Chapter 1: Closing Time at the Pharmacy
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a sound like trapped flies dying against glass. Ashanti leaned on the counter, the cool linoleum seeping through her thin smock. Her arms, intricately woven with the tribal ink of a lineage she’d abandoned, ached from another day of grinding valerian root and sneaking crushed moonstone into old Mrs. Henderson’s blood pressure pills.
The air was thick with the smell of rubbing alcohol, burnt sage, and the metallic aftermath of a transformation potion that had hissed and turned to black tar in its flask two hours ago. Failure had a scent, and it clung to everything.
The bell over the door didn’t jingle so much as shudder, a deep, wooden groan. She didn’t need to look up. The floorboards complained under a weight only one of her regulars carried.
Grurk’s shadow fell over the counter, blotting out the sickly green glow. He smelled of damp earth, cheap tobacco, and a musk that was purely, potently orc. He was massive, his skin the color of moss-covered stone, his tusks yellowed where they protruded over his thick lower lip. He managed the stockroom, which was a polite way of saying he scared off anyone who came sniffing around after hours.
“Slow night,” he grunted, his voice like gravel in a barrel.
“They’re all slow nights,” Ashanti said, not looking up from the ledger where she was fudging the inventory of dried nightshade. “Until they’re not.”
He came around the counter, his presence making the cramped space feel microscopic. His broad, green hand, knuckles like river stones, covered hers on the ledger, stopping her pen. The heat of him was immediate.
“You look tense.”
She finally lifted her sharp amber eyes to his. “You offering a break?”
A low rumble started in his chest. He didn’t do small talk, and she appreciated that. It was transactional, and tonight, she needed the transaction. The rent on her tiny apartment over the pawn shop was due, and the quiet loneliness that lived in her bones like a second skeleton was particularly loud.
He gripped her hip, his fingers digging in, and spun her to face the counter. She braced her palms flat against the cold surface. The gesture was familiar, unceremonious. He yanked the utilitarian smock and her cheap cotton dress up around her waist in one rough pull. The air, cool against her bare skin, made her shiver.
He didn’t bother with foreplay. He never did. There was the rustle of his pants, the clink of a belt buckle, and then the thick, blunt head of him was pressing against her. She was already wet. Her body had long since learned to respond to the simple economics of the act: his need, her compensation, a moment of feeling something other than empty.
He pushed in.
A sharp, full ache made her gasp. He was huge, a stretching, burning intrusion that forced a low moan from her throat. He didn’t wait for her to adjust, just set a brutal, immediate rhythm, slamming into her with a wet, rhythmic squelch that echoed off the rows of empty shelves and glass bottles.
“Fuck,” she breathed, her forehead dropping to the counter. Each thrust drove her forward, her big breasts flattening against the linoleum. The glass bottles of half-made potions rattled nearby.
He grunted, a series of guttural, choppy words in his native tongue. She didn’t understand them, but the meaning was clear. Obscenities, praises, animal sounds of pleasure. His green hands tightened on her hips, sure to leave bruises in the shape of his fingers. She’d see them tomorrow in the mirror, faint marks of currency.
“Is that all?” she taunted over her shoulder, her voice tight. “C’mon, big guy. You stock shelves harder than this.”
He growled, a sound that vibrated through her whole body, and his pace quickened, becoming punishing. The counter edge dug into her pelvis. The pleasure was a twisted knot, tangled up with the sheer physical overwhelm of him. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t even like. It was a storm, and she was just a tree bending in it. Her nails scratched against the countertop. Her cunt clamped down around him, a slick, tight channel being ruthlessly used, and a reluctant, sharp climax ripped through her, wringing a choked cry from her lips.
He felt her tighten and roared, pounding into her twice more before he stilled, buried to the hilt. She felt the hot, deep pulse of his release flooding her, a river of it, filling her up until it was leaking out around where they were joined, a hot trickle down the inside of her thigh.
He held there for a long moment, his breath hot on the nape of her neck. Then he pulled out with a slick, wet sound.
A warm gush followed, dripping down her legs to puddle on the floor between her feet. She stayed bent over the counter, catching her breath, feeling the cold air on her exposed, used skin.
A heavy slap landed on her ass, stinging. Then the soft, clean whisper of paper being set down next to her cheek.
Nine hundred-dollar bills, crisp and green, fanned out on the glass.
“The night drop,” Grurk grunted, zipping himself up. As if this was just another errand. For him, maybe it was. “Do it before midnight.”
He turned and left, the door groaning shut behind him, leaving her in the sudden, fluorescent silence.
Ashanti pushed herself upright, wincing. Her thighs were sticky. She gathered the money, the paper feeling alien against her skin. She used a handful of disinfectant wipes from under the counter to clean herself up roughly, then stuffed the cash into her bag.
She used a handful of disinfectant wipes from under the counter to clean herself up roughly, then stuffed the cash into her bag.
The next two hours passed in a blur of routine. She restocked the sunscreen, muttered a minor binding charm over the sleep-aid tinctures to make them slightly more effective, and tallied the day’s meager till. The sticky puddle on the floor had dried by the time she mopped it, leaving a faint, shiny smear on the linoleum.
Ashanti closed up the store close to midnight, tossing her apron in her locker and tossing her soaked thong in the trash going commando. The damp cotton was a cold, unpleasant reminder. The air on her bare skin felt strange, a little reckless. She changed into a short blue casual dress that stopped halfway down her thighs and was off the shoulders enough showing off her breasts and slipped on some gym shoes.
The night air outside the pharmacy was a relief, cooler, washing away the scents of spellwork and sex. She walked the five blocks to the underground subway station to catch the midnight train, her gym shoes silent on the pavement. The city at this hour belonged to the desperate and the unseen, a category she comfortably fit.
The tunnels were disgusting as always, smelling of stale urine, damp concrete, and the oily metallic breath of the trains. The traffic was low at this time. A few slumped figures dozed on benches, wrapped in newspaper. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting a strobe-like effect over the grime. She didn’t make eye contact.
She boarded the train, finding a car that was nearly empty. The plastic seats were cracked, the windows scratched with graffiti. The train lurched forward with a metallic shriek. She pulled out her phone, the blue light harsh on her face.
James, she texted. You still need that clarity infusion? I can have it by Thursday. She waited a beat, then opened another thread. Logan. The calming balm for your sister is ready. Cash only. Don’t ask what’s in it.
The train hissed to a stop at a platform. The doors clattered open. No one got on. They slid shut. Then, from the connecting car, the heavy, shuffling gait of something big approached.
He ducked through the doorway, having to stoop. Seven feet if he was an inch, with skin like a bruised plum, long pointed ears, and yellow eyes that reflected the train’s dim lights. A goblin, his limbs long and ropey with muscle under a stained mechanic’s coverall. He sniffed the air, his wide nostrils flaring. His gaze landed on her, on the bare skin of her shoulders, the hint of cleavage, the stretch of thigh where her dress had ridden up.
He didn’t sit. He lumbered over and stood in front of her, a wall of pungent leather and engine grease. He said nothing. His thick-fingered hand went to the buckle of his overalls, working it open. He shoved the rough fabric down just enough to free his cock. It was already half-hard, long and oddly thin for his size, a dark greyish color, the head a slick purple. He began stroking it with a rough, practiced motion.
Ashanti didn’t flinch. She looked from his hand to his face, her expression flat, pragmatic. This was the currency of the late-night line. Her phone buzzed on her lap.
With his other hand, the goblin reached into a pocket on his chest. He pulled out a roll of worn bills, peeled off six hundreds, and held them out to her, his yellow eyes unblinking.
She took the money. Folded it. Slid it into the side pocket of her dress. Then she shifted forward on the seat, hiking the short blue fabric up around her waist. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. The cool, cracked plastic of the seat met her skin.
“Make it quick,” she said, her voice low. “I get off at 14th.”
He grunted, a wet sound in his throat. He stepped closer, his knees bumping against hers. He guided himself into her with one push, the narrowness of him a sharp, sudden fill. She let out a short, sharp breath through her nose.
He started to move, a fast, shallow piston motion that made the seat creak. His hips slapped against her thighs. She leaned back, bracing one hand on the seat behind her, and picked up her phone with the other. The goblin’s breathing grew ragged, hot and sour near her ear.
Logan had texted back. What’s in it?
She typed with one thumb, her other arm trembling slightly with the jarring rhythm of the goblin’s thrusts. Chamomile, lavender, a pinch of ground serenity root. And three tears from a contented child. The last part is a lie. It’s just chamomile and lavender. Shut up and pay me.
The goblin’s pace hitched. She felt the first thick, hot pulse deep inside her, a rope of release that made his thin cock twitch. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking her through it, his breath coming in grunts, the wet sounds of their coupling obscene in the near-empty car. Another load followed soon after, just as copious, flooding her, a warm overflow that began to seep out onto the plastic seat beneath her.
Her phone buzzed again. James. Thursday works. Can you add something for focus?
She typed, her focus split between the screen and the body using hers. I’ll add a crushed adder stone. Extra fifty. It’s a placebo but it’ll make you feel smarter.
A third, smaller spurt from the goblin. He was slowing, his energy spent. He finally stilled, buried inside her, panting. He pulled out with a soft, wet plop. A gush of warm fluid followed, dripping down, adding to the mess on the seat.
He pulled his soiled coveralls up, buckled them, and without a word, shuffled back toward the connecting door, disappearing into the next car.
Ashanti sat there for a moment, feeling the thick trickle down her inner thigh. The train’s automated voice announced 14th Street. She stood up, the blue dress falling back into place, hiding the sticky evidence. The stained seat gleamed under the lights. She shouldered her bag, the nine hundred from Grurk and the six hundred from the goblin a heavy weight in her pocket.
She stepped onto the platform as the doors closed behind her, walking toward the exit stairs without looking back. The city awaited, a tapestry of need, and she had potions to brew before dawn.