Page 1 of The Curse of Indy Moore
1
Where Indy Gets Lost
InWestshire,wherenothingpeculiar ever happened, it shouldn’t be a surprise that we celebrated when an artificer came to town.
Miss Francesca Tallow sat on a table at the center of the tavern. Her dress changed colors from sunset tones to sunrise. She had a sharpness to her eyes, brown as autumn leaves, and her red hair draped like the most expensive silk over pale white shoulders. Every aspect of her screamed luxury, an endless supply of desire always met.
The tavern was never busy as it was each fall when the baron hired an artificer to refashion the enchantments upon his lands. That evening, the townsfolk visited to see what the artificer would conjure. After all, there was no one born to magic in Westshire for as long as any could remember, and that said a lot. Mrs. Bakerswell would turn one hundred and two that year. No one else had lived long enough todebunk her, but she creaked when she walked, and I think she coughed up dust once, so I was of the mind to believe her.
Francesca took a puff from her golden pipe. The pink smoke she exhaled morphed into palm-sized butterflies. A drunk made the horrendous decision of chasing said butterfly, falling face first into the floor, causing an uproar and a mess for me to clean.
Lifting his head, Gary smiled with his two missing front teeth that he lost in a hog-riding accident. “Sorry about that, Indy. They were so pretty. I, mm, can mop.”
“There’s no need, but how about we call it a night?” I suggested, while taking his mug. All I had been doing was refilling drinks to mop them later. What a waste.
“Mm, yeah.” Gary wobbled. Keeping a firm hold on his arm, I helped him into a chair. “I’ll take a warm meal. Whatever ya got.”
“Coming right up.”
I lifted empty plates while cutting around the folk struggling to remain close to Francesca. The tavern fit most of the townsfolk, as well as their memories. Tan-colored photographs from one of those fancy snapshot cameras covered the walls that once solely were for hunting memorabilia. I much preferred the photographs over animal carcasses. Their eyes always felt like they were judging me.
The second floor had six beds for rare travelers, but mostly for locals too inebriated to stumble home, and a large fireplace warmed the tavern on that crisp autumn evening. Gary, and everyone else, were there for hours ever since Francesca finished her work. I wasn’t entirely sure what she did, but we knew the baron’s lands never suffered losing livestock or rats living in his walls. None of his properties withered from old age or neglect, and no one could pass through the iron fence guarding his estate. Trying was a rite of passage, which was how I got my first concussion. Took a running start to leap over a fence only to be hit with such force, I went flying across the field.
A room full of red faces and grins watched Francesca hop off the table as gracefully as a dancer. She was pretty, the kind of girl to make one’s heart stutter without effort, but like all artificers, she had an ego that scratched the sky. She knewher presence was rare and drowned in the admiration. Although she caught folk by the collar to tease a kiss, she would never do more. At the end of the day, Westshire was a plaything to entertain her one evening a year.
“I need a volunteer,” she cooed in a prim accent, one we didn’t hear much around here, while I settled the empty plates on the counter, where Ysabel wiped away the remnants of anyone’s spilled drink.
Ysabel may have been so short she needed a stool to see over the counter, but none would dare miss her. She wore the same orange head wrap every day and a permanent scowl atop her rich ochre skin. As the owner, she loved Francesca’s visits. However, that didn’t stop the complaints. “These bastards are going to run me out of stock before the eve’s end.”
“Speaking of, Gary needs a snack,” I said.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have drank so much.”
Gary smiled sheepishly.
Ysabel gestured at the doors leading to the kitchen. “Get him a bowl of soup and a bread roll.”
Free of charge, though she wouldn’t say that. It could ruin her tough image.
I sent a glance over my shoulder, wishing my attention didn’t immediately fall on Baxter. He wore his favorite faux leather jacket, once riddled with holes that I patched using all the scraps available.The patches give it character, he claimed as I spent an evening fixing the latest tear.
I was a fool to think my rotten luck was broken. As a less-than-a-year-girlfriend, I shouldn’t have been surprised when he broke up with me barely a week before our one-year anniversary. I was so ecstatic that I bought a new dress. It was a spur of the moment decision I wholly regretted.
“Foolish,” I muttered.
“What?” asked Ysabel.
“Nothing. I’ll bring out a fresh pitcher of water, too. We’ll need it.”
In the kitchen, the cook stirred the pot of stew, already plating a couple of bowls. She never said much, and I never bothered her. She enjoyed being away from thecrowd, unbothered and surrounded by cooking utensils she meticulously cleaned. One could see their reflection in the spoons or be blinded by them if held at the potentially wrong angle.
Grabbing what I came for, I headed out to find Francesca had picked her volunteer. The sight of her leaning over Baxter’s shoulder made my blood run cold when it shouldn’t. We were done. He made that abundantly clear. Jealousy and envy were ugly emotions rotting one from within, and at that moment, I spoiled.
“Hold still, sweetheart. We wouldn’t want to harm that cute little mug of yours,” said Francesca.
Baxter’s ears burned red from the laughter of his friends. My heart wavered, and I cursed the organ for doing so.
Francesca retrieved a scepter from her purse. Shaped like an elongated pen, artificers used the curious devices to weave their magic. She switched the sharpened tip for a piece of chalk tucked in her purse. With a focus unlike her usual charm, she swept the scepter over the back of the chair. Silver light poured from her fingertips to the scepter that wrote a series of runes across the wood.
