Chapter 10
Iris
“This is it,” Sam says, glancing at the wooden Apothecary sign perched above the door.
The bell chimes when we enter the shop. Vintage dusty blue cabinets and shelves filled with ornate jars line the walls.
It’s quaint and cozy—like one would expect when entering an apothecary on the main street in Salem.
We’re the only ones here since it opened ten minutes ago.
The earthy smell of dried plants and spices tingles my nose as we weave through the shelves.
The scent reminds me of Sam’s kitchen when she prepares a new potion.
Sam picks up one of the brass-lidded jars to inspect its contents. “I’ve been looking for this brahmi root for a few weeks now.”
“What can I help you—You! OUT!”
I whirl around to look at the white man behind the counter. His shiny bald head is beet red, and bulbous veins pulse along it as if they’re going to explode any second now. He has one angry finger pointed at Sam, practically foaming at the mouth.
I throw her a confused look. “What’s happening?”
“Eh, you remember that warlock that made Grammie mad, and she practically spurted a tree out of his ass? This is the guy,” she whispers before turning to the old man. “C’mon, Mr. Havirsham, Grammie did apologize.”
“Then why did you poison me?” he bellows. “Out. Of. My. Shop. NOW!” His hands glow as his power electrifies the air.
Sam huffs. “Stop acting like a baby. It was just a little hemlock sprinkled into your food. I only let you suffer for half an hour before giving you the antidote anyway. You know you deserved it since you called Grammie a bitch. We all heard you.”
He lifts his right hand as if he’s going to blast Sam. Before he gets the chance, I swipe the dagger at my belt and send it flying. It pierces the old man’s shirt sleeve, pinning it to the wall above his head.
“If you value any of your body parts, I suggest you retract your power,” I clip out.
As if seeing me for the first time, his ruddy complexion loses all color, turning ghastly white. Confusion shines in his eyes as they flick between my onyx choker and hair. Back to my choker. “Y-you—you’re a-a h-hellseeker.”
“Yup, and she’s my best friend,” Sam chimes in, throwing him a saccharine smile. “We don’t want any trouble, okay? We came here to see your wife, that’s it.”
His demeanor does a one-eighty for the second time. “I’m not letting a hellseeker see my wife. She’s innocent. She didn’t do—”
“What’s all this ruckus?” A gorgeous woman with warm copper skin and Middle Eastern features spills into the shop from a back door, wiping her hands on the apron tied to her plump middle.
“Iman, she’s a hellseeker. Run!” the man shouts in abject fear.
“It’s okay, Harold.” Her gaze cuts to Sam and I. “I’m under the protection of the Obsidian Conclave.” She turns her forearm so we can see the Baphomet sign—the head of a goat inside a pentagram—inked on the inside of her wrist.
I lift my hands in a show of surrender. “We don’t want to cause you any trouble, Mrs. Havirsham. We’re here because I need your help. It’s not related in any way to the Order. It just happens that I’m also a hellseeker.”
Iman’s head tilts. “A hellseeker and an Ambrose witch. Interesting pair—”
“They might be lying, Iman. Don’t help her,” Harold intervenes, an edge of desperation added to the fear seeping out of his pores.
Sam’s eyebrows furrow. “Mrs. Havirsham, you know my Grammie. I would never bring trouble to your door, even though your husband is an asshole.”
Harold looks flabbergasted. “Me?!? Your hellseeker friend attacked me!”
“You were about to blast Samantha,” I remind him dryly.
Harold cusses under his breath. “Listen, I understand why you might distrust hellseekers, but as long as you are under the Conclave’s protection and you don’t harm humans, I don’t care if you’re a dark witch.
This is something personal I’m seeking help for. ”
“Distrust? You lightborn think you’re above any other creature out there. Our vampire friend disappeared a month ago, and she was last seen in a dark alley alongside a hellseeker,” Harold spews. “No one did anything.”
“Okay, Harold dear, calm down. That’s only speculation. We don’t know anything for sure,” Iman soothes before inquiring, “Can I unpin my husband from the wall now?”
I flap a hand in the air. “As long as he doesn’t intend to fry us anymore, sure.”
“I’ll make sure of that.” Iman strides behind the counter. She takes out my dagger and uses magic to make it float back to me. Snatching it from the air, I slide it back into its holster. She plants her hands on her hips. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well, this is a delicate matter. Before we can tell you anything, we will need an oath of secrecy from both of you,” Sam answers.
Iman and Harold share a look. Iman drums her fingers on her arm, the lines around her eyes and mouth where the passing years have left their mark deepening in thought. “It’s going to cost you.”
“Name your price,” I chime in.
“Word has it you’re the only light witch able to grow rafflesia arnoldii. I want ten,” she tells Sam.
Sam nods. “That can be done. I need a week for the plants to reach maturity, though.”
“Okay, then. Please follow me. This does not seem to be a discussion we should have here, where customers might walk in. Harold, dear, can you please lock up and then join us in the office?”
He sucks on his teeth, clearly displeased that his wife didn’t heed his warnings. “Sure.”
Iman leads the way through the door she came out earlier.
We pass a kitchen where two pots of fragrant plants are boiling on the stove.
When we reach another wooden door, Iman opens it, waiting for us to file inside the office.
Harold strides in after a few minutes. He’s huffing and puffing as we gather in a circle, holding hands while Sam chants something in a language I don’t understand.
We each seal the secrecy oath with blood by cutting a crescent line into our palms using a special ceremonial dagger Sam brought specifically for this purpose.
A breeze coming from nowhere hits the circle and flutters my hair before this weird feeling seizes me—like an invisible ribbon tying around my tongue.
“It’s done,” Sam announces, and we step away.
Iman tilts her chin toward me. “Okay, let’s hear it. Why are you here?”
“Well, since the age of fifteen, I’ve had amnesia. I thought it was because of the trauma I suffered during a severe car accident, but I recently found out that’s not true. Apparently, someone put a kind of barrier in my head.”
“Grammie said you were the only witch she knew who dabbles in mind-altering magic.”
A shadow passes over Iman’s features at Sam’s words—the kind that speaks of sorrow and regret.
“Yes, that was before I joined the Obsidian Conclave and left my coven. Many years have passed since I’ve touched that kind of magic.
It’s very taxing. Let’s just say I’ll never recover the pieces of my soul I lost in the process of accessing that type of power.
” She blows out a breath as if trying to cleanse herself of the past before gesturing toward the chair in front of the mahogany desk. “Take a seat.”
I sit down while Sam strides to stand next to me.
Harold leans back on the wall, watching us like a hawk, a sour look pinching the planes of his face.
Iman bends and places her warm palms on the sides of my head, right at my temples.
When she starts chanting, a thick, inky fog envelops the room.
“I am going to examine the barrier. Close your eyes,” she whispers.
I do. At first, nothing happens. Then, without preamble, my back bows as white-hot pain burns through me and blisters my insides.
The migraine I’ve had since waking up at Kaiden’s penthouse after Erik’s assault intensifies to the point of madness.
Someone screams. I think it’s me, but I can’t be sure because the pain is all-consuming.
As fast as it sank its claws into me, though, it dissipates.
“Iris?” Sam’s worried voice brings me back into the present. Something wet tickles my top lip. I wipe at it with a trembling hand. It’s blood.
Sam passes me a tissue. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, using it to wipe off the blood as best as I can.
“You shouldn’t have agreed to this,” Harold chastises his wife acidly as he helps her to her feet. She must have collapsed.
“I’m okay,” Iman says, but her voice is strained, and her knees wobbly. “Whoever put that wall in your head is extremely powerful. Only direct descendants of Hecate can perform such intricate mind-altering spells. There’s only one warlock I know of, but he’s almost a myth amongst our kind.”
Does that mean K—he had a warlock put the wall there? But who? Malik? And why? Jesus, I thought that by coming here, I would get answers. Instead, I have more questions than before. “Is there any way to break it?”
“Not unless you want to become a vegetable. The risks are too high, especially now that the wall has already been breached. There’s this darkness inside you.
I can feel it seeping through those cracks.
If I try to take the wall down, you might succumb to it and never be yourself again.
Or you could go into an eternal coma. Mind spells are unpredictable, and one should never tamper with them.
You’ll have to regain your memories gradually and on your own.
Even so, there’s still a high risk that all those things will happen. ”
Great. Just great.
“You got what you came for. My wife needs rest. Now leave,” Harold grits out through clenched teeth as he supports Iman’s weight on his side.
She gives him a withering glare. “Don’t be rude. They have done nothing wrong.”
“It’s okay. We’ll go. Thank you for your help!” My knees almost give out when I stand, but I regain my balance.
“You all right?” Sam asks. I offer a nod. “I’ll come by next week to bring your payment,” she adds over her shoulder as we make our way outside.