Page 1 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

Prologue—Grizelda

Ten Years Ago

IADJUST MY PURPLEcloak with a huff and stare at the glass doors of Fae Fitness. The sign features a muscular troll lifting weights that appear to be made of glowing crystals. How gaudy.

“You can do this, Grizelda,” I mutter to myself, reaching for the door handle.

I need a potion ingredient—sweat from a mountain troll—for a particularly finicky fertility spell. It’s not something I normally stock in my apothecary, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to order it from that insufferable Herbert at Magical Essences two pocket universes over. Hence, my reluctant visit to the only gym in Evershift Haven.

The moment I step inside, I’m assaulted by the scent of eucalyptus and something earthy—not entirely unpleasant, but definitely foreign to my herb-and-incense accustomed nostrils. The space is surprisingly bright, with high ceilings and large windows that let in natural light. Various supernatural beings are engaged in different activities. A pair of dryads are bending impossibly backward on yoga mats, a vampire is doing one-handed pushups, and a mermaid in a special hovering water bubble is doing core exercises.

“Welcome to Fae Fitness.” A deep, rumbling voice greets me.

I turn to find what is perhaps the largest mountain troll I’ve ever encountered approaching me. At least seven feet tall, with skin the color of granite and eyes like polished amber. His bald head bears a few patches of moss—quite common for mountain trolls—though I notice his are arranged in a pattern that almost resembles a stylish haircut.

“Can I help you find anything?” he asks, and I’m momentarily taken aback by how articulate he is. Trolls aren’t typically known for their eloquence.

“I’m looking for the owner,” I say primly, straightening my spine to appear taller, though it’s a futile effort.

“You’ve found him.” He smiles, revealing teeth that are surprisingly white and straight for a troll. “Atlas Mountainheart, at your service.” He extends a massive hand. “And you are?”

“Grizelda Greenwarth,” I say, reluctantly placing my hand in his. His grip is gentle despite his obvious strength. “I own the Enchanted Emporium on Main Street.”

“The witch shop.” His eyes light up with recognition. “I’ve been meaning to stop by. I hear you make an excellent joint repair potion. Many of my older clients could benefit from that.”

“It’s not a ‘witch shop,’” I correct him with a sniff. “It’s an apothecary specializing in magical remedies and enchanted solutions for everyday problems, and it’s also a general mercantile.”

“Of course.” He nods seriously, though there’s a twinkle in his eye that suggests he’s amused by my prickliness. “How can I help you today?”

I clear my throat, suddenly finding this more awkward than anticipated. “I require a particular ingredient for a potion I’m brewing. Specifically, I need...” I lower my voice, glancing around to ensure no one is eavesdropping, “...sweat from a mountain troll.”

Rather than being offended, Atlas throws back his head and laughs, a sound like boulders tumbling down a mountainside. Several small flowers bloom spontaneously in the moss on his head.

“That’s a first,” he says when his laughter subsides. “Usually people come here wanting to sweat, not collect it.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. “It’s for a legitimate magical purpose.”

“I’m sure it is.” He nods, still grinning. “And I’d be happy to help, but I’m curious—what kind of potion requires troll sweat?”

“That’s private,” I snap, then immediately regret my tone. I need his cooperation, after all. “It’s a fertility potion,” I say reluctantly. “Mountain troll sweat has unique properties that enhance certain aspects of the brew.”

“Fertility, hmm?” His eyebrows rise, and those amber eyes assess me with unexpected intelligence. “Planning on starting a family, Ms. Greenwarth?”

“Not for myself.” I’m horrified at the assumption. “It’s for a client. I am a professional.”

“Of course.” He holds up his hands in apology, but that infuriating twinkle remains in his eyes. “You’re in luck. I’m about to start my afternoon workout. You’re welcome to...collect what you need.” He gestures to the training area.

I follow him to a section of the gym equipped with weights that would be impossible for most beings to lift. He removes his shirt with casual ease, revealing a torso carved from what appears to be living stone, covered with intricate patterns like rivers flowing over a rocky landscape.

I swallow hard and avert my gaze, focusing instead on retrieving a small crystal vial from my cloak pocket.

“So,” he says, lifting a barbell that must weigh several hundred pounds, “Do you often go around collecting bodily fluids from strangers, or am I special?”

“I assure you, Mr. Mountainheart, there is nothing special about this interaction,” I say coolly, though my gaze betrays me by wandering back to the impressive display of muscles working beneath his stone skin.

“Atlas, please. Mr. Mountainheart was my father, and he was much larger and grumpier than I am.”

“Hard to imagine,” I mutter.

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