Chapter Fifteen #2
The hen, frightened by my sudden outburst, leaps from the nest box in a hurry and slips between my legs toward the other side of the coop. If that isn’t some kind of foreshadowing, I don’t know what is.
Shaking her head, Cora begins laughing.
“That’s one way of going about it, I suppose,” she muses as she draws near. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
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The heavy downfall of rain I awoke to this morning shifted into a light mist-like spray by the time I began walking along the streets of Ollora.
A slew of puddles and flooded portions of the street are left in the storm’s wake. While I remain mostly dry as I walk along, my feet are a different story. They’re utterly soaked, despite avoiding as many puddles as I could.
Not a pleasant experience.
Based on what Cora had shared with me, sunny days are a rarity in Ollora. Most summer days are like this—gray clouded skies with light rain and fog. Not that I mind this kind of weather. It creates a moody scene that fits well with the presence of the city.
Ollora will always be one of my favorite mortal cities, rivaled only by Elias in the human-run country of Monora. Artemise had given me a general layout of the districts, and right now I’m heading toward the Twilight Mire.
Considered the innate and magic hub of the city, the Twilight Mire is home to occult shops, bookshops, alchemists, and herbalists. If I want to open and potentially sell the item in the smaller of the two obsidian boxes, my best chance of finding the kind of shop I need lies here.
The obsidian box is tucked inside my boot, and it doesn’t fail to remind me of its presence. Even through the fabric of my pants, the siphoning feel of the spelled obsidian pulls at my essence, my innate.
The money from the sale of the item could fund my inevitable departure from Ollora. I can’t rely on the protection of Celesta indefinitely. No, if I want protection, I have to find and offer a contract to a mortal. Preferably a fae, and a strong one at that.
The fae in black comes to mind.
Considering Lilith is a member of the royal family, it make sense for her to be accompanied by guards. The male in black must be one. I wonder how she would respond if I were to steal him from her?
If he’s strong enough to protect a member of the royal family, he may serve me just fine. I’d need to learn more about the fae before making a final decision. Fae can be capricious tricksters, and I’d rather not find myself in contract with one who proves to be more trouble than they’re worth.
Sighing as I round a corner, I continue to head north along the river. My eyes fall onto a street lined with shops. The street is slightly busier than the rest with people walking at a leisurely pace, umbrellas propped over them.
The umbrellas remind me to adjust my hood, wanting to ensure that my silver hair remains hidden.
Despite the rain, nearby vendors stand under roofed stalls of wares, calling out their goods and services to passersby.
Walking past tables filled with various foods, leather goods, weapons, jewels, I marvel at the craftsmanship and designs.
No such markets exist in the hells. Or at least, none that I’ve ever seen.
Moving to the opposite side of the street, the view of the river catches my attention. Leaning against the stone parapet that separates me from a tumble into the water below, the vivid blue of the river takes me by surprise. Shifting again, I watch the mortals wandering through the market.
Dragging my eyes along the scene before me, a silver-haired fae female steps onto the street. She raises the hood of her red cloak, tucking her hair away. Lifting my gaze, a weathered wooden sign hangs over the door behind the female.
Embers and Ashes.
Pulling myself from the stone embankment, I cross the length to reach the storefront.
It’s a smaller store in the line of buildings that hug the street—narrower and only one floor.
The neighboring buildings stands two or three floors and at least twice as wide.
It’s not out of place, but it draws attention all the same.
The large pane glass window in the front of the shop leaves just enough room for the door beside it.
Stacked books, several polished and sharpened daggers, pieces of worn armor, and other shining trinkets sit on display.
A few pieces thrum with old magic, their surfaces shimmering with blue-silver runes.
This is the exact kind of shop I need.
Naturally, my eyes are drawn back to the books. It takes me longer than usual to read the titles inked down the spines as they’re all in common tongue, with some partially hidden behind other items.
The Raven in the Night.
Cloaked Heart.
A House of Obsidian and Silver.
Fictional works, I realize.
The library in the hells had precious few fictional works and the ones that were there, granted no sense of escapism or hope to readers.
Pushing open the heavy red door, I enter the shop.
A heavily perfumed cloud smacks me in the face.
The scent makes it difficult to breathe.
A musky, floral mixture that will cling to my skin for the rest of the day.
It takes me a second to realize the structure of the scent is intentional, it masks everything.
I laugh to myself. It’s a means to provide anonymity to their patrons.
A means to disorient fae as they use scent to identify one another.
A name may not be unique, but a scent is.
“Welcome to Embers and Ashes,” a kind female voice greets.
Raising my eyes, a petite blond female stands behind a counter. It’s laden with a plethora of trinkets, oddities, and books. Her sandy brown eyes meet mine as she smiles.
Returning the smile, I notice her features aren’t as sharp as a fae’s, but reminiscent of the species all the same. Not fae, not human, but both. Demi-fae. My brows raise.
“If there’s anything I can do to assist you as you browse, please let me know. I’m Embala,” she adds before returning her attention to the blue glass goblet in her hands. The surface of the glass glistens like lantern oil.
Taking a few slow steps into the shop, I study the line of glass bottled potions on the wall on my left before returning my eyes to her.
“Do you source these items yourself or purchase them from travelers?” I stare at a small ivory soapstone carving of a raven small enough to fit in my palm.
Her eyes meet mine once again. She smiles at me, a wider smile this time, revealing ever so slightly pointed canines. Fangs that small would be useless in self-defense.
“I’m no adventurer,” she laughs, setting the blue glass aside with care. “No, I purchase from travelers such as yourself. We also broker sales and arrangements on behalf of buyers and sellers.”
Perfect.
“And cursed objects? Do you deal in those?” My eyes travel to a few of the necklaces laid out on the counter.
“We do,” she answers with a firm nod.
Stepping back, she reaches under the counter and withdraws a dense book. With a thick thud, she sets it down and throws it open to a page near the middle. A quick glance reveals it’s a list of names and objects.
“Searching for something specific? Or just wanted to browse what’s available?” she asks. “We keep a catalogue of things available for private sale.”
Better and better. I’ve chosen the right shop to venture into.
“I’m hoping to sell,” I answer, stepping up to the counter. “I’ve come into possession of an obsidian box. Though, I don’t know what it holds.”
Embala’s eyes light up. “Oh well, that’s easy enough.” She smiles. “Do you have the box with you?”
Reaching down, I pull the box from my boot and set it upon the counter. It’s no larger than a ring box. The obsidian appears to absorb any surrounding light, making it look like a vortex of the deepest black against the wood of the counter.
Embala studies the box for a moment before picking it up, pinching it between her index finger and thumb. The motion causes me to lift a brow and smile—I’m not the only one who doesn’t like the way obsidian boxes feel.
She turns the box over, peering at the underside.
I’m not sure what she expects to find. The box, carved out of polished obsidian and spelled with blood magic, looks like a simple square of black stone. There are no mechanisms or seams visible. Setting the box upon the counter, she continues to inspect the obsidian.
“I would wager there’s a ring in here,” she says mostly to herself.
Embala reaches under the counter again, withdrawing a small, needle-like blade that’s no longer than the breadth of my hand. I don’t bother stopping her. If she wants to offer her blood to open the thing, she’s more than welcome to.
She pricks her finger, letting the blood well for a moment before pressing her finger to the surface of the box.
It glows bright red in response, and a fine red line of her blood is drawn across its surface.
Removing her finger, the box opens like a flower, petals of obsidian folding back, revealing the object nestled within.
A tiny slip of a thing forged from silver and highly polished.
It glints in the magelights hanging above us.
A simple band, no gemstone, no inscription.
But the surface of the silver shimmers with a blue-silver gleam, a clear indication that it’s been spelled.
Magic emanates from it, a faint thrum, much weaker than it should be.
The ring is hiding its ability, telling a lie.
It’s been spelled to hide its wearer and itself. But why?
Embala pushes some of her blond hair behind her ear and purses her lips. “Interesting. It’s glamouring itself,” she says, plucking the ring from the box without hesitation.
My eyes widen as I step back from the counter.
Her eyes dart to me and a grin spreads on her face.
“I don’t plan on wearing it,” she assures with a shake of her head. “But, I am going to have my father, Gladir, look at it. He may know more about the exact magic it’s been imbued with.”