Doubull Indemnity

4

Greg, Doesn't Have a Prescription

"Picking up?"

"Yes—well—I'm after a potion, see, but it ain't one you can get a prescription for, if you know what I mean?"

I flashed the witch behind the counter—her nametag read Anushka— my snazziest grin. Gave her the ole pearly whites razzle-dazzle, just a hint of fang, elbow propped up on the pharmacy county. Let a bit hair fall into my eyes. Couldn't see worth a damn but according to Isla (according to Phoebe), it made me look charming and rakish.

Anushka glanced up from the potion bottle she'd been filling to raise a brow at me. "Sir, I can't help you if you don't have a prescription, 'kay? Next!"

The next crone in line elbowed me aside to slap her script on the counter. Without even peeking at it, Anushka snatched the parchment and retreated into the stacks of highly regulated potion and spell ingredients behind her.

Dang it. Was already my third attempt this month to make a buy. My client, the Superior Alchemist, was growing frustrated with my lack of results. I needed third time to be the charm here. The black market charm.

See, not all magic is of the over the counter or do it yourself variety. Society does have laws, after all. What, you think vamps were the only creatures subjected to the tedious twenty-first century reality of paperwork? Not every witch has the license to whip up their own love spells and death droughts, or hell, harpy talon fungus remover at home. When they do, those potions tend to be of the bathtub gin variety, rather than the real good stuff.

Which brings me down to the old Varclay Apothecary, up in the affluent Graduate Hospital neighborhood, right on the corner of 17th and Spruce Streets. Cute little place. Had a homey feel, with well-polished floors and teal walls with Prescriptions painted in gold above the back counter. All manner of spells and potions populated the glass shelves surrounding me. From wart removers to pain reducing salves to glamour charms marketed at tween witches. Joint had been run by the Vervain Alchemist Coven—witches specially licensed in restricted potion craft—for five generations. Coven hired me to come poking my nose in the tea leaves when some unlucky novice noticed certain illicit ingredients taking a walk from their storeroom. Ingredients that just so happen to be essential for crafting love spells. And so close to Valentine's Day too, wouldn't you know it?

Course the witches didn't call the Magistrate about the theft. Not when the culprit was undoubtedly one of their own operating a little side hustle. Especially not when both the literal and figurative harpies of the Magistrate would question why the coven kept such vast stores ingredients to highly regulated and often illegal potions in the first place.

Love spells. Oh nelly, that was heavy stuff. Complete mind alternating hooch. Nothing romantic about seamlessly crushing your crush's free will and replacing their thoughts and desires with your own. Poor sap victim to one of those, a real high end one, would never even know what hit them. Go to bed sober, wake up punch drunk in love.

The fading warmth of what remained of Isla's blood in my veins tingled in my fingertips.

Bit my own nails to chase the feeling away.

Anushka returned. I grabbed a box off the nearest shelf and pretended to be mighty interested in its packaging as she rattled through the list of risks and instructions for the Anti-Aging Spell to the crone. Standard stuff. Don't wear the bespelled item for more than directed. Youthful appearance only temporary. Remember, illusion enchantments have no physical effect, only visual. Replication of charm was strictly prohibited.