Bounty Hunter (The Black Tulip Chronicles #1)

9. Vera

Chapter 9

Vera

I almost giddily make the hour-long journey to Mr. Eddieren’s healing potions shop. It lies in a neighboring city, over the fae border, one much larger than the city I call home. I intentionally travel a busy road filled with others heading to work—merchants with their large wagons full of wares, and farmers with carts filled with food to sell at market. I slip between wagons and horses, but I don’t mind the traffic. Well-traveled roads such as these are safer for someone like me who’s traveling alone.

Rupi flutters to my shoulder amidst the busyness and nestles into the warm spot against my neck. I greet her with a smile and a small pinch of birdseed I always keep in a pocket of my long coat as I walk. The gentle cracking of the seeds in her tiny beak as she eats is a comforting, familiar sound, and her delighted chirps every so often bring a smile to my face. She showed up just before my parents died, hopping around me in the forest one day. And the next, and the next. Until I started bringing her home every night. The rest is history. Somehow, I think she knows how much I’ve needed her .

I don’t know much about birds, but I never thought she’d live this long, though she seems as young as ever. At first, I was just happy simply to have a pet, but I found out fast that Rupi is an excellent judge of character. And she’s a weapon in her own right with the way her fluff can turn to sharp edged quills with a ruffle of her feathers. I consider her my guard bird. She’s saved me from taking bad contracts, among other things. It seems silly to say, but I trust her judgement completely. I trail a finger down her tiny, smooth back, and she flicks her head to peck at my finger affectionately, then with a gentle flap of her small wings she takes off into the air and lands in the nearby trees. I don’t worry. She often leaves and always finds me again.

Soon enough, I enter the small potion shop that I’ve called work for the last three weeks, but not before noticing the sulfuric-scented fumes billowing from the chimney in dark, fat clouds. My nose wrinkles, and I hurry inside. I’ve contracted with enough potion makers to know that a scent like that indicates that Mr. Eddieren is in need of magical support. I find it’s even worse inside, the blend of smells coming from the back room are enough to drop a deathstalker. I quickly hang my coat and bag on a hook behind the counter and force myself to enter the awful-smelling back room to see sweat pouring from the potion master’s brow, the strain pulling at his face, and shaking in his hands. All signs of pulling fatigue. I quickly pull magic, invigorated by the cool of it as it runs through my veins. It’s difficult for me to comprehend the extreme energy it takes for others to pull magic when it seems so drawn to me that I have to be careful how much I pull and use in order to keep my true identity under wraps, not to speak of the way it’s cool and people will notice if I send too much at a time. I push it toward the potion maker, and he turns, relief in his eyes.

“Perfect timing!” he calls, as he accepts the magic with relief. He keeps his focus on bringing the boiling solution before him to an exact temperature, muttering to himself here and there, but mostly in his own potion-making world now that he has enough magic and can focus.

I’m content to let him be throughout the day. I help customers at the front counter, chat with a few of the regulars, but am always sure to keep the offered magic flowing at a medium trickle as he finishes at least twenty more batches of an assortment of potions. By the end of the day, with the help of my magic, he seems no worse for wear and is chipper as usual. That’s what I’m paid for, after all, to pull raw magic and share it in a usable form so that those who aren’t Originators don’t die from the exertion of pulling, or lose their jobs from lack of magic. With gloam out of control and lucent diminished, it’s exhausting for those of other magic types to pull any amount of magic. The resource is limited and takes so much energy to use that some are basically Absent, but for most people, magic is a vital part of their existence and many struggle. It gets worse every year.

Though I hold a somewhat prestigious title, that of Originator, I am unwilling to charge as much for my services as most. Those who contract with me are struggling as much as I am. No upper class noble is going to hire a lower class Originator on permanently, like my Tulip sisters, leaving Renna and I to forage for the odd contracts here and there to create some type of consistent income. For some odd reason, magic made me able to pull large amounts of magic without tiring, and I don’t feel good about charging the poor people, who will actually hire me, their life’s savings to pay for it.

Most everyone struggles, thanks to the terrible leadership in all five kingdoms. The kings don’t care about the people I work with and care for—the poor and struggling. And if I’m honest, I’m one of ‘em. I’ve seen the kingdoms continue to diminish, heard the history from Tatania at the annual Tulip meetings, and seen firsthand the destitute state of too many people whose forefathers thrived. But aside from helping where I can, and offering less for my services than most, I’m just a Tulip pretending to be someone I hate, and I want to be done.

I grab a duster and begin cleaning, another of the duties I’ve taken on voluntarily. No sense in sitting around bored for days at a time. I’ve worked long hours for the last eight years to make enough to pay the semi-annual Black Tulip dues every six months and still build my savings to make a new start. To finally do something that doesn’t require me to live under the guise of an Originator. Every cent I have is taken by the outrageous cost of the complete dump I pay to live in, and the rest goes to Tulip dues, my savings, and very little amounts of food. My loose clothing attests to that fact. I look down at the belt I had to poke another hole in to cinch a little tighter, the waistband now scrunches up oddly around the men’s shirt I wear tucked into it. I shrug, they do the job. No one looks twice when I wear these clothes, which is helpful for a woman who travels alone, but I know I’ve gotta find something better to wear when I visit Mama Tina or she’ll outfit me in a wardrobe of her choosing, and I can’t have that. She always had decent suggestions when I was a teen, but I shiver when I think of the last outfit I saw her wearing—made her look like a genuine ostrich.

Instead of dreading how I’ll have to spend valuable coin on clothing I don’t care about, I spend a little time daydreaming about the perfect space I plan to purchase, where I’ll sell my odd trinkets, and best of all, how it has nothing to do with Originators or even Tulips. I couldn’t be happier at the thought. Of course, owning my own shop has its risks. If I don’t make enough to pay the Tulip dues for the next six months, I’ll be forced to return to bounty hunting, or worse, having to beg money off Mama Tina, which I have never done in my life and refuse to do. And, maybe, after I’ve gathered the dues, I’ll finally have enough to buy food and fit in my clothes once again. It may not be a perfect, comfortable plan, but I can’t wait to get started.

I happily whip the duster between an assortment of bottles on a shelf. But then an annoying thought pops into my head, reminding me that I’ll miss many of the people I’ve contracted with over the years. I’ll worry for them. Healers, hunters, potion makers, weapon enchanters—I’ve worked with all of them here and there. My duster droops in my hand for a moment. Then I remind myself again that I’m a hated and obsolete Tulip, the best thing I can do is hide away.

By the end of the day, the entire building blessedly begins to smell of fresh fruit, sunlight, and honey, and I know I’ve done my job. I watch as Mr. Eddieren carefully pours the completed potion into small vials, marks the date of their creation on the bottom, caps them, and carefully sets them out under his front counter to sell.

I throw my ratty long-coat around my shoulders while he shuffles to his safe and returns with a small wad of cash. It should be much larger, if I charged him the average going rate for an Originator, but I take the money with a smile and pocket it, happy I can help a fellow struggling citizen.

“You’ll do great things, Avenera.” He squeezes my hand in a strong, fatherly grip.

I’m not so sure I’m capable of great, but definitely good. Average, at least. I smile anyway. Then my eyes get teary, and I know it’s time to leave. Though he’s distant and distracted most of the time, and I’ve only contracted with him a few times, he’s been kind and offered tidbits of wisdom here and there. And this is my last contract using my magic as I do. I give him a hug, smelling that sunshine and honey scent once again before I leave with a teary smile and one last wave. I take a moment to imprint the picture of his quaint shop, him standing at its door and smiling.

Then I turn and realize I’m a free woman, free to move on to the next chapter of my life, and joy rushes through my limbs. I will no longer need to call myself an Originator. I can call myself an Absent, if that’s what I want to be. For the first time in my life, through sheer grit and discipline, I’ve gotten ahead. I resist punching the air—I don’t like drawing attention to myself. Instead, I shove my hands deep into my coat pockets and tug it tight around me like a celebratory self-hug. I’ve struggled through soul-deep weariness and lack of food at times, worked long hours, taken semi-dangerous jobs, but I can feel the extra bounce in my step today. This last job has given me enough to pay my dues for another six months, and I’ve made enough to take my savings and buy the perfect spot. I run the entire way back to the city I call home. Rupi flies around beside me, sensing my joyous mood. I’m planning to splurge on tender meats, cheese, and homemade bread to share with Renna in celebration when she returns from the river job she’s taken in a week. She’s been there all along, my best friend, the one who understands the struggle of being a Tulip in a world where we are hated. Of being poor and the excitement of finally getting a little ahead. I smile again at the rush of joy that surges through my veins.