The drive back to Mystical Wonders was a complete nightmare. Over and over again, Emilia replayed the scene of Butch spitting up darkened blood as he fell onto his back and started to seize. Both she and Cynthia had tried to offer help, but Regina chased them both out with obvious fear on her face. Hurting Butch was bad enough on its own. But spoiling her friendship with Regina was ten times worse.

“Will he live?” That one question had weighed on Emilia the entire trip back to downtown.

“I do not know.” Cynthia balled her fists and shrugged. After a moment’s shaking, she spoke with low, threatening tones, “Upstairs. My office. Now.”

Terror struck through Emilia at the words. She’d worked ceaselessly since her demon escaped to avoid that fate. But now it stared back at her without a shred of pity. A part of Emilia thought she deserved it. Another part, the smallest little voice in the back of her head, denied it. But that voice did not share a part in decisions anymore.

Head hanging low, Emilia ignored Max and Betsy’s greetings as she raced up the stairs through the employee entrance. Rather than turn into her room, Emilia made a hard left into Cynthia’s office. It stank of fear and pain here. That was the only lingering remnant of how Cynthia treated her charges in this office.

Though Emilia knew what to expect from her Godmother, she dreaded it anew each time. Even now, she prayed to the uncaring Gods that Cynthia would be gentle, would end the torment quickly rather than drag it on.

Those prayers may as well have been blood spat onto the carpet. The worst part of her punishment, more than the beating or having to clean up afterwards, was the way she reassured herself she deserved it as it went on.

Cynthia left no marks that would identify the abuse. She was too skilled a witch to let such a petty thing reveal her actions. But she only healed the surface of Emilia’s skin. Every swipe of the sponge, every shift in her posture rang through her body like an out of tune harp plucked by a scythe. Parts of her literally snapped and tore. Whenever it happened, Cynthia returned as if she knew what had happened and reknit just enough to keep Emilia upright and cleaning.

Sleep that night eluded Emilia, as it had after most of the severe punishments. Dragging herself from a sleepless bed was crucial though, tardiness would only result in further punishment. That morning, promptness did not matter. Once again, Cynthia spent the morning in her sound-proofed office room beating her frustrations and lessons into Emilia’s body. She hadn’t even healed fully from last night’s punishments. And yet she found herself cleaning up her own mess again.

Downstairs, where the store was just opening, Emilia took refuge from her godmother. The evil woman could still find her down there, but while the store needed tending, she usually avoiding punishing Emilia. Or at least she waited until lunchtime.

Regina wasn’t answering Emilia’s texts, which made a dark kind of sense, especially if Butch was still injured as badly as he had been.

Emilia stopped asking after him well before Betsy or Max came down to help out with the shop. As they did, Cynthia left with Max, leaving Betsy behind with Emilia. Only after the Deathboat rolled out from behind the shop did Emilia break down weeping into Betsy’s arms. All three of them had suffered under Cynthia’s hands. No words sufficed to convey the darkness they’d shared over the years. But words were not required either.

Rather than the exhausting task of explaining what had happened to Betsy, Emilia sagged into her friend’s lap and cried. Over an hour, Betsy petted Emilia’s hair and slowly healed the deeper damage Cynthia’s punishments wrought. When the Deathboat rumbled back into the alley behind the shop, Emilia and Betsy split up and took to polishing or arranging knick knacks the store offloaded to tourists at a four thousand percent markup.

Max waited at the backdoor while Cynthia stalked across the store to the front door. There she turned the “Open” sign to closed with a little clock face to indicate when they’d be back. She slammed the lock in the door handle as if she could shatter the glass with the move. “Heel.”

That single word, spat out exactly as one would speak to a dog, lined all three of them up behind Cynthia. No one said another word or even sighed as she lead them up to the small conference room. Only after they’d entered that room and Cynthia slammed the door shut did Emilia relax a iota. It was not beyond conceiving that Cynthia would punish them in a group for Emilia’s transgressions.

“Butch Obaday is still alive, no thanks to Ms Olren there.” Cynthia slammed her purse onto the small conference room table. “Unfortunately, Ms Obaday had to involve the Cabal and their healers in her father’s treatment.” Max, Betsy, and Emilia all sucked in breath at those words. “I do not need to tell you how much danger we are in now. As of today, all three of you are to cease your magical activities unless they are within this room or within my office. And you are not to attempt magic without me present.” Cynthia split her attention between all three of her charges. Emilia knew that meant the others had been doing more than the occasional healing spell when she was out. “That is all. Ms Olren, my office. Now.”

Emilia shook as she turned and followed. Neither Betsy nor Max reached out to her, to do so would invoke Cynthia’s wrath and they would share in her punishment.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

That night, Emilia lay in bed and tried to turn her mind away from Cynthia and her torments. The demoness Emilia had summoned refused to kill Cynthia for her. Maybe that meant Emilia had to do it herself. Of course such thoughts were nonsense. Emilia, even if she were awakening to her power finally, was no match for Cynthia. Even if the elder were asleep. Maybe the demon could be bargained with? After all, Emilia had bungled the meeting with her demon in more than a few ways.

Rather than continue to worry the problem out and risk another sleepless night, Emilia curled into the least agonizing position possible and caught a few hour’s sleep before the dawn’s light pulled her from her slumbers.

Mystical Wonders was open again that morning, and both Max and Betsy were up before Emilia getting the store ready. Right as they flipped the sign from closed to open, a man appeared at the door. Emilia hadn’t seen him approach through the glass, but she also hadn’t paid much attention to the street.

The man removed his little bowler hat with a bow toward Emilia as he walked into the room. A dark suit draped over his shoulders and hid his slim build under an oversized jacket. His eyes were covered by round blue glasses that managed to entirely conceal his gaze.

Ignoring the usual tourist bits, he proceeded right toward the back where Cynthia kept the sparse amount of charged herbs and true occult texts she sold through the store. “May I check the freshness of your mandrake?”

His accent was exotic enough that Emilia couldn’t place it. The fact he turned his full attention on her when he asked sent rippled of nervous pressure down her spine. “Um, the mandrake is over here, sir.”

Tapping his nose, the man said, “Ah yes, I mean the Empowered variety, of course.”

Emilia froze for a moment and remembered herself. With an abbreviated curtsy, she smiled at the man. “I can get it out for you, if you would like.”

“Indeed.” He leaned his hat out as if trying to share something under the crown with Emilia. “I prefer to check the status myself wherever possible.”

“I get that.” Emilia removed the wooden tongs from their silken bag over the “empowered” herb rack. Mandrake wasn’t alive in the way people tended to believe. Though the plant would wriggle when taken from a place of high humidity to a low one. The store’s AC kept the room drier than the outside, and the little glass enclosure for the Mandrake kept the little roots damp so that it flailed its little arms and legs as Emilia removed it. Among other things, the movement was a sign of the plant’s potency, at least according to some sources.

“You appear to know your way around the Empowered Herbs.”

The man didn’t ask a question, so Emilia just grinned and bobbed her head at him as she held the Mandrake up for inspection. Rather than spare a cursory glance at the root, the man laid a gloved hand on the tongs and gently pressed them down. “Ms…” He examined her name tag. “Emilia. Who taught you how to handle such potent reagents?”

Emilia would rather not answer these questions, but the man had asked directly He’d even lowered his head to meet Emilia’s eyes with this own stark blue irises. Clearing her throat, Emilia said, “the owner sources her herbs from the Voodoo Garden, they gave us a workshop.”

Every syllable was true, without fail. Most shadow creatures couldn’t discern lies, but enough could that knowing how to split the truth as thin as spider silk mattered. Nodding once, the man smiled and said, “I would like to buy out your supply of Mandrake, if I could?”

The way he backed away dispelled what tension had risen in the room and gave Emilia space to breathe. “Of course. Want me to bag them up for you now or would you prefer…”

“I will let you bag them up yourself. You seem more than capable.” The man turned and headed toward Betsy. From the back of the shop, Emilia had no idea what he said to her friend, but Betsy’s body language more or less matched Emilia’s own. They’d been trained by the same master, after all.

The dark stranger with his blue glasses made the rounds over to Max and asked him about a different display. He didn’t trouble either of the others about the real magic in the store, only about more tourist trash. Emilia finished bagging up the wiggling Mandrake after emptying out the bin. Cynthia charged an even higher markup on the real magic items than on most of the tourist trash. The bag in her hand weighed only a few pounds, but would amount to almost two grand in sales.

She walked to the counter and proceeded to ring the man up. By then, he’d left Max and Betsy alone to stare after him as he crossed through the store. Emilia smiled as she reported the total charge, it was supposed to soften the blow of the price tag.

He nodded at her, removed his gloves, and dug through his breast pocket for his wallet. Then he pulled out a wad of hundreds. Emilia’s eyes grew at that, Cynthia preferred cash because that way she didn’t have to pay the credit card fees. But this was highly unusual. With the bills floating out from the man’s hand, Emilia was a bit too eager in accepting them.

Her fingers brushed across the man’s knuckles. In a flash, she smelled camphor and myrrh, Frankincense and sandalwood, all of them mixed together in a giant cloud of smoke. About her, the room darkened and she stood atop a checkered floor with a golden-topped altar in the center of the room. The men and women surrounding her wore gold and brazen masks with long beaks that hid their mouths and eyes from her.

Purple cloaks covered each of them as they spun about Emilia. After a quarter rotation, the chanting began. “Who are you? What do you want? Who are you? What do you want?” It went on as the people circumambulated the room. In the meantime, Emilia’s head filled with cobwebs as something tried to insinuate itself into her mind. Though her magical and mental defenses were incredibly meek, the circle failed to penetrate her mind.

Instead, a sharp stone spike shot out of her chest and into the leader of the group, the person wearing the elaborate chasuble over their robes. Their mask dropped, revealing an absolutely gorgeous halo of curly red hair and pale freckled skin on her forehead.

Then the contact between the stranger and Emilia broke. He stumbled away, dropping his money in the process.

“Are you okay, sir?” Emilia had been through far worse than a mere visionary experience, though she suspected what had just happened was something entirely different. But it didn’t even make her weirdness meter tick. Jacob — how did she know the man’s name now — scrambling away from Emilia as if she’s turned into a column of fire did make her weirdness meter red line. “Sir, you forgot your Mandrake. And you left your money.”

His mouth opened and closed as he shot out of the store with his shiny leather shoes slipping over the tiles. The moment he left the store, he vanished, as if someone had thrown a green cloth over him and the glass didn’t transmit the color.

“Shit. I think we’re in big trouble guys.”