Dark apprentice, p.2
Dark Apprentice, page 2
“There,” said Petrov as the scratching ceased. “I hope for your sake she’s listening right now.”
“Can she hear us then?” He hoped she hadn’t heard his fumbling and cursing.
“I meant listening as in watching for a response to her letter. Whatever I write on this paper comes out on her end, or so she explained to me.”
Petrov drummed his fingers on the counter as they waited for a response. Concerned the old man would go back to his ledgers, Nikolai broke the silence.
“Who is she, this Medea?” He mentally added her to his list of people who needed to die.
“You haven’t heard of her? Surprising, given your . . . interests. She’s the most powerful Magi in the world. Deadly in duels.”
“Does she know much black magic then?”
“She would tell you there’s no such thing, but yes. If it has to do with magic, Medea knows it. She identifies items for me whenever she’s in town—that’s what the letter’ll be about. Spells fall out of fashion like anything else. She’s ancient. If she can’t identify something, then no one can.”
“How ancient?”
“I dunno . . . five hundred? A thousand? One time I had her identify a brooch for me. It was silver, shaped like a lizard with two ruby eyes. She recognized it, if you can believe that. Belonged to a friend of hers in the 1600s—quite grateful to get it back too.”
Immortal and skilled in black magic? Nikolai collected every myth and legend he could regarding immortality. Abundant though the stories were, none of them went into detail regarding the method of such a thing. Had she found an ancient relic, like the Holy Grail? Made a bargain with a demon? Located a Fountain of Youth? He had to talk to this woman.
“How does she keep herself alive?”
“Who knows? She refuses to share her secret with anyone.”
Nothing a little manipulation, telepathy, and torture couldn’t cure. Everyone had their pressure points.
“We’re in luck! She’s writing back.” Petrov paused a moment, made a frustrated noise, then began frantically scribbling. “You’re a damn apprentice, not a bloody spy! What’s she doing cursing a letter like this anyway?”
The whole thing was intolerable. If Petrov couldn’t convince her to release the curse, he’d have to figure it out himself. Every spell had a counter. It might take time, but eventually all would be put to rights, and then he’d make the bitch pay.
“There. She’s agreed to lift the spell. Uh, hold on.” A pause, then a tearing of paper. “Give me your hand.”
Something pressed into his palm. Nikolai closed his fingers around it. “A wad of paper?”
“The bottom third of the letter, yeah. You, uh . . . need to eat it,” Petrov said apologetically.
Nikolai shoved the wad into his mouth. Bitterness bloomed and he almost gagged. What kind of ink was this? His mouth filled with saliva as his body rejected the ghastly taste. With great effort, he forced the wad down and the world came into sharp focus. He scanned the room for some way to remove the taste and spotted his morning cup of tea. It would do. He swished the lukewarm liquid and spat it into the ficus. Still the bitterness lingered. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and proceeded to wipe his tongue. It helped, though not enough.
As he continued to dab, his eyes fell to the remainder of the letter. A new message mocked him from the page:
Repentance is such a bitter pill to swallow. I hope you enjoyed yours.
He froze, mind awhirl. Had she . . . had she made it taste bad on purpose? Had it even been necessary to eat the damned thing? He scowled at the words. He could almost feel her laughter ringing through the parchment.
He was going to kill her.
Nikolai grabbed for the pen, but Petrov snatched it up first.
“Whoa there! You don’t want to say anything rash. She’s not someone to mess with.”
“Neither am I!” He made another grab for the pen. Petrov held it out of range and put up a forestalling hand.
“Boy, listen to me. I saw her kill a man once. There was no investigation from the Collective. People just shrugged it off. If anyone discussed it, they used the same tone they would for someone who died of disease. It was sad, but that was life—as if a force of nature killed him, rather than a person. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“If the old hag is so powerful, how come I’ve never heard of her?”
“Eh, she’s not exactly popular. Given her reputation, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a forbidden topic at the Academy. Besides, she mostly keeps to herself. Shows up in town once in a while, stays a week or two, then vanishes again. Sometimes she won’t be seen for decades—long enough for people to forget about her.” Petrov scooped up the letter and wagged it at Nikolai. “She’s only dangerous if provoked. Don’t provoke her.”
Nikolai made a conscious effort to relax. She had information he wanted, making her Useful, and Useful people had to be approached with care.
“You said she takes on apprentices?”
“Don’t get any ideas,” said Petrov. “Most of them don’t survive. Besides, you owe me two more years.”
“They die from the training? Is it really that dangerous?” Obviously the others hadn’t been good enough. A challenge would be welcome after Petrov’s lackluster lessons. Anything to hinder the boredom that was Nikolai’s constant companion.
“Perhaps some do, but many die afterward. She kills them.”
Nikolai frowned. That didn’t make sense. Why would she train people only to kill them? Perhaps she took on apprentices because she was lonely, eliminating them when they became too much of a nuisance.
If that were the case, surely he would succeed where others had failed. Lonely women were easy to manipulate. Nikolai knew how to listen, or at least fake it. His passage across Europe had been paid for by a string of wealthy older women. Had he not had greater aspirations, he could have been the consort of a number of them.
Petrov interrupted his reverie. “She’ll be here in three days. Given . . . recent events, it might be best if you take that day off.”
“No!”
Petrov held up a hand. “I can understand the appeal. Believe me, I can. But I don’t want to lose my apprentice because he can’t hold his temper.”
“I won’t. This—I was upset, but that’s over now. I have to apologize to her in person. You know how good I am with customers.”
“True, but Medea is nothing like my customers. Flattery won’t work on her, and if you try telepathy like you do on the Mundane patrons—”
“I know better than to use telepathy on one of our own.” Did Petrov think him an idiot? Magi could sense that kind of intrusion, even if they weren’t strong enough to repel it. “I’ll be careful. You know me. I’ll treat her with the utmost courtesy and respect.” He flashed a reassuring smile.
Petrov didn’t look convinced. He shook his head, but before Nikolai could press his case, he said, “Alright. You can stay. But you must let me do the talking.” He went back to his office and shut the door.
Nikolai returned to the letters. Three days was plenty of time to devise a plan to meet with Medea alone.
2
THE ANCIENT ONE
Nikolai 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.”
