Chapter 1 Emerik
ONE
EMERIK
“I can help you with that,” I say, feeling my face warm. “All I need is, um, some of your semen.”
“What the hell?!” Alexander exclaims, but I’m not surprised.
Potential clients are often hesitant about the nuts-and-bolts of magic.
They come into my office wanting action, but they haven’t thought through the process, or the consequences.
And in this case, both the goal and the method are rather intimate.
“Semen,” I say, hoping a little silliness will help clear the air. “You know, the white stuff that comes out when you…”
“I know what semen is,” he interrupts. Damn, he’s handsome, even with that exasperated frown. “But why?”
“Sympathetic magic. There needs to be a part of you in the potion to connect it to you.”
“Why can’t we use some hair instead? I’m sure I’ve seen that in the movies.”
That would certainly make it easy. He has plenty of hair, tempting chestnut brown and cut with a sexy fade. It’s disheveled, but maybe artfully so. There’s one little curl flopping down on his forehead, and I’m forcing myself not to reach over and brush it back into place.
I explain, “Hair is better for protective spells, but for this, we don’t want to keep your prospective partner away.”
“What about other body fluids? How about sweat?”
That wouldn’t be a problem with this big guy.
He has a construction worker vibe—someone who works with his hands.
Judging from the way his arms are straining his tight T-shirt, he must sweat a lot at the gym, or at work, or both.
I allow myself to fantasize for a minute.
Years ago, I found a Roman-reproduction strigil at an arcana auction, with a handy boomerang shape that’s great for harvesting sweat and body oils.
I can just imagine stroking it over the inviting curves of his pecs…
unless they’re covered with hair, but wow, that might be even better.
“Sweat is best for healing spells, I’m afraid,” I answer, forcing myself back to the room.
“Tears?” he suggests, and I let myself dive once again into those deep brown eyes. I can’t imagine he cries much, looking so rough and manly, but then again, he’s asking for a rather romantic potion, so maybe looks can be deceiving. There may be a cuddly teddy bear hidden under the gruff exterior.
I deliver the bad news. “Tears link to strong emotions—sadness, happiness—but those aren’t the emotions we need for this. This will be more about convincing the Fates to play along. Like a sacrifice.”
“Blood?” he suggests and immediately thinks better of it. “I take that back.”
“Now you’re getting the idea. We definitely don’t want to go there. We won’t need much. One, um, emission should be enough. It will be best if you reflect on the goal when you do the, um, collection.”
“And you really think you can make it work? Just like in the stories?” There’s a spark of hope in his eyes I like a lot.
This man is passionate, and it must have taken some strength to come in here and ask for this.
After all, magic is rather fringy, believed by only a few and shunned by the rest. But I’m sure my coven and I will find the right mix to fulfill his request.
“I don’t see any problem. Are you sure you don’t want to make this more targeted?
We could do a love potion if you have someone special in mind.
” I ask this hoping he’ll say no. There’s a little voice nagging at the back of my mind, trying to convince me that this is a perfect opportunity to jumpstart my own ailing love life.
“No, there’s nobody,” he sighs. “That’s the problem. I have no problem with hook-ups, but they never turn into something special. I want a real romance, and I made a resolution this year to do something about it. That’s why I’m here.”
Damn, I’d like to romance this man right into my life.
I’m in the same boat as he is: I’ve enjoyed the occasional fleeting port of call but never found a place to call home.
I’d love to have something more serious and romantic, but between work and being a nerdy magician, the opportunity has never presented itself.
My little voice insists that this is a perfect chance to make it happen.
But no…I need to stay professional and provide the service he wants.
If he wants romance, romance he’ll get, and I’ll conjure him a romance that doesn’t surreptitiously include myself.
“No problem,” I say, getting down to business. “Here’s what I can do. I’ll brew up a potion—a meet-cute potion—that will grease the wheels for a romantic rendezvous. Then the rest will be up to you.”
“There’s no coercion involved?” he asks, worried. “I wouldn’t want to turn a potential lover into a romance-fueled zombie.”
“Not at all.” I say this with confidence because it’s important to me.
I use my magic to open doors, but not to force people through them.
“Your prospective romantic partner will have free will throughout your meet-cute. The potion will simply tweak the circumstances to put you into an amenable situation, and it will be up to you and your charm to make the best of it.”
“About the semen,” he says, laughing and looking more comfortable. “So what, do I jack off into a cauldron or something?”
I try to picture that, and it’s a big mistake.
Thick hands and forearms corded with muscle, peeling open his jeans, fisting around his cock, pumping, raising him to completion.
Or better, slow and steady gliding with some of my best-selling massage oil.
If the stars align, he may need a helping hand or two from a certain helpful witch, making certain he doesn’t overshoot the mark… every drop in the pot…
“Hello?” he says, grinning.
How embarrassing—caught daydreaming like a horny teenager.
“Sorry, I got distracted there for a minute. No, I have a fixative that will lock in the vital essence, so we can use a convenient receptacle. It will be best if I can start immediately after, um, collecting, so maybe you could, er, do the collection today in the bathroom. That is, if you decide to go forward with it. When did you want to do this?”
“I was thinking of Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s a perfect idea. The nature of the holiday will strengthen the power of the potion. It will take a week or two to brew it, so we’ll need to start soon. Do you want to move forward?”
“Sure, let’s do it,” he says, and winks. “The potion, I mean.”
“Yes, well,” I say, trying not to blush, again.
He’s thrown me completely off my game with that easy smile and straining shirt.
I write a figure on a scrap of paper, the amount lower than it probably should be, and slide it over to him.
“That includes the potion, which will be effective for one day, and consultation time on the day.”
“Consultation?” he asks.
Time for the disclaimer now. I occasionally lose clients at this point, but I always like to be upfront about it. “Potion-making isn’t an exact science, so I’ll be available on the day you use it, in case we find that it’s not effective. If so, we can tweak the potion, or arrange for a refund.”
He doesn’t balk at all, so it seems he’s resolved to go through with it. “Thanks for that. This all sounds good. Is there something I need to sign?”
“No,” I laugh, holding out my hand. “Let’s keep the lawyers out of it, if you don’t mind.”
“Always good,” he says, reaching out. Just before our fingers touch, a small spark snaps between us, but he doesn’t flinch at all.
His fingers are rough and calloused as they envelop my hand, holding me with a firm grip.
As he shakes my hand, my magic flares, sending a prickly frisson up my arm and into my core, and an image appears in my mind.
I see him walking on the beach with a friendly dog scampering in the waves, all lit with golden hour splendor by a brilliant sunset.
It feels incredibly real, and I swear I can almost smell the salt in the air.
It’s gone almost as soon as it came, but it’s all very odd.
In all the years I’ve been brewing potions and practicing magic, I’ve never had a vision or a prophecy or any hint of talent in divination.
This is surely an auspicious sign! The Fates already have plans for a seaside romance for my handsome client.
“Do you have a jar?” he asks.