It didn’t matter that it was midday with the sun as high as it could ever get over her head, Gwen didn’t feel safe leaving the house. It wasn’t that he’d follow her; he was fast asleep at midday. But if he did wake up, he’d know where she was, and if he wanted to, he could easily track her down. She risked it, though, because she was desperate and had no other choice. Even if he did catch her, what was the worst he could do?

She wished the man hadn’t changed the address on her. The first neighbourhood he’d given her was all swanky and white picket fences. But no, of course he’d have to move. And move to a shit neighbourhood. These rotten old structures were just as ratty as the hell hole she’d come from. If anything, he’d be more willing to follow her here. Might even grab himself a bite to eat, while he was at it.

She found the address after some wander and rang the buzzer, pulling up the collar of her jacket against the wind and any curious eyes as she waited for the door to buzz open. It took the guy long enough to answer, as if not at all eager to receive a new customer. When the door finally did buzz back, she yanked it open and ran up to the third floor.

There was a basket sitting outside one of the doors, emphasizing just how new this address was. Maybe she was his first customer here. It eased her mind a bit; he’d seemed so cold in his email. A little warmth would go a long way to ease her nerves.

The basket sat in front of door 307, so Gwen stopped and reached over it to knock at the dirty wooden frame. This one opened much quicker than the one outside.

Gwen had to blink a moment after the door opened, as if her brain couldn’t figure out what had happened. When she finally realized what was in front of her, the belly of a suit, she looked up to see the face that greeted her. Way up. The man stood a good six foot eight, towering over her, despite her not being at all a short person herself, standing five nine. But whatever she’d been picturing as a witch, this hadn’t been it. He was pale, almost vampire pale, but not so dead looking. His hair was silver, but still silky and youthful. His eyes were just as silver, though she couldn’t see most of them as he looked at her beneath drooping, disinterested lids. He raised a silver eyebrow at her when she didn’t move, her mouth hanging open.

“Can I help you?”

She blinked again and shook her head, letting her thoughts fall back into place. He looked sick, she realized. He wasn’t old. He shouldn’t look like this. But he did.

“Hi,” she said, finally finding her voice. “I’m looking for the Reich’ler?”

His brow furrowed together, like he couldn’t figure out who she was. Then they relaxed, though he still seemed entirely disinterested. “You must be Miss Smith.”

“Gwendolynn,” she said, sticking her hand out. He looked down at it, and she figured it was too extraneous for him to reach so far down to take it. So she lifted it up for him. After a moment, he took it.

“Dante Reich,” he said. “Please, come in.”

She followed his lead and stepped into the apartment, which was very much like stepping into a different world. Everything was smart and bright, the best quality money could buy. The paintings, the vases, the furniture. She spotted a comfortable looking recliner off to the side so made for that as the witch shut the door behind her. When she turned to sit in it, she found his eyes stuck on her.

“What?” she said as she took a seat.

He didn’t say anything a moment, so she waited. The basket which had been sitting outside his door hung between his hands, like he’d been expecting it or could have cared less about it, but wanted to get it out of the way. He payed it no attention, rather just kept staring. He was off in his own world, it seemed, so she raised her voice a little bit.

“What is it?”

“You’re twelve,” he said.

She stopped, because she hadn’t been expecting that. She grit her teeth and sat forward in the chair. “I’m twenty-three.”

“You look twelve.”

“No, I look seventeen, for some stupid reason.”

“What, you just stopped ageing at seventeen?”

He hadn’t said it like a question, more like dry sarcasm. He moved the basket to a table and left it there without so much as a glance. He slouched back against a weak looking divider that separated the living area and what might have been a kitchen, Gwen couldn’t tell, his armed crossed casually in front of him. He was trying so hard to act blasé.

“Yes,” she said. “I did.”

He blinked, a slow blink like he was trying to understand before he opened his eyes again. It didn’t work. “Alright.”

“How old are you?” she said, because she couldn’t just let him get away with his “twelve” comment. “Like, fifty?”

“That’s irrelevant,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“At least forty-five. You have to admit, I’m ageing far better than you.”

“At least I’m ageing at all,” he said. “I’d rather look twice my age than half. So how can I help you?”

“Twice?” she said, now too intrigued to let it go. “Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-seven,” he said. “If it’s the only way we’re going to move forward. So can I help you?”

“Twenty-seven? There’s no way in hell you’re experienced enough-”

“You came here,” he said, trying so hard to keep his air of cool disinterest. Gwen was under his skin, though, and she fed off it. “So you can complain about my old face and young age if you want, but you’re the one who wants help.”

“It’s not your face that’s old,” she said. “You have a young face. It’s the only reason I believe you’re the age you say you are. But why do you have such… grey hair.”

“Because the good kids get grey hair when they’re older for when they go to heaven. The bad ones get fiery red hair to let the world know exactly where they’ll end up.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it fiery,” Gwen said, looking down at whatever strands of her own hair lay draped over her shoulder.

“Look,” he said, “do you want help, or are you here for casual conversation?”

“Both, if I can get it,” she said. She looked over to the gift basket, because she wasn’t quite ready to talk about her problems. “Who was that from?”

“I don’t know,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “I didn’t recognize the name. Now please-”

“Are those apples?”

“Help yourself.”

“I hate apples,” she said. “Who would leave you apples?”

“If you like,” he said, his back teeth gritting slightly as he tried to keep his cool. “I can sit you out on my doorstep to see if they don’t come back.”

Gwen looked back to him and smiled. His breakdown was just the relief she needed before she could allow herself to explain her problem. She wanted a person to talk to, after all, not a brick wall.

“Look,” she said. “I have a problem.”

“No kidding.”

“I’m… linked to someone. Or something. I don’t know. Anyway, he can always find me and it’s pissing me off. I need him to not be able to do that.”

“So you want to be hidden or unlinked?”

“I don’t know, which ever works.”

“But you’re not even sure if there’s a link there.”

“Isn’t that your job?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let me look.”

She was about to ask him what he’d like to look at, but she got her answer before she could open her mouth. His eyes closed and she could feel something like a breeze. Light, almost unnoticeable except that she was indoors and there shouldn’t have been a breeze. It went through her, as if she was air, and was gone a moment later.

“What do you know,” the witch said. “There is a link.”

“I told you.”

He went to say something, and she could almost see the words on his lips before he thought better of it and pierced them together again. After a moment, he tried again.

“It’s not a very strong link, mind you. Nothing much stronger than marriage.”

Gwen frowned. “So what, people who get married have magical little links, too?”

“Like I said, it’s not much.”

Gwen snorted. “I knew you were a bullshit witch-”

“Warlock.”

“-as if ordinary mundies would get magic links because they fucking kissed each other.”

“It’s really not so much the kiss,” he said. “As it is the consummation afterwards.”

She looked at him a moment, trying to figure that out. Then she frowned. “What, so everybody out there having sex with everybody is linked to everybody like fucking HIV?”

“There’s a little link, yes,” he said. “It’s forms strongest on the wedding night. Are you married?”

“No,” she said, angry he’d even asked. “And I’m not a mundie, either.”

He just shrugged, his long arms coming loose from across his chest and swinging down at his side. His limbs were almost too long and he was impossibly tall. He might as well have been a skeleton with the amount of meat he had on his bones. His face was sallow, maybe from the illness, maybe from being so skinny (or maybe being ill brought on the skinny, or vice versa). He was sickening and terrifying to look at.

“Mundanes,” he said, his voice returning to that low, uncaring tone he’d first started with. “Take a lot more to form or use any kind of magic. But magic is always there. It’s in the air around you, it’s just that supernaturals have more of a tendency to gather it. So, what mundanes might manage with magic on their wedding night wouldn’t take a supernatural as much to achieve. A one night stand would probably do it.”

At this, Gwen fumed. How dare that insufferable bastard imply any such thing about her! He didn’t even know who she was or who he was talking to. Did he want her business or not? He didn’t seem to need it, of course. Just look at the size of the gift basket he’d gotten.

“Well, we didn’t have sex,” she said. “So find another explanation.”

“You know,” he said. “My magic works best if you are completely honest with me. Not that it matters much in this case, the link is already there.”

“I am being honest! We didn’t do anything.”

He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes back as he took a step forward. He grabbed an apple from the gift basket and came to stand in front of her.

“So long as you don’t have sex again,” he said, tossing the apple up and down without think about it. “Then anything I do to clear this up should work.”

Gwen growled but held her tongue.

“Now, not that it will affect me much, but since you are claiming not to be a mundane, it might help me to know exactly what you are.”

“Why do you need to know that?”

The witch sighed, tossing the apple into his other hand now. Back and forth like he was about to throw it at her. “Every supernatural has a different genetic makeup. It can greatly affect the magic I do.”

She sighed, looking away from him, trying to figure out what exactly to say. “I’m a… shifter, I guess.”

He raised an eyebrow, but his eyes stayed droopy. “You guess?”

“Well, I mean, I’m not birthed ready made with a title for exactly what I am, am I? Were you?”

His eyebrows popped up just a moment before flattening out again. “My parents knew.”

“Well, my mom abandoned me,” she said. “And Dad was a mundie, so when he figured out I was different, I got sent to an orphanage. So I didn’t have your luxury.”

The witch sighed. “Show me, then.”

“What? No! Of course not! You don’t just do that for strangers!”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“To be honest with you, I haven’t seen you-”

“And I’ve had plenty of customers show me before without even thinking. This is all for your benefit, so it you don’t want help.”

“-do any magic. Do some magic then. Show me you actually can, because I’m not entirely sure you’re worth my time.”

For some reason, this last line, said just after the witch had finished his own interjection, stuck out the most, and seemed to hit the strongest nerve. His eyes turned dark, though remained that eery silver colour. His brow deepened, and he looked at her through the silver hairs now hanging in front of his face. The apple in his hand cracked slightly in his tightening fist.

“I’m not worth your time.”

Gwen sucked in her breath, regretting ever having said anything. He looked terrifying, that image of a skeleton no where near the petrifying image that he now conjured. She just watched, because she couldn’t take it back now.

The apple cracked again, so Gwen looked over to it. White spilled out from the insides, like the sun through tree branches. It was only there for an instant, though. The cracks, once white, became brown, then black. The skin of the apple went from bright green, to yellow, to brown. Before the exterior could match the black insides, the apple caught fire, burning a bright blue around the witch’s hand. He didn’t even flinch. He let it burn until she couldn’t see the apple, couldn’t tell if there was anything left of it. Then he threw it up at the ceiling fan hanging lazily over them. Gwen gasped as it arched up, just under the old blades. When it fell back down, though, it hit the witch’s hand as an ordinary apple. Like nothing had happened.

“You want stupid illusions and fun magic tricks, then fine,” he said. “I can do that for you, too. Hire me for your next birthday party, if you like. But if you have an actually problem you need fixed, aside from your loose jaw, then there is no one else in this city that can help you like I can. Now,” he said, watching her steadily, though the dark look on his face had faded significantly. “Do you want my help, or not?”

“Yes.”

She’d said it before she’d meant to say anything. She opened her mouth and it popped out. But she was glad she’d said it. The look on his face reassured her that she’d said the right thing.

His shoulders relaxed, and he threw the apple over his shoulder. It arched way too soon to hit the basket so, halfway down, it stopped falling and floated over to the basket instead, lying exactly where the witch had pulled it from in the first place.

“Reich’ler,” she said, almost automatically. She’d heard the name so many times. Almost everyone knew it, like a fairytale. The most powerful witch in New Toulouse. The most revered. She looked up to that name, but hadn’t associated it with this man until now. She was sitting in front of the Reich’ler.

“Call me Dante,” he said. “And I’m sorry, but I’ve entirely forgotten your name.”

“Gwen,” she said.

“Gwendolynn, right,” Dante said, watching her carefully. “Now, Gwen, if you want me to help you, it would certainly help if you showed me exactly what you are.”

Gwen looked at her toes and swallowed. She knew she had to, of course, but there was something so terribly uncomfortable about doing it in front of anyone she didn’t know. But he had shown her, and if he could help…

“Don’t laugh,” she said, looking up at him. “I can’t change with my clothes.”

He just shrugged, like he’d seen it before. She tried to console herself with this, took a deep breath, and changed.

Next Chapter: Dante