Page 76 of As Above, So Below

Her eyes meet mine once again. She smiles at me, a wider smile this time, revealing ever so slightly pointed canines. Fangs that small would be useless in self-defense.

“I’m no adventurer,” she laughs, setting the blue glass aside with care. “No, I purchase from travelers such as yourself. We also broker sales and arrangements on behalf of buyers and sellers.”

Perfect.

“And cursed objects? Do you deal in those?” My eyes travel to a few of the necklaces laid out on the counter.

“We do,” she answers with a firm nod.

Stepping back, she reaches under the counter and withdraws a dense book. With a thickthud, she sets it down and throws it open to a page near the middle. A quick glance reveals it’s a list of names and objects.

“Searching for something specific? Or just wanted to browse what’s available?” she asks. “We keep a catalogue of things available for private sale.”

Better and better. I’ve chosen the right shop to venture into.

“I’m hoping to sell,” I answer, stepping up to the counter. “I’ve come into possession of an obsidian box. Though, I don’t knowwhat it holds.”

Embala’s eyes light up. “Oh well, that’s easy enough.” She smiles. “Do you have the box with you?”

Reaching down, I pull the box from my boot and set it upon the counter. It’s no larger than a ring box. The obsidian appears to absorb any surrounding light, making it look like a vortex of the deepest black against the wood of the counter.

Embala studies the box for a moment before picking it up, pinching it between her index finger and thumb. The motion causes me to lift a brow and smile—I’m not the only one who doesn’t like the way obsidian boxes feel.

She turns the box over, peering at the underside.

I’m not sure what she expects to find. The box, carved out of polished obsidian and spelled with blood magic, looks like a simple square of black stone. There are no mechanisms or seams visible. Setting the box upon the counter, she continues to inspect the obsidian.

“I would wager there’s a ring in here,” she says mostly to herself.

Embala reaches under the counter again, withdrawing a small, needle-like blade that’s no longer than the breadth of my hand. I don’t bother stopping her. If she wants to offer her blood to open the thing, she’s more than welcome to.

She pricks her finger, letting the blood well for a moment before pressing her finger to the surface of the box. It glows bright red in response, and a fine red line of her blood is drawn across its surface. Removing her finger, the box opens like a flower, petals of obsidian folding back, revealing the object nestled within.

A tiny slip of a thing forged from silver and highly polished. It glints in the magelights hanging above us. A simple band, no gemstone, no inscription. But the surface of the silver shimmers with a blue-silver gleam, a clear indication that it’s been spelled. Magic emanates from it, a faint thrum, much weaker than it should be.

The ring is hiding its ability, telling a lie.

It’s been spelled to hide its wearer and itself. But why?

Embala pushes some of her blond hair behind her ear and purses her lips. “Interesting. It’s glamouring itself,” she says, plucking thering from the box without hesitation.

My eyes widen as I step back from the counter.

Her eyes dart to me and a grin spreads on her face.

“I don’t plan on wearing it,” she assures with a shake of her head. “But, I am going to have my father, Gladir, look at it. He may know more about the exact magic it’s been imbued with.”

As I open my mouth to argue, Embala vanishes through the heavy red curtain behind the counter. A brief flash of a rear storeroom is revealed as she opens the curtain. Shelves stacked with artifacts, books, papers, boxes, all neat and orderly. The curtain falls closed, and I’m left staring after her in wait.

Should Embala or her father decide to wear the ring, I don’t want to be around to see exactly what its effects would be. I’ve no interest in being held responsible for their curiosity. As the seconds pass, dread begins to creep up my spine and settle in my stomach.

In an effort to distract myself and avoid brooding, my eyes wander to the collection of objects that line the shelves on my left. Nothing stands out as significant or even interesting, sadly. A tall fae male emerges from behind the curtain and as he steps up to the counter, his eyes meet mine.

I’m assuming this is Gladir.

The resemblance between Embala and her father is clear. She has his eyes. He approaches with the ring lying in the palm of his hand, showcasing how tiny the ring really is. Or perhaps the massiveness of his hand.

“Hello,” he says, his voice deeper than I’d expect. “Embala says you’re the one who brought this in?”