He lifted his head and smiled insincerely. “That would be me.”
She hadn’t expected him to be so young, only a couple years older than herself. He didn’t look like any of her mother’s spellmaker colleagues, and she wasn’t embarrassed by her mistake. If he wanted people to take him seriously, he should’ve removed his tongue piercing.
“You must be Cormac Macaslan.” He reached out an ink-stained hand to her father, who shook it a bit too eagerly. “And you must be the famous Isobel.”
“The media adores Isobel. They can’t get enough of her.” Her father patted her back. “When we spoke on the phone, you said to come with raw magick. So we have. More than enough for the recipe we discussed.”
The Roach’s Armor. It was an old spell passed down in the Macaslan family, and it protected the caster temporarily from death. It wasn’t infallible, but it was powerful. And very traditional. Every Macaslan champion obtained the spell.
Not that it had done her predecessors much good. Isobel’s family hadn’t won the tournament in thirteen generations.
“I can have it ready in an hour,” Reid said, “if you’re willing to wait.”
“We certainly are,” her father answered. “You have a fascinating collection here.” He scanned the rings piled carelessly on the countertop. They were distinctive—more of those oval-cut spellstones set in twisted, well-worked metal. The MacTavishes liked people to know their curses when they saw them.
After greedily examining one particular ring a moment longer, her father set it down and handed Reid their flasks of raw magick, collected from all the dearly departed of Ilvernath over the past week. Isobel unclasped her locket and handed it to him, as well. “Isobel, why don’t you watch Reid craft the spell? It’ll be good study for you. Unless … Reid, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” he said swiftly, professionally.
Isobel and her father had planned for this moment—this was why they’d patronized a cursemaker for a spell in the first place. She rubbed her lips together to ensure her lipstick still looked good. She could do this.
Isobel followed Reid through a pair of black velvet curtains to a cramped workroom behind the main shop. He riffled through cabinets full of empty crystal spellstones while Isobel hovered awkwardly in the corner.
“Do you own the shop?” Isobel asked.
“I do,” he responded tersely. He placed a wooden spellboard on his desk, built from a lustrous mahogany wood and engraved with a septogram. Spellboards created an energy field that directed raw magick into the crystals.
“For how long?”
“Since my father died. You should know. You were at the funeral.”
Her smile faltered, but only for a moment. “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” she said, though she had no memory of any of the town’s specific funerals. Since her family had started dragging her to them, she’d learned to block the details out. “I’ve heard good things about your father, and your family.”
Reid only responded with a noncommittal grunt. She edged closer, peering over his shoulder. On each point of the septogram, Reid had placed the revolting ingredients for the Roach’s Armor, including a single vertebra, a molted cicada exoskeleton, a handful of thistle, a clump of iron ore, a tablespoon of grave dirt, a fly’s wing, and an unearthed burial shroud. Her family made a habit of relying on the sort of spells that required resources no one else wanted to touch. Isobel’s locket lay open at the spellboard’s center, exposing the white crystal within.
Next, Reid popped open the corks on each of the containers of raw magick. The radiant white speckles hovered inside, still as starlight, as though not wanting to be disturbed. Carefully, he coaxed the magick out—a stroke around the mouth of the flask, a gentle word whispered so close that his breath fogged against the glass.
Gradually, the magick poured out over the septogram, a whole cluster of fireflies illuminating the otherwise dimly lit room. Once each container had been emptied, Reid leaned down and kissed the spellboard, as was common with preparing any spells or curses involving death. At once, the magick began to stir.
“I don’t like people hovering over me as I work,” he said curtly.
Even though Isobel had crafted enchantments countless times herself, she was so transfixed watching him that it took her several seconds to realize that he’d spoken to her.
“You said I could watch,” she said.
“You’re not here to watch.”