N ikolai 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 the scorned woman, nodding to the portly man.
“What? No.” She 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.