A large, bland man stands in front of me. His eyes glitter from deep within his grey hooded cloak. His lifeless hair is combed flat away from his forehead, looking more like a beat-up rug than anything approaching hair.

“Funny,” I say. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

He crosses his arms. “No, but it's what I'm willing to offer. You should take it. You can't do better.”

Close your eyes. Repeat the mantra. They never think I can do better.

Crease lips into a smile, take a breath in, and slowly let it out. As I lean forward, I give him puppy eyes and pout out my lower lip. “You… you don't think I can do better?”

“I don't.” Comfortable authority floods into his slack, doughy features. “In fact, I think this is the best price you've ever been offered for that witchstone.” His tongue snakes out, leaving behind glistening thin lips. “Am I wrong?”

“No. You're not wrong.”

The man smiles, a cat with mauled prey.

“Then again,” I continue, “you're also not correct. I haven't been offered anything for this witchstone. That makes you the only customer.”

The man nods as though he knows every single stray thought floating around my skull.

“So you want to sell it to me.” The corners of his mouth twist upwards. “If I'm the only demand, and you're the one supplying, then I set the market.”

“If I was hard up for money, sure. I mean, maybe.”

I am hard up for money though. I'm lying and hoping I'm doing a respectable job of it. I need to sell the witchstone, any witchstone, and desperately.

The witchstone we’re both haggling over is mostly clear. It’s speckled through with blue and red, and is about the size of a quarter, but much thicker.

All it does is amplify a caster's innate magick.

Silvy appears on my shoulder in a puff of smoke.

Meet Silvy. She's my familiar.

Imagine a cat the size of a teacup with a tail striped in black and white that comes to a sharp point in the shape of a spade. Silvy's fur appears black at first, but the color shifts between dark purple, midnight blue, forest green, and black depending on the angle of the light.

Her eyes glow with a soft white light edged in faint yellow. I can't tell where her mouth is, but her ears stick straight from her head like spiteful horns.

The man doesn’t react to her sudden appearance.

Probably better. If she's keeping herself invisible from him, at least I don't have to explain what she is.

“Just sell it to him.” Silvy's voice hisses acid into my ear. “Sell it to him, take his money, and then let me open his throat a little, darling. Taste a bit of his blood. No one will know. I'll take care of the body. Dump it in the Shadow Vaile. No one will know.”

“Mr. Carruthers,” I say, trying to wedge in a bit of pleasantness. “What's your first name?”

“Renald,” he answers.

“Ronald. Let me tell you what I can do…”

“Renald,” he corrects.

“Roneld?”

“Renald.”

“Renal. Like renal failure?”

“No,” he snaps. “Renald. Renald–Renald–Renald.”

“Oh,” I say. “Right. Renald. Got it. Sorry.”

Renald grumbles something that I can’t quite make out.

“So, the problem here, Renald, is that I know what the market is. This witchstone that you want to buy is worth far more than you’re offering me. I appreciate that you want a good deal, and I'm not above giving you a deal, but I'm not about to let you lowball me.”

His face shifts into a hue of red I would call tomato.

Here it comes. Gonna call me witch or a stick. Maybe both.

“Look, stickwitch, I'm offering you more than anyone else is.”

“Sure, again, I'm not arguing that,” I say, “and as a caster, you should know that what you're offering me is well under market value.”

“I came here because I was told that this was the best witchstone shop in all of Anara. That’s what we call the Magick World if you didn’t know.” Neat. Now tell me that you know a wizard. “You know, I know a wizard.”

I don’t know why casters do this. It's not even a real threat.

“You know a wizard, I know a wizard, we all know wizards. That doesn't help us make this deal though, right?”

“$5,000,” he spits, “and that's because I'm being nice.”

“What’s rude look like?

“What?”

“$5,000 isn't enough. That's only $200 more than you previously offered. It’s barely a start. This isn't a charity. Where do you think you are?”

“Blackhart,” Renald hisses through clenched teeth, “is the worst witchstone shop I’ve ever been to in my life.”

“I mean, okay. I like opinions too. Did you know that we also sell stuff other than witchstones? Arcana? Cursed items? Maybe you would like to look at something more in your…” Hex, don't do this. Really. Don't do this. “Price range.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

You did it.

Renald’s face darkens from tomato and shifts into the purple range. Eggplant-like you could say.

I should eat lunch soon. Salad sounds good.

“How dare you, you dumb, cursed witch.”

“Points for accuracy.” I shrug. “But I’ve heard worse.”

“You deserved it.”

“Two points.”

“You shouldn't even be here.”

“Three.”

“You're not one of us.

He’s on a roll.

“Four.”

“You don't belong in Anara.”

“Five points, although that one only squeaked through because of a teensy technicality.”

“You’re nothing more than vermin and you should've been exterminated.”

“Hey!” I say, shaking my head.

Renald pauses, lifting his eyebrows.

“Point for me,” I say through a smile. “Five to one. My serve?”

“That’s not how tennis is scored, you gutter rat.”

“Didn’t take you for a fan of stick world sports, but yeah, I'm a witch. You got me.” On both sides of my head I have an inch-long magenta horn that looks like the tip of a knife. I take this moment to flick the one on the right three times. It sounds the same as if I’d flicked the flat side of a chef’s knife. “What gave it away?”

“I know what those horns mean,” he says.

“That I used them to murder a magick wielder?”

Renald’s mouth falls open.

“That’s right,” I say. “I was there.”

Casters always think bringing up the fact that my horns are visible instead of invisible like most witches is a gotcha. It isn’t. It's like walking up to someone with a tattoo, pointing at it, and saying hey, you have a tattoo.

Like… why?

I take a deep breath and try to steer the interaction back to business by pulling out one of the tools of my trade. To a normal person, it looks like a glass disk. When I place the witchstone on top, the disk lights up, enhancing the colors held within the witchstone and casting them across the ceiling.

About six inches above the witchstone, colors begin to swirl and form in small eddies of fog and smoke.

“What are you doing?” Renald asks.

“Showing you the purity. That's why it costs so much. There's no hint of a curse. Look at the luma yourself.”

Renald leans forward, examining the different colors and their proportions. There's no yellow luma, the color that corresponds with curses, to speak of. There were strong green and white plumes, with only a hint of black.

“As you can see, $5,000 doesn't even begin to cover it,” I say. “I'm fine with selling it to you. In fact, I would love to sell it to you. It's kind of what I do. Sell witchstones. You know, Blackhart: Witchstones, Magick, and Arcana, like it says on the sign?”

“I'm not going to pay more than $6,000.”

The stone is worth $20,000 at least. I need the $5,000 he's offering, but there's no way I can take that much of a loss on the stone. It doesn't make sense.

I open my mouth to tell him no, but before I get a chance, his hand shoots forward. For a moment I think he's trying to punch me, but his hand veers toward the counter and closes over the witchstone. He turns towards the gateway he entered through.

I close my eyes. This again? How many times is this going to happen before word makes it around that it’s a mistake?

I rub my eyes for a moment before skimming my fingers across the hidden witchstone on the underside of the counter. The gateway from Blackhart to Anara melts away into nothing.

Renald makes it to what is now an empty, wooden wall and tries to find a doorknob. I guess he thinks it's invisible?

“Are you about finished?” I ask the back of his head.

He freezes, as if he’s forgotten I'm there, and whirls around to face me with a glare. “Open this gateway, stickwitch, or I’ll kill you.”

And then his hand does a curious thing, something he will soon come to regret: It slips into one of his cloak’s pockets.

My hand, already in my pocket, already fingering the witchstones in my witchstone holster there, jumps into action.

I slip out a witchstone that will give me exponentially quicker reflexes and prepare to squeeze it as hard as I can. Once the shell breaks, the magick will flow through my body, filling me with speed and agility. I don't know yet what sort of witchstone Renald is preparing to use, but I'm sure it will be something nasty that I'll need to dodge.

Casters always seem to think of magick duels in an attacking sort of way, never in an evasive sort of way.

When Renald brings his hand out of his pocket, I squeeze the witchstone in mine as hard as I can.

Whoa.

The magick courses through my veins, rushing with pure energy from head to toe.

Renald throws what looks like a pebble.

I jump to the left. Unfortunately, I haven't yet practiced using this witchstone and jump too far, crashing right into the wall and bringing down a shelf of witchstones on my head. It all happens in the blink of an eye.

Good job, Hex.

I hit the ground hard, roll, and get back up. The pebble Renald threw curves through the air, following me.

“Heat seeker?” I ask as I keep moving.

He doesn't answer.

I jump again, this time at Renald.

Unfortunately, I miss again.

The particular witchstone I'm using is fairly common. It's colloquially called a jumpstone in Anara. From my research on the jumpstone, I know what I'm supposed to do: look at where I want to go, blink, and then appear there. Apparently, casters use it to travel huge distances by rapidly blinking their eyes.

For me though? Not so much.

I end up on the other side of Renald, but for all he can tell, I've disappeared.

It isn't where I meant to jump, but now that I'm here I see an opportunity. I slip my hand in my pocket and find the witchstone I need. After pulling it out, I slip the bluish stone under my tongue.

The magick flows out from the stone and I spit the now clear witchstone into my hand.

The magick contained in this witchstone is silence. Any sounds I make, outside of speaking, will be completely erased.

I have plenty of practice with silentstones thanks to all my dealings in the Red Market.

I stay behind Renald. Crouching down but staying close as he looks around.

Renald is still looking around Blackhart for me when his original spell, the witchstone he threw, hits him in the shoulder.

What’s it going to do?

My eyes widen when it happens.

The shoulder the pebble barely grazes crunches and then buckles. Renald opens his mouth wide and howls a scream of pain. Frowning, I watch as the pebble drops to the ground, bounces once, and then is still.

Had that hit me in the face, it would've killed me…

Renald used a serious witchstone, something specifically designed to kill.

It's probably outlawed by the Austerium.

I try to speak in an even voice. “Take the witchstone you tried to steal from me, put it on the floor, and get the fuck out of my shop.”

Renald swallows audibly and struggles to sit up. Once he makes it that far, he lets go of the witchstone and stands, struggling to shamble over to the naked wall. Once there, he looks back at me like a child waiting for their parent to let them out, or maybe a dog.

I chew on my lip.

Time to shoot my shot.

“$20,000.”

Renald doesn't respond.

“It's a good deal,” I say. “In fact, it's better than good. There's no markup on it. $20,000.”

Renald doesn't respond.

“You won't find a better deal in all of Anara. You'll either pay more for a witchstone with less potency or less for a witchstone that won't even come close to the effects you’re expecting.”

“Just let me go. Just let me leave.” He lets out a whimper and then mutters the word he's been using throughout the whole conversation. This time though, the word isn't flavored with disdain or disgust. This time it's laced with fear. “Witch.”

I sigh and skim my fingers across the hidden witchstone. The gateway reforms on the wall and opens onto the Night Market.

Before Renald goes through the gateway and leaves Blackhart, he turns back for a single moment. “This isn’t over, witch. Blackhart belongs in the hands of Anara. I'm going do everything in my power to ensure that happens.”

“Guess you haven't heard the saying about Blackhart then, have you?”

“That's just an urban legend, gutter rat.”

I shrug. “Is it?”

“Is it?” Silvy repeats, her voice coming from everywhere and nowhere, three octaves lower than normal.

Renald jumps.

She let him hear her. Nice.

Renald’s eyes search Blackhart, trying to find where the voice came from, but when he can't find it, he decides to get the hell out.

“This isn't over,” he hisses as he stumbles through the gateway.

I take a moment to stare longingly at the world I can see on the other side of the gateway.

The world I'm forbidden from entering.