Page 39 of The Demon's Discovery
I read over the spell. “This is a recipe for the Elixir of Life.” I frowned, looking at his skeptically. “Nobody’sever made this before.”
He lit the small flame under my equipment with a flourish of his fingers and a flint. Jealousy warred with gratitude, because it would have taken me at least six tries with the striker to get it lit. “That’s not true,” he argued. “Someone has. Otherwise, how would we have a recipe?”
I tilted my head, eyes squinting at him. “I’m certain this iswellabove my skill level.”
“AndI’mcertain you’re underestimating yourself. But if you insist, perhaps we can try”—he flipped a few pages—“this one first.”
I bit my lip, scanning the recipe. “Elixir of Health?” It didn’t seem all that complicated, and if I went slowly, one step at a time… “This isn’t quite what I normally do, but I can try.”
Vassago nodded once, a playful smile tugging at his lips. His quiet confidence made my blood warm.
“How is it you just happen to have such rare ingredients lying about?” I asked.
He shrugged. “My brother is a collector, as am I. One never knows when they might need something rare or unusual.” He winked at me and pulled out an aged brown glass vial. The label on it was yellowed, the script all flourishes.
“Mm. How long have you kept this”—I consulted the label—“‘oil of vitriol’ while you waited for the right occasion?”
Vassago smiled widely, fangs teasing at his bottom lip as he ran his fingers through his long hair. “A while, Dragonfly. It’s safe though, don’t worry. It’s as stable now as it ever was.”
Oddly, my confidence was not bolstered by that endorsement, and I made sure to be extra gentle with that vial. After I collected the few remaining supplies, I studied all the pages for the spell carefully, making sure there wasn’t aninstruction several lines down or over a page that was important to the first step. Things like that were why I constantly failed at baking.
Because I was looking down, my hair kept falling out from behind my ears, getting in my face. I tucked it back repeatedly and grew increasingly agitated.
“Come here, Little Dragonfly.” Vassago beckoned. I met him halfway, and he stepped behind me, confident fingers sliding effortlessly through my hair.
“What are you—” I barely contained a contented sigh, the scrape of his nails against my scalp sending tingles through my whole body.
Nobody ever played with my hair besides Bea, and when she had, it was more out of a fidget for her own comfort than to soothe me. I couldn’t begin to count the mornings I’d woken up when she was a toddler with her fingers tangled up in my curls. That never helped with the brushing situation, but I’d always loved it.
Vassago pulled a length of silver ribbon from his pocket. As it brushed along my neck, I wondered why he always happened to have such a thing on his person. “There. Now it’ll stay out of your eyes.” His breath was warm as it feathered along my scalp. “We wouldn’t want it to catch on fire, either, would we?”
“No.” The word grated out of my throat, and I wished he hadn’t been so efficient at what he’d been doing.
My fingers rose to inspect his work, and what I found made my chest squeeze. In those short seconds, with no effort or pulling at all, he’d braided my often-tangled short curls into a perfect fishtail plait.
He’d given me princess hair.
The blush rose furiously to my cheeks as he met my eye, long legs carrying him to the other side of my worktable as he somehow braided his own hair back without pausing a beat.Once his white locks were also safely braided and tied back by a silver ribbon, he placed both palms flat on the wooden top and smiled at me. The points of his canine teeth dragged along his bottom lip. “Think of all the amazing things we could do with such a rare, but versatile potion. Shall we begin?”
We continued wellinto what would normally be a break for lunch, only pausing to accept Grace’s offering of a basket and accept her gentle admonition for working too hard.
“You see that she gets a proper break, Mr. Feland.”
“I’ve told you, Grace, you should call me Vassago. There’s no need to stand on formality. You’ve done it before, I thought we were making progress?” She simply stared at him, one eyebrow raised, her hand on her hip. “Yes, ma’am. A break. A proper one, I promise.”
“Good.” Satisfied, she left the room with a sharp nod, though she threw a wink at me on her way. I appreciated that she was a force even the men in charge bowed to. It was beyond admirable.
We’d come to a particularly touchy part of the recipe, one that required all four of our combined hands to be steady and intense concentration. This was difficult for several reasons, not the least of which was that to accomplish what we needed to, he had to stand behind me. He was so close I felt exactly where every dip and curve between us met, and he frequently rested his cheek or chin on the top of my head. His stamina seemed limitless, but my muscles were growing shaky with weariness. Once we got past this part, though, I could eat and nap; everything should hold until we were ready to continue.
“Ready?” I asked, breathless, as I moved a spoon holding a volatile mixture that was in an odd creamy powder form acrossthe table toward the crucible that held our whole morning’s labors.
“Ready.” His voice was low, sending an echo through my spine as it resonated through me.
I dipped the bottom of the spoon into the liquid inside the crucible, twisting it so the mixture would float at the top and dissolve slowly instead of sinking. Carefully, I set the utensil down on the table, an exhale that came from somewhere near my toes flowed out of me as the combination did what it was supposed to. At least, it did as far as I could tell. Nothing exploded, nothing caught fire and there was no smoke. That seemed positive.
Vassago’s hands cradled my shoulders. “Nicely done, Little Dragonfly. I never doubted you.” He pulled away with a wink, leaving my back chilled but my chest warm.
We made sure to wash up thoroughly before dividing the contents of Grace’s basket. I sat curled up cross-legged on the floor, not trusting myself not to drop my plate. We’d spent more time than I’d anticipated holding something above the flame, above the dish, waiting. My muscles weren’t used to such endurance training, and my arms currently were the same consistency as cooked pasta. I made short work of the sandwich and fruit, along with a large flask of water, flipping through a heavy book on alchemical theory as I did so.
