Chapter Twenty-Three
The client scanned Valerian from head to toe, taking in his skinny frame and youthful face. “No.”
“Do you want the job done or not?” Valerian asked. He stared boldly at the man, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice cracked on the last word.
The client sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair. “Look, this job ain’t for kids—”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
The other man’s jaw hung open for ten full seconds before he declared, “Bullshit you are! Get out of here.” He shoved Valerian out the door, then stood in the frame to block his reentry. “I won’t be the reason some dumbass kid dies.”
“You don’t understand. I’m a”—the door slammed in Valerian’s face—“mage.” He sighed. There was no use arguing with the wall. If he wanted to earn a living, he’d have to prove himself first.
Three days later, covered in blood, mud, and sweat, Valerian found his reluctant client in a tavern, sharing a few drinks with his friends.
He pulled a large bundle out of his sack and dropped it onto the middle of their table with a squelchy thump.
A nearby fly left off annoying a patron to investigate the bundle, enamored with the stains and the sickly-sweet pungent odor.
“Payment,” Valerian panted, too tired for any grand speeches or explanations.
The client gave him a few dazed, drunken blinks, then slowly turned his attention to the bundle.
He grabbed one corner and tugged. The cloth stuck to the object inside so he needed to use more strength to rip it away to reveal the decapitated head underneath.
Even with one missing eye and its expression frozen in a permanent death grimace, it still resembled the portrait the client had provided
After examining the head, the client picked up his ale and leaned back in his seat. “I told you I wouldn’t give you the job, kid. You killed him on your own. I’m not paying a murderer—”
The dagger slammed into the chair an inch away from the man’s thigh. The wood sizzled and smoked, threatening to catch fire any second. Valerian’s hand still gripped the hilt. He leaned in and said through gritted teeth, “You can pay me for this head, or I’ll find someone to pay me for yours.”
The client stared down at the dagger and the smoldering wood. Carefully, he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a pouch. He set it on the table and slid it toward Valerian.
Valerian snatched it up and withdrew the dagger.
A deep, black scorch mark marred the chair where it had been.
He opened the pouch, shifting the contents around to make sure they were all gold pieces.
After threatening the client, he didn’t want to stick around to count it, so he hoped it was all there.
He saluted the table with his dagger and backed out of the room.
The minute he reached the street, he was gone and running to the next town, to his next payday.
A mountain of memories smothered Valerian. The only way out was to crawl and fight his way through each one. He had a flash of awareness, chest heaving with exertion, bloody hands wrapped around a white root, before the next memory buried him again.
Valerian preferred to work alone. Fewer people to question his age and no need to split the money.
Magical supplies were expensive, and every coin he didn’t spend maintaining himself he sent to Krasna Manor.
He would pay his debts to Lord Endre and break the chains binding him to Maksim, even if it took a hundred years.
However, the latest job was more than Valerian could handle, with too high a bounty to walk away from. He wouldn’t lose the opportunity simply because he couldn’t play nice with others.
The client had already hired a team of Arnsveldian soldiers, they were only missing a mage. After five years in the game, Valerian’s reputation and success rate had spread far enough for the client to request him personally.
“This is the mage you recommend?” one of the soldiers demanded, glowering at Valerian.
The man’s gray hair and numerous scars attested to his years in combat.
The weapons crowding his frame probably made him feel prepared for anything.
It wasn’t surprising that he looked down on Valerian.
Even if he had looked his age, the man would sneer at him.
The Arnsveldian team had two men and two women. One of the women ignored Valerian, focused on sharpening a knife. The other glared at him, her nose wrinkled in disgust and teeth bared in warning.
The client glowered sternly at the team leader. “I wouldn’t underestimate Sommers if I was you. Last time, he was the only bastard who came back alive.”
“He reeks,” said the second woman.
Valerian subtly leaned his head down toward his pit, sniffing once. It’d been a little while since his last bath—he rarely wasted money on the luxury—but did he really smell that bad?
The leader arched an eyebrow. “What’s he smell like, Gris?”
“Dog shit.”
“All right, all right.” The client raised his hands, one toward the soldiers, one toward Valerian, stepping in before a fight broke out. “No need to insult each other. If it’s not going to work out, I’ll find someone else.”
“We’ll work with him,” the leader said. “Under one condition.”
If they try to cheat me out of money, I walk. Valerian had risked his life for lesser payouts, but he wouldn’t risk his life to fill someone else’s pockets. He already had enough of that with Maksim. “What’s your condition?”
“You’re support only. You look like one strike from a blunt sword could split you in two. I don’t need you running into the fight, distracting everyone and making mud puddles with your blood.”
Valerian smiled and suddenly everyone in the room stood up straighter. The first woman stopped sharpening her dagger, shifting her grip to wield it instead. “As long as I get paid, I don’t give a shit where you put me.”
The leader eyed him more warily now. “What can you do?”
Valerian removed his satchel from his shoulder, flipped open the flap, and spilled the contents onto the table.
Potion bottles, scrolls, and miscellaneous objects rolled out, covering the wooden surface.
He watched one bottle roll all the way to the edge, thinking: please don’t fall off and break.
The spread would be less impressive if it broke his tools.
The bottle stopped an inch from the edge, and he internally sighed in relief.
Gris shuffled a step back, hand covering her mouth and nose with the same level of disgust as someone walking through a cesspit. Her tanned face took on a sickly green hue.
Valerian picked up items at random, explaining their purpose: “Energy potion, transfiguration—wood to steel or the other way around, bone to liquid, blood to poison, if you want to get creative—”
“What the fuck?” the other man whispered softly.
“Weapon enchantments to make them burn, freeze, track, or return to your hand after it’s thrown. If we’re working undercover, I’ve got spells to help you slip in and out of the shadows or various glamours—temporary and semi-permanent.”
The leader stared at the options available, lips parted in shock. “What kind of man starts with ‘I can make your blood poisonous’ and ends with ‘or dye your hair brown.’”
Valerian shrugged. “If it’s all true, why does the order matter?”
The leader rubbed a hand down his face. “Mages. Right, pack up all your shit and we’ll head out.”
As Valerian replaced each item in his bag, someone approached him from behind. He tensed and whirled around to face Gris, one of the knives still held in his hand.
She’d kept her distance during the whole conversation, pinching her nose. Her hand had dropped away, and her ice blue eyes scanned Valerian’s magical supplies with interest. “Quite a stash you’ve got.”
“Always good to be prepared,” he replied casually.
“How long does it take to make something like this?” She reached for one of the tightly rolled scrolls.
If she tried to threaten Valerian with it—if she knew how to use it at all—she’d be quite disappointed to find it only gave him a button nose and extended eyelashes.
When he wasn’t hunting bounties for money, he sold simple spells to bored rich ladies.
“How long did it take you to look like you could lift a boar single-handed?” he replied. The physicality of being a mercenary had helped his youthful figure fill out over the years, but it was nothing compared to her strong, muscled frame.
She snorted. “Years.”
He nodded. “It’s the same for magic. Crafting the spells takes the longest, once that’s done, it’s a few hours and the right ingredients to enchant as many objects, scrolls, or potions as I think I’ll need.”
“And you’ve just got all those spells stored in here somewhere?” she asked, tapping her brow.
She’s never shown this much interest before. Valerian paused, analyzing the thought. He’d known her for five minutes, why would he think of her in terms of ‘never’ or ‘before’? Half-distracted, he replied, “I record everything in my grimoires.”
She ran her fingers over the strap of his bag. The flickering lantern light made her fingers look long and delicate one moment, strong and sturdy the next. “You must carry something that valuable with you.”
Everyone else had disappeared from the room. Valerian hadn’t realized they’d left him and Griselda behind. He glanced at the door, brow furrowing when all he saw was a smooth wall. Wisps of spiderweb covered the area, blocking his exit.
“Get out of my head,” he whispered.
Griselda’s expression twitched and rippled, like a mask sliding off her face. “Where did you hide your grimoires, Valerian?”
The bag and all of Valerian’s tools disappeared, then the table.
The room was empty except for him and Griselda.
He clenched his fist and realized that he still held the dagger.
Griselda was taller than him, stronger, and more importantly, they’d never fought against each other before.
There was no prior memory guaranteeing her loss.
“Wouldn’t it be so much easier to cooperate?” she asked, an echo of someone else in her voice. “You don’t have to keep reliving your fear and sorrow. I can send you somewhere happier. With Olivia perhaps?”
Another name perched on Valerian’s tongue, someone he couldn’t quite remember, like a part of him had been locked away.
And the person possessing Griselda held the key.
Valerian lunged, slashing at her with the dagger. She clumsily ducked away, too slow to evade the blade. It cut a line on her side, staining her green uniform with dark blood.
There may be nothing to guarantee her loss, but there was also nothing to guarantee her victory. She would have to use her own strength and skill, something the person possessing her wasn’t familiar with.
The next time Valerian attacked, she grabbed his wrist to stop him.
He yanked his arm toward the weak point of her thumb, immediately breaking her grip and attacking again.
The dagger embedded deep in the meat of her arm.
Blood splattered across Valerian’s face.
The taste of it should have stained his teeth and tongue, but there was nothing.
Simply an absence, like it didn’t exist at all.
Griselda grabbed his shoulder with her good hand and shoved him backwards. Valerian’s back hit the wall with a pained exhale. When he tried to swing at her again, his arm stuck to the wall. He turned and watched as a thick, rope-like spiderweb wrapped tighter around his arm, trapping it in place.
The walls around them glistened with the same white spiderweb. Soon, the spiders would come to feast on their captured prey.
“Why am I surrounded by stubborn fools?” she asked, gazing at Valerian with the wrong eyes. “I could give you such sweet dreams, yet you insist on suffering through your nightmares. Very well. Let me give you what you want.” She raised a hand, spreading her fingers wide as she reached for Valerian.
“Stay the fuck away from me.” He struggled against his bindings. While she’d spoken, the web had spun over both his arms and legs, slowly covering every inch of him.
“Let’s see how stubborn you are after this.” Griselda’s hand covered his face, fingers digging into his skin. She shoved his head backwards, first into the webs, and then, into darkness.