slight pop and a tendril of pink mist rose into the air followed by the unmistakable scent of strawberries and cinnamon, with just a hint of hot chocolate. But after a long, deep breath of the delicious odor, the little merchant’s nose suddenly twitched and he unleashed an enormous sneeze, blasting away the pink fumes and leaving only an annoyed wrinkle on his brow. “No, no, no,” he said, corking the vial and tossing it back on the shelf. “Too young, too young! Perhaps in a few years, eh, my boy? We need something bolder for you, don’t we? That I can tell!”
Philus grabbed a small box next, holding it tight with both hands, and for good reason. The box shook so violently in his grip that the small man was nearly thrown to the ground. Jim took a step or two back in fear of his safety.
“These little beauties are a pair of Bulgarian Boxing Rocks!” Philus announced, his voice herking and jerking. “Hold one of these stones in each hand and you’re guaranteed to knock any foe into the dirt, regardless how big or how strong he may be!” Jim arched one eyebrow at the Boxing Rocks, thinking for a pleasant moment of using them on Bartholomew Cromier. But the old man snorted again and all but threw the box into the back of his wagon, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“No, no, no!” Philus repeated once more, stomping a foot on his little wooden step. “Hardly proper for a gentleman such as yourself. Besides, they’re a devil to get back in the box, believe you me.”
The old man sighed and his shoulders slumped. He hung his head and tapped his flute on his bald crown as though on the verge of surrender. Again Jim looked back over his shoulder to the beach. He very nearly thanked Philus for his efforts and insisted he should be going,when the little man suddenly shrieked as though struck by a bolt of lightning. Mister Philonius threw back his head and laughed a long, how-could-I-be-so-foolish laugh. When his cackling laughter finally subsided, Philus snuck a long, sideways glance at Jim, as though measuring and weighing him with those old, green eyes. Then he slowly, slowly turned his shrewd, bearded face back toward the shelf.
“There is one other possibility, isn’t there? It could be just the thing.” Philus rose up on his tiptoes and reached to the very top shelf, taking down a square, glass bottle, red as blood and capped with a burnt black cork. Stepping down from the wagon, Philus crept slowly and purposefully over to Jim and handed the bottle over.
“This is the number, isn’t it, my boy?” he whispered.
Jim took the bottle and nearly dropped it immediately. It was surprisingly warm, no, almost hot to the touch, as though it had just been heated over an open flame. Jim turned the bottle over in his fingers until he came around to the label, bearing but a single word, written on the side. When Jim read this one word, a desire as hot as the liquid in the bottle began to burn in his chest. The one word was written in black letters on a white label, and the word was this:
REVENGE.
SEVEN
im looked up at Philus and found the old man staring back. The eager gleam in Jim’s eyes and the white knuckles with which he gripped the bottle seemed to be answer enough for the magician. The old man smiled from ear to ear. The fire danced like coals in his clear, green eyes.
“Rare stuff that is, young master Morgan,” Philus said. His voice grew low and urgent. “Won’t bother telling you what it is or from whence I got it. You’d hardly believe me if I did, and I’m not sure you really want to know. All you need to know is this: one administration of a potion made from this elixir, and you are guaranteed to turn the tables on your foes.”
Jim closed his eyes. The hot fire crackled behind him. The warm bottle sent waves of heat up his arm. He pictured himself holdingBartholomew Cromier at sword point - the very way the pale captain had once held him,
Philus grabbed a small box next, holding it tight with both hands, and for good reason. The box shook so violently in his grip that the small man was nearly thrown to the ground. Jim took a step or two back in fear of his safety.
“These little beauties are a pair of Bulgarian Boxing Rocks!” Philus announced, his voice herking and jerking. “Hold one of these stones in each hand and you’re guaranteed to knock any foe into the dirt, regardless how big or how strong he may be!” Jim arched one eyebrow at the Boxing Rocks, thinking for a pleasant moment of using them on Bartholomew Cromier. But the old man snorted again and all but threw the box into the back of his wagon, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“No, no, no!” Philus repeated once more, stomping a foot on his little wooden step. “Hardly proper for a gentleman such as yourself. Besides, they’re a devil to get back in the box, believe you me.”
The old man sighed and his shoulders slumped. He hung his head and tapped his flute on his bald crown as though on the verge of surrender. Again Jim looked back over his shoulder to the beach. He very nearly thanked Philus for his efforts and insisted he should be going,when the little man suddenly shrieked as though struck by a bolt of lightning. Mister Philonius threw back his head and laughed a long, how-could-I-be-so-foolish laugh. When his cackling laughter finally subsided, Philus snuck a long, sideways glance at Jim, as though measuring and weighing him with those old, green eyes. Then he slowly, slowly turned his shrewd, bearded face back toward the shelf.
“There is one other possibility, isn’t there? It could be just the thing.” Philus rose up on his tiptoes and reached to the very top shelf, taking down a square, glass bottle, red as blood and capped with a burnt black cork. Stepping down from the wagon, Philus crept slowly and purposefully over to Jim and handed the bottle over.
“This is the number, isn’t it, my boy?” he whispered.
Jim took the bottle and nearly dropped it immediately. It was surprisingly warm, no, almost hot to the touch, as though it had just been heated over an open flame. Jim turned the bottle over in his fingers until he came around to the label, bearing but a single word, written on the side. When Jim read this one word, a desire as hot as the liquid in the bottle began to burn in his chest. The one word was written in black letters on a white label, and the word was this:
REVENGE.
SEVEN
im looked up at Philus and found the old man staring back. The eager gleam in Jim’s eyes and the white knuckles with which he gripped the bottle seemed to be answer enough for the magician. The old man smiled from ear to ear. The fire danced like coals in his clear, green eyes.
“Rare stuff that is, young master Morgan,” Philus said. His voice grew low and urgent. “Won’t bother telling you what it is or from whence I got it. You’d hardly believe me if I did, and I’m not sure you really want to know. All you need to know is this: one administration of a potion made from this elixir, and you are guaranteed to turn the tables on your foes.”
Jim closed his eyes. The hot fire crackled behind him. The warm bottle sent waves of heat up his arm. He pictured himself holdingBartholomew Cromier at sword point - the very way the pale captain had once held him,
Similar Books
