Dark apprentice, p.35
Dark Apprentice, page 35
“What was your mistake?” She knew. Of course she knew. She just wanted him to say it.
He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t clean the knife.”
“You didn’t clean the knife.” Medea gestured to the prisoner. “Sloppy work yields sloppy results. Now you get to practice healing. Go upstairs and gather two blood replacement potions and five cleansing potions. And a stool. This is going to take a while. It would be much faster if you knew how to do things properly.”
They worked on the prisoner for the rest of the day. Medea made him do the bulk of the dirty work. He forced the potions down the man’s throat and removed the dead tissue. The whole arm had to come off. As he cut it free, several blackened fingers dropped to the floor like burnt sausages.
Medea didn’t seem bothered by the smell. When he asked why, she remarked she’d altered her shield to keep out the stench, but she refused to share the technique. Despite his best efforts, he vomited several times, and she forced him to clean that up too. He was used to dead bodies, but cold and hard, not like this. Medea tsked at his physical reaction and made several disparaging remarks about his desire to become a necromancer.
When the dead tissue had been removed and the prisoner filled with potions, Medea instructed him to regrow the man’s arm—a preposterous request, given he’d only studied fingers. Limbs were a whole different level. From what he had read in the library, limbs began in an embryonic state, like a flipper, which the caster coaxed into its final form over a period of weeks. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
Medea shook her head in disgust. “Attend me.”
The stool and bucket flew into position next to the prisoner and Medea plopped down. Eyes closed, she weaved her hands below the stump. Pus and putrid clumps of tissue leaked from the wound into the air between her hands. When the trickle of vile fluids ceased, she deposited the muck into the bucket and returned her hands to the stump. They pinched and plucked the air, bare bone extending from the wound. Layers of tissue grew over each other, as if she crafted each layer from scratch, holding it in place with her mind before adding another, not unlike her focus exercise. Sometimes she teased the tissue into a slightly different position. It put him in mind of a sculptor molding clay.
The steady growth was far faster than it would have been with the embryonic healing method. Sweat glistened on the prisoner’s face and chest, but his muscle tone and weight remained stable. Nikolai frowned. Healing required the body’s own resources, and the man had to regrow a whole limb. Even with the potions they’d given him, the prisoner should be wasting away. Where did Medea get the raw materials for such a rapid healing?
“Why isn’t he losing weight?” he asked.
“I thought you had no use for healing magic?” There was a challenge in her tone.
He wouldn’t allow her to bait him. If she couldn’t be bothered to explain, he couldn’t be bothered to watch.
He shifted his attention to the other prisoners. He never had found out why they were here. No time like the present. He dipped into their minds one by one, but all he found was misery, hatred, and longing for death. All except number four, who was having an extremely graphic fantasy involving Medea, the dungeon worktable, and a number of knives.
He’d have to prime them. “What made you decide to throw this guy in here?”
Medea kept her eyes on her work, now down to the man’s wrist. “Subject, not guy. And you’re supposed to be paying attention, unless you’d like to do this yourself?” She paused and shifted as though offering him her seat.
“No.”
It might be enough. Those who’d heard him would be thinking of how they ended up here. That is, if they even realized what they’d done to earn Medea’s wrath. It’s not as if the drunks from the Spotted Sow knew why she’d taken them.
Subject one—Medea had come to his house at night. Dragged him off. Subject two was unconscious. Subject three had been taken from a prison. But for what crime? The man wasn’t thinking of it. Subject four, still fantasizing, had ignored the prompt. The rest were similarly unhelpful. Did none of them know why they were there? Perhaps that was part of her torture.
“There. Good as new.” Medea stood and smiled at her handiwork. Her eyes slid to the prisoner’s face and the smile faltered, as though she’d only just recalled who she’d been working on.
“I can’t tell you why he’s here,” she said, “only that he deserves to be. They all do.”
“Even that one?” Nikolai nodded to the lone woman.
Medea scowled. “That one is worse than the rest, for she knew what her husband did and, rather than stopping him, aided his efforts. Repeatedly.” Medea raised a clenched fist. The woman spasmed and fell screaming to the floor, where she writhed, back arched. After a time, Medea dropped her fist and the woman stilled.
“Is her husband here too?”
“He died a few years back. Stabbed himself with a chicken bone. That’s when I placed wards to monitor their health. I no longer feed them solid food. A spell passively summons the required nutrients into their bodies.” She collected the stool and nodded to the bucket brimming with putrid liquid. “Carry that.”
“Can’t you just magic it outside like you do with the trash?”
“I’m trying my best not to magic you outside. You neglect your duties, damage my property, refuse to even consider completing an assignment that entails a minor sacrifice, and when I try to show you advanced healing, you stare into space, probably diving into the minds of this filth!” She kicked the leg of the man she’d just healed. “You want to be the best? Act like it!”
32
DAPPER FROG
“This is a terrible idea.” Even standing in his own kitchen, Harper looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Agreed, but it’s the best I’ve got.” Nikolai had waited until arriving to broach the subject—easier to dispel Harper’s misgivings in person—and hadn’t explained all the details yet. First he needed Harper to agree.
“Can’t you just . . . I dunno, persuade Medea to remove the curse?”
“She denies placing it. I told you, the woman is crazy.”
“And your solution is to do something even crazier?” He eyed the box in Nikolai’s arms with trepidation.
“If it mitigates the symptoms, yes.” He put on his best pleading face, the one Harper couldn’t resist. “I need this. I need your help. Please tell me I can count on my best friend.”
Harper sighed and shook his head. “Alright, what do you want me to do?”
Nikolai grinned internally at the victory and set the box on the counter. “When the ladies arrive—”
“Ladies?” Harper said sharply. “What ladies?”
“The curse likes to hit in the middle of sex, so I ordered two of them to double my odds of triggering it.”
Harper stared at him, aghast. “Ordered? Are you telling me you hired two prostitutes to come to my flat?”
“I needed professionals. Women who would arrive on time and leave once paid, not stay and fuss over me.” Despite expecting an uncomfortable afternoon, he enjoyed watching Harper squirm.
“Goodness, Nikolai. My neighbor already has it in for me. If she sees a couple of prostitutes knock on my door—”
“Then maybe she’ll stop worrying over the constant parade of men. Look, I need the prostitutes to make this work. I’ll tell them to come get you once I start acting funny. Make the ladies leave, then give me the box. There’s gloves in there so you can hold them up, in case I’m too out of it.”
“You want me to wear gloves, but you’re going to lick the damn things?!”
There was a gentle knocking on the door. Perfect timing.
“That’ll be them. Please, Harper, just do this for me. Please?”
Harper groaned but didn’t argue further. Nikolai slid the box along the counter toward him and went to answer the door.
“Welcome, ladies! Please come in.” He smiled and offered to take their coats.
They shed their long overcoats to reveal summer dresses. One woman turned a suspicious eye toward Harper. “You said there’d only be one of you.”
Nikolai laughed. “He’s my valet. I sometimes fall ill—nothing contagious, I assure you, but he’s here to assist me if it happens. This way, ladies.”
He directed them to the bedroom, where he spent time boasting about his sexual prowess. Neither woman believed him, of course, smiling politely as he raved about how he’d show them a good time. He hated to look a fool, but the more he built up the encounter, the more likely the curse was to hit. They’d know the truth soon enough.
A threesome was more challenging than he thought it would be, though he performed admirably, tongue buried deep in one while a hand worked the other. Fingernails bit into his scalp as the first woman neared climax. He turned his full attention to her—she would remember him as the client who proved her wrong. Him, Nikolai, the greatest lover who ever—
Like clockwork, the fog descended and he slumped to the floor like the Useless waste that he was. The women were only humoring him. He’d paid for their services, hadn’t he? A liar paying for lies. He curled on the rug next to the bed, vaguely aware of the women talking over him in hushed voices. The door opened and closed.
“Nikolai?” Harper’s concerned voice spoke near his shoulder. “They’ve left. Let’s get you up.”
Firm hands grasped him under the arms and hauled him into a sitting position. Medea was right, he was trash. Harper should drag him into the hallway and leave him like the garbage that he was. He stared blankly at the box on the rug. It wouldn’t work. Nothing would work. He slumped over and Harper had to right him again.
“Hang in there, Nikolai. Just give me a minute.” Harper opened the box to reveal two sacks and a pair of gloves. He donned the gloves and removed the larger sack, which wriggled as he picked it up.
In the library, Nikolai had written every variation of Yoxtl’s clue he could think of into the master grimoire. Nothing relevant came up for “dapper frog,” so he searched for “frog” and “toad.” This yielded a number of books. There were many frogs and toads with toxic or medicinal properties—poison dart frogs, cane toads, giant monkey frogs, corroboree frogs . . .
Two stood out as contenders, both native to Yoxtl’s home region. The first was the cane toad. While “cane” referred to sugarcane, it could also be interpreted as the walking variety, which was used in “dapper” dress. Poison dart frogs were another possibility. While their name did not suggest dapper, they were vibrantly colored and could be considered well-dressed compared to other frogs.
Both were incredibly toxic.
The experiment would no doubt make him ill, and he had prepared a variety of healing potions and antidotes just in case. If the poison mitigated the effects of the curse, it would be worth it. He could always isolate the active ingredients later. Right now he just needed to know if either poison worked.
Harper extracted the cane toad from the bag and grimaced as the fat, ugly thing struggled to break free. Something dark squirted between his fingers and splattered against his cream-colored pants. Harper shrieked and nearly dropped the toad.
“It pooped on me!”
He held the animal up to Nikolai’s face. Nikolai stuck out his tongue and Harper dragged the amphibian over it.
His tongue erupted in fire. He grabbed the bedsheet and tried to wipe away the pain. Why was it so hot in here? He fumbled to loosen his collar but found only bare skin. Oh right, he’d undressed for the ladies. Lights danced before his eyes, beautiful in their brightness. Everything was wonderful!
“. . . Nikolai! Nikolai! Wake up! Oh God, please don’t let him die.”
He opened his eyes to a blurry mass of pink and gold.
“Oh, thank goodness,” exclaimed Harper. “Can you hear me? How do you feel? Your heart—it won’t stop racing. You vomited and fell over. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get a potion into you, but you kept retching.”
He tried to sit up, but his head pounded him into the floor. “I felt . . . it worked for a second there.”
“Like heck it did! Didn’t you hear anything I said? You almost died! Drink this.”
Something pressed against his lips. He took a sip and coughed. So sore. It had worked—hadn’t it? No, the high had merely driven the malaise away for a moment. Already he could feel the nagging doubts plucking insistently at his mind. He was worthless and stupid and . . .
He locked eyes with Harper. “The frog now. I need to try the frog.”
Harper flung up his arms. “Are you mad? No!”
“Please, Harper, I have to get rid of this thing. I have to.”
“At least wait until you’ve healed up. You should see yourself. You’re beet red and shaking. If you collapse again and I can’t get a potion into you . . .”
“I can’t have this curse interfering with my life. Harper, please help me. You’re the only one I trust.” He bit his lip and tried his best puppy-eyed expression. Reaching for Harper’s hand was out. If his motor coordination was as shot as he thought it was, he didn’t want to fumble and reinforce Harper’s belief that he was too ill to try again.
“Don’t you dare lay this on me! You think I can’t tell what you’re doing?”
“Please?” Harper loved him. He’d do it.
Harper bowed his blond head and crumpled. “Why do you do this to me?” He reached for the second sack but made no move to open it. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
Unlike the toad, the frog tasted peppery. The world swam before him. Colors. So many colors! Harper melted into the floor. Always so brightly colored and glittery, that one. Nikolai tried to scoop him up before he could seep through the carpet, but the bright colors slipped through his fingers.
“No, Harper, where did you go?” He grabbed the floor but came back with nothing.
A red candle appeared, such an angry hue. It shouted at him, but he couldn’t make out the words so he turned aside. No time for that. He’d been looking for something. What was it?
He groped forward with his hands. Silver beams of light shot from his fingertips and radiated out in a blossom of color. He swayed his hands back and forth, watching the light dance. He laughed and ran his fingers along the wall. Colors trailed behind them.
An angry noise tugged at his attention. The red candle snuffed out the glittery candle. Pain lanced through his body and the colors dispersed, replaced with agony. His limbs pounded and he tasted blood.
Nikolai’s health ward screamed at Medea. Just once she’d like to have a free day without a ward going off. Apprentices were equipped with health and location tracking wards, ensuring she didn’t go too far while sparring and allowing her to find them in case of an emergency. They were supposed to be a rarely used precautionary measure, yet this was the second time Nikolai’s had gone off.
The question was why. As much as she wanted to keep him alive, if he was drowning in the pools again or if he’d engaged in risky behavior, well, actions had consequences. She reached along the magical thread.
Poison coursed through Nikolai’s body. Given the recent attempt on her life, the two were probably connected. Whoever the assassin was, they were clever. The man she’d dueled in Safe Harbor had probably been a decoy. Poisoning Nikolai was the perfect way to lure her away from the island, which meant the assassin knew how her wards worked. What trap did they have planned, and should she walk willingly into it?
If she did nothing, Nikolai would die, and she couldn’t have that, not when it wasn’t his fault. Where was he? Somewhere in London, but not close to the gateway. By the time she got there he’d be dead—unless she teleported.
So that’s how the assassin planned to get her.
Teleportation required one to break up and reassemble the body. The spell was beyond the ability of most casters, demanding great focus and will to hold oneself together in the ether. Those who failed disintegrated into nothing, but that was not what worried Medea. The process left one sick and groggy and stripped away bodily enchantments. Her protective spells would be gone. Could she even remember them all, let alone recast them in time to ward off an attack? She’d have to disable her opponent fast and hard, before they could take advantage of her weakened state, and she’d have to do it while stabilizing Nikolai.
She felt along the ward. Odd—Nikolai’s body had healed a bit. Had he solved the problem on his own? Still worth checking on, but it gave her time to use a gateway. Much safer.
She set a brisk pace to the gateway room. London assaulted her with its polluted air and unrelenting din of passing cars and people. She strengthened her shields, muffling the worst of it, and strode up the avenue looking for a cab.
The ward blared against her senses. Nikolai was dying, and he was dying now.
Heart racing, she closed her eyes, shielded her external senses, and felt along the magical thread to his position. She flew apart, yet held herself together. That was the key—to retain the idea of your body, grasping it close with your soul, while allowing the physical pieces of oneself to move freely through space. An instant later, she slammed her body back together.
Teleportation sickness nearly brought her to her knees. Every inch of her body screamed. Her gorge rose, but she managed to swallow it back down. Thank god she hadn’t eaten yet today. Shields up. Assess the threat. She couldn’t appear weak, not now.
There he was, her opponent—a young man Nikolai’s age. She didn’t recognize him, but that meant nothing, and anyway he had an illusion over his head. No doubt he’d made himself look like someone Nikolai knew in order to gain his trust. Nikolai fumbled against a wall, hallucinating.
Before the assassin could say a word, she threw him against the wall, bound and gagged him with her will, and ripped the illusion from his head. Flaxen gold hair and blue eyes turned to curly brown and brown.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The man’s eyes widened but he said nothing. Oh, right, the gag. She released his tongue.
