The Soul Charmer of Gem City’s standard mode was ‘creepy dude.’ He moved too fast. He was too flexible. There was the whole ‘could steal your soul’ thing. He shouldn’t have been able to get any more terrifying.
Shouldn’t was a word Callie needed to drop from her vocabulary.
The seventy-something year-old man scuttled out from behind his desk. His wisps of white hair swirled in a flurry to rival the snow outside. His fingers—normally weighed down with garish gold rings—were bare except for a lone signet ring on his index finger. He’d been wearing the same burgundy pajama set the last four times she’s been in the shop. At least three days in a row. Pungent sweat slithered beneath the sharp astringent of the soul storage space and workroom.
“Calliope. Finally.” The Soul Charmer’s tone was as cutting as ever.
She pulled the flask from her pocket and placed it on the oak desk. “Benton’s soul, as promised. What was the rush?”
“Every soul that belongs to me is essential.”
“Since when,” she muttered.
The Charmer stepped close. She hated when he did this. His nose was inches from hers. Backing away wasn’t an option. Not with the man who imbued her with the soul magic ability. Not with the man who was supposed to be teaching her to harness the magic. Not with the man who always had plans A, B, and C, and most of them involved fire. Up close, though, Callie could see the changes. The sharpening of his cheeks. The darkening of the delicate skin beneath his eyes. She’d been tormented over her missing mother and Nate’s disappearance with her for days now. The Soul Charmer wasn’t suffering over Zara, but Callie recognized the look. Desperation was the one look that could make the Soul Charmer downright horrifying.
Callie dug an incisor into her cheek. Steady. Focus. Appease him. Don’t burn. Get out. Find Nate. Get Mom. She repeated the mantra to herself over and over. The Charmer remained too close. He didn’t speak, but Callie could swear he was digging those beady eyes into her brain or her soul or something. Whatever he was doing, it was unnerving as hell. Callie peeked over his shoulder. Derek fidgeted in the corner. The strain of letting her fight her own battles pulled his jaw tight.
“Where did you put that 1420 jar?” The accusation was almost worse than his breath.
“On the far case.” She pointed to the corner of the room.
The Charmer didn’t so much step back as pop a few feet away. She had no idea how the old man was so nimble. Magic, probably. He went to the bookshelf in question and began pushing jars left and right. Each jar was crafted from smoky black glass, and was only three inches in diameter. If she had never heard of soul renting, she might be able to pretend they were tins of artisanal tea.
“I can’t find it,” he huffed.
Derek stepped forward ready to run interference for her. She barely shook her head no, but he got the message. She stepped next to the Soul Charmer. A jar with 1420/2000 written in tiny, perfect script on the front was just to the right of his hand. Callie didn’t bother telling him, and simply reached over his hand to pick it up. She was mindful to keep her fingers away from the chalk marking the contents. The last thing she needed was to have to try to prove the soul was the one he was looking for.
“Here.”
“Oh. Why did you put it here? The upper-middle range should go on that shelf.” He screwed off the lid and peered inside at the gossamer tendrils swirling inside.
Callie bit back the urge to tell him she’d done as he asked. He was too mercurial for that to matter, though.
“Can you explain the measurement system again?” Might as well try to extract a little helpful information while he was in this addled state.
“Purity scores. If you don’t already know that, I don’t know why I waste time with you.” He tilted the jar to let the overhead florescent lights hit the contents fully. The white-silver strands maintained their natural glow. Must be nice.
“Of course. The closer to two thousand, the more pure the soul. I remember.” She repeated his words from weeks ago. She could have guessed as much. This apprentice thing worked so much better with a mentor who wanted to teach. That was not the Soul Charmer.
“Then don’t ask stupid questions.”
A sharp, clean bell rang through the room. The Charmer’s gaze fixed on Callie, and the hardened black in his eyes held her in place.
Derek cleared his throat a couple times. The heavy grit of his deep rumble scraped through the room. “I’ll see what they want,” he said, and then disappeared past the curtain.
The Charmer cupped the 1420 jar in his hand, and closed his eyes. The soul didn’t leap from its container, and Callie was far enough away to avoid the sizzling effects of the open lid, but the needling sense that something was happening pushed against her chest.
“How do you know what the score should be?” Her voice was barely a whisper, but the sterile room laid everything bare, even her need for any kind of win today.
The Charmer was eerily still. His chest barely flexing with his slow inhalations. But he answered her. “The taste. The scent. The way it feels against you when it begs.”
To an outsider that had to sound batshit, but Callie understood. She’d heard the souls beg for a host, for a home. Her boss had let an oddly sexual undertone float beneath the description, but Callie didn’t take any pleasure from the souls’ needs.
She’d only experienced this a few times. The first couple times were accidents. The others were deep beneath the Cortean Catholic cathedral. Calling souls from a well owned by priests had felt eight kinds of wrong, but it also didn’t give her enough experience to follow his words. “Are the pleas different for purer
