Page 9 of Bound and Tide

FRUITLESS BUT NOT FUNGUS-LESS ATTEMPTS

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Xander didn’t like being told no; however, it continued to bewilder Xander each and every time just how much he didn’t like it. But being a cranky, spoiled, verging-dangerously-close-to-thirty-year-old child had its benefits, chiefly that a temper was a good distraction, which was exactly what he thought he needed.

Xander stewed on his vexation of Red’s rejection and then decided someone should have to hear about it. The only someone he could think of was the griffin, so he trudged down to the stables behind The Sleepy Salmon and shooed out the groom. The horses were unnerved, chuffing as they backed into their boxes, but there was no griffin until Xander whistled, and straw unceremoniously showered down on him.

The griffin dug claws and talons into the beams as he lumbered out of the nest he’d made in the sagging rafters, and then he listened as well as anything with the brain of a bird could, which in actuality was surprisingly well, though it gave zero evidence that it sympathized. Xander complained—he was an expert at that—and then he felt marginally better.

“You’re right,” he finally said as the shadows in the stables went long with the setting sun, “I should do a bit more reconnaissance.”

That wasn’t at all what the griffin would have communicated could it have spoken, but something told it that Xander wouldn’t have cared either way, and it only yawned in reply.

The next morning, Xander Shadowhart was someone else—externally, that is. On the inside, he was almost exactly the same save for a growing tug in his chest that had no business doing any tugging at all, unfortunate but also expected since this is only chapter six. The spell to change his appearance should have been simple, but it had taken two frustrating attempts first, one where he got the body right but his face remained unchanged, and then the second gave him a new face but the body of a minotaur. On the third try, he utilized a drop of blood from his vial he didn’t really have to spare but successfully took on the complete guise of a woman he’d seen selling eggs a few streets over.

Then he realized he didn’t have access to women’s clothing, and his own didn’t exactly fit the pleasantly plump figure he’d crafted for himself. He couldn’t really trust what little magic he had left to work out a fourth guise, so with a hefty dose of swearing, he stuffed himself into a suit, swathed himself in his swishiest cloak, and took up a seat on a bench across from Maisie’s Magical Accouterments.

Xander was displeased to learn that Red was nice to everyone. Well, no, not really displeased since that’s what he thought he was looking for—someone sickeningly sweet and offensively cute and easy to take advantage of—but why in the Abyss wasn’t she nice to him? He watched customer after customer flounce in, he watched them chat, he even watched some of them purchase nothing, so it wasn’t only coin she was after. And with every departure, each customer was rewarded with that cloying grin as if she had just engaged in the realm’s most pleasurable experience.

She had no idea what she was missing.

There were lulls too, of course, and during those she worked. Xander watched her pull pinches from jars and pluck leaves off of stems, measuring with her heart and rarely referring to any text. She crafted concoction after concoction, and that grin remained, but it was different, wistful.

He thought briefly that perhaps she was a charlatan, and since like recognized like, she’d decided to hate him for it, but she worked diligently even when she believed she wasn’t being watched, which was too much effort for a faux result. Perhaps she was just too clever to give in to him, but that had never really been a problem before.

He considered all of these things as a light dusting of snow began to fall on Bendcrest. Xander hated to be cold, but there was the little problem of how much he enjoyed watching her reach for things on high shelves, the stretching of her body, the deftness of her fingers, and, particularly worryingly, the satisfactory curl to her lip with every tincture completed. So he sat in the deepening chill and continued to watch.

By the workday’s end, a thin layer of snow had collected in the shadows, and Xander could stand it no longer. A facade or not, the dolts of Bendcrest were being afforded Red’s charm, and no longer would Xander be denied. He strolled across the street, and the chimes above the door tinkled. Xander fixed the eyes of his disguise on the woman behind the counter, and he was met with the exact pleasant face he expected, but only for about two and a half seconds.

“Oh, Dil’wator’wovl, grant me your strength,” she muttered, pinching her nose. “Is your ailment so bad you need a second dose?”

Xander screwed up his face and immediately crossed the shop to the mirror to see it was his face that was indeed screwed up. His hair was once again white but disheveled and damp, and his countenance had all come back, which was of course still very pretty, but not the one he’d meant to use. He pulled open his cloak to see that the damn breasts had abandoned him too, and he hadn’t even felt them bounce away.

He spun toward her. “Did you fucking dispell my guise?”

Red was too satisfied, rubbing a cloth over the counter and gazing down at it lovingly. “Nope.”

He doubted that. “Was that the elven god you just invoked?”

She snapped her eyes to him, the emeralds dangerously sharp. “Yes. And?”

It was then he saw the tips to her ears, nestled into all those glorious curls. They were pointed but subtle enough to not notice on first glance. He gave her body a longer look, more scrupulous than salacious. Too hearty, he thought, so she could only be half elven, but it was enough. “I knew you were genuinely talented.”

“And I could not care less what you think.”

Xander grinned and sauntered toward the counter. Perhaps she thought she didn’t care, but he would find a way to make her. Well, not care care, that would quickly become tiresome, but he would convince her to be just concerned enough to want to put those skillful hands of hers on him. “I believe, perhaps, we got off on the wrong foot. I would much prefer we get o—”

“I’m not getting off or on anything of yours,” she said, already exhausted by him as she went back to her work at the table.

At least she’d turned and couldn’t see the hurt—no, not hurt, the annoyance—on his face.

“I understand, and I forgive you.” Xander clasped his hands behind his back, listening closely for the disgruntled sound she inevitably made. He perused her hanging baskets of dried goods and shelves of jars, every surface impeccably clean and every item perfectly organized. “My presence often betides a carnal predisposition in those around me. What I am actually interested in is hiring your services”—he turned back to her swiftly—“your herbalogical services.”

And then, finally, mercifully, Red gave in. Not entirely, and not anything like he craved, but there was a brief yet observable look of intrigue that passed over her face. “I am not a true healer. Those magics are best left to priests, full-blooded elves, and mages trained in those arts. There is a Valcordian temple a few blocks over if you need that. My work treats subtle maladies and non-lethal issues. So, if you think you’re going to show me your cock, and I’m going to heal whatever—”

“There’s nothing wrong with my cock.” Xander held up a hand, struggling to not prove her suspicions exactly right by adding, unless you insist on examining me.

“Well, congratulations. What do you need then?”

Xander’s eyes darted over the shop. He hadn’t exactly expected her to oblige so quickly. He took a deep, dramatic breath to stall, but then caught the smell of something earthy and familiar. Beside him hung a basket with the shriveled remains of some fungus tied into little bundles. “These,” he said, pointing. “Where did you find them?”

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