Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
My second request is hopefully much simpler. Tristan smiles as he tilts his head. I would like a protection spell … a spell for a very important person whom I care about very much.
“Now that’s unexpected as fuck,” blurts Mance, pulling the cigarette off his lips, smoky snakes rising from his fingers where it hangs. “You want a protection spell from a guy like me? Shit. That’s so outta left field, I’m almost compelled to agree to it for goddamned free. Look at me, I’m fuckin’ touched over here.”
Can you do it, asks Tristan lightly, or not?
Mance considers his request, dragging fingers over his lips in thought. “You serious ‘bout givin’ that box to Markadian?”
Apocalyptically.
Mance smirks. “Alrighty.” He reaches into a pocket, pulls something out, then flings it across the way. Tristan catches it with ease—a black-beaded bracelet. “Here you go.”
Tristan weighs it in his hand. Do I just … wear it?
“See them beads it’s got? All them little black beads the size of corn kernels?”
This looks like something you fish out of a dollar store bin in a shopping mall in 1992.
“Eat one.”
Tristan gives Mance an uncertain glimpse. Eat …?
“Go ahead, eat a bead. Don’t we trust each other?”
Raya tugs Tristan’s sleeve, her eyes beseeching him not to oblige Mance, begging him in every way except with words.
Her pleas go ignored. Of course we do, sings Tristan lightly, slips the dark bracelet right on, and bites off a single black bead. It crunches with ease like a pillow mint at a hotel, then quickly turns bitter. It is a struggle to swallow. I … am not sure I enjoyed that very much. Two out of five stars.
“Every hour from now until that bracelet is fuckin’ gone, eat another,” instructs Mance.
Tristan blinks. There are … a lot of beads.
“Each time you eat one, think on the person you wish to … protect. Their face. Name. Eyes. It ain’t a good idea to interrupt the process, so do count them beads and commit to bein’ wide-ass awake for that many hours. Once you’ve eaten them all—and this part is important—stab your hand with a knife.”
Tristan, busy counting the beads, looks up. Sorry, what?
“Stab … your hand … with a knife,” repeats Mance, making the motion. “You’ll bleed black outta your palm. Collect all that dark-as-fuck fluid into a container. A glass vial is best, but any will do, even a used milk carton, a syringe, a condom, doesn’t fuckin’ matter. For as long as you keep it unspilled, so will your sworn individual be protected.”
I wonder, why must your talents be so dark and vile? Tristan asks with genuine interest. Couldn’t you just tell me poetic Latin words to recite, or make me drink a fizzy potion?
“You’re the one who asked a necromancer for a protection spell. If you wanted lavender candles and Kumbaya, you should meddle with cuter witches.”
Tristan considers the bracelet again. And this will work … even on someone who is … not quite mortal?
“You mean someone like you?” Mance smirks. “Yeah, it’ll work on who-the-hell-ever you’re so damned thirsty to protect.” He snorts. “Guess that concludes our little date here. You and your gal didn’t even put out. Pity. I’ll be seein’ you at that clinic you mentioned, evening of the full moon, no sooner.”
Wait … full moon? But that isn’t for several more days yet.
“Need a full moon, the most vital part. Don’t let the worms or flies get to that body just yet, if you can help it. Ought to give you time to collect what I need.”
And you do, in fact, need all of those specific items for the—?
“Yep. Every last one of ‘em. Includin’ the books and un-pissed-on bark. Except for that baby heart, that was just a test.”
Tristan is suspecting that most, if not all, of his instructions tonight have been tests. Until the full moon, then.
“And don’t forget my price.”
Mance chucks his cigarette at Raya and Tristan, causing them to flinch. It lands upon the trail of wine, at once igniting it into a bold red fire that vanishes as quickly as it appears, taking with it the sight of Mance, if he was even there at all. Where once the candle was, now sits the little box with its green ribbon and bow.
It doesn’t seem so cute anymore, despite its appearance.
Without hesitation, Tristan marches right up to the box, tucks it carelessly under an arm, then heads off.
“Wait, wait, wait,” comes Raya, following hurriedly behind Tristan, heels clacking on the floor. “You aren’t … You aren’t seriously giving that box to Lord Markadian, are you?”
Of course not, sings Tristan blithely. There is no telling what this freaky little thing contains.
“Do you think it’s a bomb?” she asks. “That’s my guess. A bomb, or a bunch of locusts … no, more likely a bomb.”