Page 51 of Potions and Proposals
“I never thought I’d see the day when not one, buttwoMathersons would darken my decrepit door,” said the crone. She had a bent back and a long chin.
“I was told you know about elemental magic,” Peter said, standing in front of Benedict. Peter couldn’t be killed twice, and magic didn’t affect Grim Reapers. If the crone decided to add his brother to her collection of bones in the clay pots by her door, she’d have to go through death first.
The crone sniffed the air around them, but settled closer to Benedict with a slick grin. “You’ve got yourself in quite the pickle. Come inside. I believe I can be of some assistance.”
Peter followed her in; Benedict hesitated. He didn’t want to go behind Lucinda’s back like this, but seeing how much hope she’d had for last night’s potion weighed on his heart. The guilt she obviously felt for a mistake she’d had no part in reminded him of the guilt he felt for those he’d lost. If the crone could help, Lucinda never needed to know their attempt to fix the potion hadn’t worked. He could merely tell her it had taken some time to kick in.
“I can remove her element from your body and yours from her; however, such harsh magic comes at a price,” the crone said suddenly, lighting some black candles in preparation for performing a spell.
Benedict didn’t remember walking inside, but he found himself in a sitting room with the crone by his side, her yellowing eyes staring up at him.
“Financial, spiritual or magical?” he asked, eyeing the grandeur within her cottage. The decrepit exterior must be a facade. Inside, it was nothing short of a palace.
“All of the above.” She sipped her lilac-coloured tea. Benedict noted the scents of ginseng and liquorice. An aging spell. The crone might appear to be old, but it was a lie, like the house.
He glanced around the room to find no mirrors anywhere in sight. Mirrors weren’t just a reflection of people’s exterior, but that of their soul, and it was obvious the witch wasn’t fond of what could be revealed.
“Cost isn’t an issue if you can exchange our elements,” he said quickly, caring far more about escaping this place than money.
“You underestimate me.Ifhas no place in my hovel.” The crone beamed, putting down her chipped tea-cup. “Removing your elements from one another is nothing. However, I said nothing about returning the elements to their rightful place.”
“Stripping them of their elements is not what we agreed,” Peter snarled. He’d never been particularly patient.
The crone tutted, her smile turning sinister. “You asked if I could remove their elements; you said nothing about returning them.”
“Mere wording,” Peter growled. Benedict gripped his forearm, trying to ease his temper. He always was quick to react. Death hadn’t changed that, nor had it quenched his desire to protect those around him.
“It wasmere wordingthat got your brother and Ms Hawthorne in this position.” She shuddered, licking her red lips. “Thinking of those goody-goodies messing on our side of the fence is positively tantalising.” Peter had told Benedict that the crone had lost her own name long ago. Magic had swallowed her identity, replacing it with only a desire to grow stronger.
The cup clinked against the saucer. “Let me take her water from you. I can smell the goodness radiating from your bones – positively gag-inducing. I can see how much she occupies your mind, how you are at war with your feelings for her. Love and hate are horns on the same beast.” She sat on the edge of the couch cushions, prying deeper into Benedict’s mind than he cared for.
“If you’ve no intention of helping, we’re leaving.” Benedict folded his arms across his chest, refusing to be intimidated, though his heart hammered at the thought of their elemental connection giving the crone insight into Lucinda. He’d come here to help her, not put her in danger.
“I never said I’d help. I said I’dremovethe element from you!” she repeated. “Collecting elements has long been a hobby of mine, and with the connection you’ve made I can get two for the price of one.”
The smell of rot and decay distracted the siblings from her words. Benedict felt something move on his hands. Looking down, he was horrified to see that his lap was crawling with maggots.
“Benedict, move!” Peter snapped, flipping the coffee table over as the crone pulled a glass dagger from behind her back.
It hit the table with a thud, and the glamour disintegrated around them. Benedict jumped to his feet, only to hit his head on a rusted cage overcrowded with bats. The crone drew another glass dagger, which barely missed him. He had a feeling she was aiming to maim, not kill him, to siphon Lucinda’s element fromhis body – which would probably be far more painful than being stabbed.
“Kill her!” Benedict growled as he was flung against the far wall, the force taking the wind from his lungs. He took a curtain and its rail down with him. The crone lunged for him, but Peter grabbed her.
“I can’t,” he panted, trying to hold back the snarling crone. “I’d be stripped of my robes.”
The struggle continued as Benedict got to his feet. When his eyes fell on the filthy window behind him, he had an idea. He didn’t want to end a witch’s life, but they didn’t have much choice.
Quickly, he muttered a spell, and the window beneath his hand transformed into a mirror, reflecting his brother struggling behind him. Before he could be relieved the magic had worked, he saw the crone holding a glass dagger centimetres away from his brother’s throat. She might not be able to kill Peter, but she could trap his soul in such a blade.
Benedict lunged over the couch, tackling the crone to the ground. She scrambled to her feet, kicking him away as he threw the dagger to the other side of the room. Baring her blackened teeth, she began to chant in a language he didn’t recognise. The hovel began to shake, and the floorboards cracked beneath him, sending shards of wood flying.
“We need to get her to the mirror!” Peter shielded his brother, helping him get to his feet.
The brothers took the chance to grab the crone, who was lost in her chant. The movement broke her spell, and the hovel settled. It took all their combined strength to force her before the window-turned-mirror, cursing and screeching.
Her last desperate scream broke all the remaining windows as her reflection warped and twisted until she disappeared from their grasp. Benedict’s fist connected with the mirror, shatteringthe crone’s trapped image with a shrill shriek. They both stood panting, trying to catch their breath.
“Fuck,” Benedict croaked. “Do you’ve any idea how lucky we are? If you hadn’t spotted the dagger and flipped the table, I’d most likely be dead right now and you’d be trapped as her death-dealing servant.”
