magic shop excerpt
In honor of International Fanworks Day (and EAD) here’s about 1200 words of The Foul Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart chapter 8. Consider yourself warned that this is a draft and subject to change. Life is kind of fucked at the moment, but I’m still trying to write. I’m hoping that this will help motivate me to use at least some of the free time I have.
Chapter 8
In Peter’s house, wonders were commonplace, but Stiles still jumped whenever Slendy appeared from an improbable scrap of shadow. A cool wetness slid over his hand where the tiniest crack of the desk drawer disgorged his strange friend. Stiles watched in fascination as the viscous fluid flowed across the woodgrain. The way it caught the light startled him. Somehow, he’d never noticed that they weren’t actually the blackness of ink and shadow; no, the homunculi were the deep, dark red of blood on a moonlit circle. As the last bit of him plopped onto the floor, Slendy swiftly metamorphosed from puddle to the homunculus Stiles knew and loved—plus a stack of books.
“From Peter?” he asked.
Slendy didn’t speak, but the homunculi didn’t seem capable of vocalizing, or perhaps had simply not chosen to share that ability with him yet. Instead, it gave a short nod and held out the books in spindly limbs.
“Thanks, buddy.” Stiles took the small stack and watched as Slendy stepped into the shadow limning his door.
“Wow.” He laughed at himself. “Somehow it doesn’t get any less weird.” Or less cool. So few people had one homunculus, much less the herd Peter had created, that each time Stiles interacted with them still gave him a thrill.
“Every day’s an adventure.” Stiles shook his head, refocusing his attention, and took stock of the books Peter thought he needed. A Treatise on Magical Unions. Two Treatises on the Masculine Divine. Sympathetic Magic in Fertility Rites. The False Boundary of Biological Function. Achieving Oneness: A Guide to Sex in the Circle. A Brief Note on the Benefits of Consubstantiation. Transforming Symbols: Advanced Transubstantiation in and out of the Ritual Circle.
He whistled between his teeth, drawing it out like a boiling kettle. Those were some heavy titles for such a short stack, and he still had his project to think about. Frowning, he rolled the chair the short distance to his bed and gently deposited the books on the blue duvet.
Steve hissed her annoyance when one of the spines came perilously close to touching her.
Stiles flapped his hand. “Oh bit your quitching. You’re fine. It never even touched you.”
He turned away from his pouting familiar and back to the problem at hand: the king’s ransom of magical stones scattered across his desktop. They were beautiful, rare, and costly, and not one of them was fit to hold an Imprint. Oh, they had all the right properties with impeccable provenance, all ethical and specially created or mined for this or similar purposes, but after tests, tests, and more tests, Stiles couldn’t deny it any longer. They simply weren’t right for his project. Even though he was only using a soul blank in tests, something about his alteration of the Imprint process put too much stress on the physical structure. Before his eyes, a pristine celestite crystal emitted a few weak flashes and cracked.
“Fuck.” Stiles ran a hand through his hair. That was the closest he’d come, and it had only lasted two days.
He half-heartedly poked at the celestite, already knowing what he’d find. Of fucking course. Inert. He’d killed another one.
---
And now he had homework for his sex thing, appointment, ritual. He picked up the paperweight that had appeared on his desk one day, a beautiful replica of Steve twining through a bone-white apple, and hefted it in contemplation. It was pretty heavy. If he hit himself hard enough, maybe he’d just be able to Sleeping Beauty his way through the ritual. In a coma, at least he wouldn’t need to worry about his failure to make a prototype and fulfill Deucalion’s little request.
“Fuck,” he said it again, softly and with more feeling. He put the fake Steve back in pride of place and spun in idle circles, letting his head fall onto the chair back as the Prussian blue of his walls blurred around him.
He’d been so sure about his project, so meticulous about the research and planning, almost scientific in his process. When the structure of the rite had finally slotted into place one day, the sense of rightness that had filled him… it was indescribable. He’d known it was exactly the breakthrough he needed to create this new type of Imprint that could act as a beacon to the dead soul, inviting its attention and presence for a more meaningful interaction with the living.
But even the blanks were shorting out his most potent stones. He’d fallen into the classic mistake and underestimated the power requirements. If he thought about how much of Peter’s money he’d wasted on futile experiments, he’d throw up all over his useless fucking rocks. The chair slowed to a stop, and Stiles scowled at his room. For one furious moment, he hated it. The blue walls and antique furniture, rare sketches of sacred geometry, the Sputnik chandelier that had been love at first sight: how dare Peter give him a place so suited to his tastes when Stiles couldn’t even get this one thing right.
The giant ruby on his ring glittered at him, a cheerful reminder that he had so many people counting on him.
His throat closed as frustrated tears threatened to fall. What the fuck, Stiles? Are you really such a fucking whiner that you’re crying over this? With the last dregs of his rationality, he swallowed the tantrum, shoved the panic and self-pity to the furthest recesses of his mind. He was old hat at compartmentalization; after all, it was the only way he’d survived his apprenticeships.
Temporarily shielded from the day’s crushing disappointment, Stiles surveyed the beautiful, useless pile of stones, and swept his arm across the desktop. Rocks, pens, and papers fell to the floor with a satisfying clatter.
Good.
Steve’s concern pressed on his awareness, so he spared a moment to reassure her, sending a pulse of acknowledgement. He was fine now that he’d gotten it out of his system, and he’d clean it all up later.
It was clear now that his mistake had come from allowing terminology to tie him down. He understood now what he was doing. This had gone beyond the normal boundaries of Imprints long ago. He was creating something else entirely. A thrill raced down his spine, and Stiles shivered. Was he prepared to take this step and be a true necromancer?
Peter’s face flashed through his mind. “Go big or go home,” he whispered to himself and pulled out his phone. His thumbs raced over the keys, dashing off his request before he could reconsider.
Deucalion had offered any help within his power, but this would test the resolve of anyone.
Stiles nearly dropped the phone when it dinged, notifying him of a text. Fuck. Deuc never texted back.
His fingers trembled as he checked the reply.
Consider it done.
Stiles boggled down at the three words. “He said yes? Just like that?” he whispered. It must be nice to be a thousand years old and richer than God.
Slowly, he sagged in his chair, limp with relief. This would work. It had to. He’d make it work. If blood rubies couldn’t make an almost-phylactery, then nothing would.
