Page 54 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

The bell above the door jingles when Rory pushes it open. The smell of spices and smoke hits him instantly, as do the bunches of drying herbs hanging from the ceiling. He ducks, holding them to the side for Calliope to enter, then turns his attention to the store. The apothecary is dark, lit by candles and mismatched lamps scattered throughout. The walls are lined in rows of glass jars and vials, all filled with various substances and liquids, and even, occasionally a preserved specimen, otherworldly and grotesque. There are skulls of all kinds, shapes, and sizes—alligators, birds, wolves and even more from creatures he doesn’t recognize—and two large bins of various bones for customers to pick through. He’s not sure what kind of spell requires the use of bones, and he’s perfectly okay with not knowing.

In the center of the room is a stained-glass sky light depicting a celestial map that Rory guesses looks up onto the appropriate section of sky for whatever its purpose is. Calliope stands underneath it, head tilted back, her bushy mass of hair cascading all the way down to her waist as she holds her sunhat in her hands. He keeps his baseball cap on and makes his way beyond the skylight to the counter against the far wall.

The sales assistant is counting stones, marking thequantity of amethyst, quartz, and obsidian on her clipboard. She looks up as he approaches and smiles blandly. “Welcome to Artemisia’s. How can I help you?”

He reads off his list of items needed, vaguely aware of Calliope wandering around the store behind him. The assistant, a twenty-something witch, nods distractedly, chewing gum tucked into her cheek. She starts with the Minotaur horn powder, measuring out the light brown powder on a set of scales. She fills up a small jar and labels it with a felt tip marker. “Looking for something lost, ain’t you?” She sets it aside and begins to bundle up a cup of poke berries in a canvas pouch.

Rory makes a noncommittal noise.

The thieves oil comes prepackaged in a vial with a printed label. She fetches it from a display to the left of the sales counter. She tallies the totals on a receipt pad. “You ever been here before?” She looks up from her pad. “You look sort of familiar.”

He shakes his head. “Guess I just have one of those faces.”

“Guess you do. Name?”

He hesitates, jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed at her.

She gives him a tight, disingenuous smile. “It’s policy to record basic customer info.”

Rory unclenches his jaw, though his hand is still curled into a fist by his side. “First name, Rory. Lastname, Smith.” He internally cringes. He’d prefer to use a fake first name too, but he’s worried she’ll ask for his license.

She grunts. “That’ll be fifty-three dollars, Mr. Smith.”

He has a feeling the price has been marked-up a bit higher than is fair, but he still counts out the money, crisp from the bank. The sales assistant bags his items in a paper sack stamped with the apothecary logo. His finger just brushes her hand as she passes it over to him, and he skims her foremost thoughts, catching a snippet that makes his stomach plummet: a photograph of him being passed around a town hall meeting and a large sum of money being promised for any information concerning his whereabouts.

His sister-in-law has gotten into small town politics, it seems.

26

The Flames Of Madness

Rory

He tucks the bag under his arm and smiles tightly at the sales assistant. It takes some effort to keep his steps measured, calm. Calliope is waiting by the door, and he places a firm hand against her back, pushing her outside. She shoots him a confused look as he ushers her quickly around the corner and back down the alley they took earlier.

“I was thinking we could stop in at that cafe in the square,” she says, looking at him sideways, “I saw that they have spiced blood, and I think it’d—”

“No time.” He darts a look behind them, as he presses against the small of her back, urging her to turn again. His beat-up Oldsmobile comes into view and he quickens their pace. “Curfew.” He opens the door and angles his head, urging her toget inside.

She frowns, looking up at the sky. “It’s hours before sundown.”

His eyes dart between both ends of the alleyway, as he steps closer to her, voice lowered. “Calliope, I need you to get inside the car. Please.”

He wills her to see his worry, his anxiety, to understand that someone has recognized him. He knows she read about the Blood Wars. She knows about him, but only in an abstract sense. She doesn’t know how brutal other vampires can be, how much blood he’s spilled. She doesn’t understand, not truly, why he lives in a secluded house with no ties to any magical communities.

He could compel her, of course. Command her to get into the car. Force her to listen to his reasoning later. But the thought makes him sick. A shadow falls across the entrance of the alleyway. It’s the sales assistant from the apothecary and a guard, dressed the same as the one at the gates, though with dark hair closely shaved and of stouter stature.

Rory settles for showing her, sending just a flash of each memory through the connection she opened when she pulled him into her Mind’s Eye. He shows her the sales assistant, head cocked to the side, saying, “You look familiar.” He shows her his sister-in-law smiling, her canine and incisors sharpened into fine points, her lips stained with blood. He shows her the guard at the gates, with the same fang structure. He pulls up a memory of his sister-in-law cursing at him,spittle flying from her mouth as she swears to make him pay.

Calliope pulls back, gripping his biceps to steady herself. She glances behind them, sees the guard walking toward them, hand on the stake clipped into the holster on his belt. She nods quickly, already sliding into the passenger seat. He jogs around to the driver’s side and folds himself in, slamming the door. The engine roars into life and he presses down on the gas, the tires squealing.

In the rear view mirror, he sees the guard talking into a walkie talkie and curses under his breath. He drives faster, haphazardly navigating around the town square and eliciting quite a few stares and shouts of alarm. The car bounces along with a creak of protest as the cobblestone road becomes pockmarked earth and the gates come into view. They are approaching quickly, and Rory can see the other guard talking into his radio.

“Don’t stop,” says Calliope.

He darts a look over at her. She’s tossed her hat in the backseat and her hair crackles with energy. Her eyes are black, frost lining her lips as she whispers something. In front of them, the gates groan, unlatch and begin to scrape across the ground. The guard turns around, startled. For a moment, the vampire tries to stop the gates from opening, muscles straining with the effort. The metal bends with the force of the guard’s grip, then snaps back into shape witha preternatural rigidity as Calliope’s magic overcomes his strength. There’s a shock of red in Rory’s peripheral vision, and he looks over to see blood running down Calliope’s chin.

She covers her face. “Don’t stop.”

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