” Emaula said. “I assure you I have no desire to hurt your friend.”
Sock looked sharp, but his tone remained civil. “My witch? Cruel? Madame, you’re mistaken. My mother was infinitely kind. I have nothing but love for her.”
The barbs of magic tensed around him, but there was nothing in his tone or his face to suggest he was lying.
“But she did teach me sometimes even the purest of us do things we are unaware of.” He twisted his fingers around the barb and let it cut deeper into his throat. Emaula cringed.
“Anyways, good evening, Ms. Emaula.” On his way to the door, he gave her a little half bow. “I’m told dinner was delicious tonight.”
Then the wolf vanished.
Emaula wasn’t certain how to react to—was it a warning? A threat? A friendly reminder that her magic wasn’t entirely tamed?
She stepped toward the door and opened it. But the hallway remained dark and empty like Sock had never even existed. Even the fire downstairs was dim and far away as if a blanket of darkness covered this hallway.
Ema
ula stepped inside and closed the door behind her. It was all her imagination, of course. The place was protected by her own blessing, and by Yenna’s blessing, and by Sock’s constant smudging. No witch with malice could have left a physical object to curse the place. Sock was just riling her up. Playing some vicious wolf game with her to establish his dominance.
The witch leaned against her closed door. She wasn’t forcing Porter. He’d brought the moonwort to her. He was full of freedom, bright smiles, and an easy laugh. But could that be a mask? She thought of his grimace when he peeled a root wrong. And how terrified he’d been when he broke a dish. How he feared the hallway behind her and also feared Jasprite would learn that he slept in a cellar.
And that first time, he’d hardly touched her. Was it really because her magic held him? And all those doors with all those keys.
Had he spent the month waiting in fear of her next visitation? Resigned to suffer through because she was a witch and he was not strong enough to defeat her? Was the moonwort merely a means to end his prolonged fear that he had displeased her, a means to curry favor and gentleness from a darkness he could not fight? What if he didn’t understand love? What if it was just a word he’d been trained to say to powerful women who wanted his body?
“Goddess, save me from myself.” Emaula sank on her bed and rubbed her temples.
Sock was a little shit, a manipulative, vindictive creature with an enduring hatred of all witches. He hadn’t said more than two words to her in all the time she’d been here until just now. Just now, when she was finally figuring out her place and maybe, taking steps to make herself happy.
But, if she’d done wrong, if she were doing wrong tonight, her oath would take revenge. If she hurt Porter, she would die.
Someone knocked, and it startled her.
“Um, Emaula?” Porter gently called. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He opened the door only wide enough to slip inside, grinning like a schoolboy with his hands tucked into his pockets. His smile was brighter than the light in the room, warm enough to dispel any lingering darkness in her world.
She sighed with longing, just seeing him.