Chapter 1: Thirteen Temptations
The air in The Melting Pot always held a charge, a faint hum against the skin that spoke of contained energies. Tonight, it smelled of burnt sage, dusty parchment, and the lingering, sun-warmed honey scent of Phoenix Dust that refused to be scrubbed from the floorboards. Rome slumped onto her stool behind the counter, the weight of the day settling into her bones. A demon skull mug, steaming with hot mulled wine, warmed her hands. She’d just finished the tedious work of cataloging the new acquisitions—a nasty business—and locking them in the wrought-iron restricted shelf at the back of the shop.
She took a long sip, feeling the spices curl through her, a pleasant heat that complemented the three she’d already had. Tipsy was the word. Just enough to take the edge off the pervasive loneliness that even a shop full of magical residue couldn’t fill.
The front door chimed, not with a bell, but with a soft, dissonant chord as the wards recognized an authorized entry. A breeze ruffled the cobwebs in the high corners, and Gwen swooped in on her broomstick, touching down with a practiced hop.
“Delivery complete,” Gwen announced, stashing the broom behind a shelf of suspiciously chattering teeth. Her wild red curls were escaping from beneath her own, slightly lopsidered, witch’s hat. She’d taken to dressing like Rome—the fitted black dress, the boots, the hat—but on Gwen it looked less ‘mysterious proprietress’ and more ‘enthusiastic renfair attendee.’ Rome found it endearing, most of the time.
“The selkie was grateful,” Gwen continued, shedding her cloak. “She paid in sea glass. Pretty, but it just makes the floor wet.” Her bright, mischievous eyes immediately darted to the restricted shelf. “Ooh, new stuff. What’d we get?”
“Trouble,” Rome said, taking another drink. “A whole box of it. All cursed, all annoying. Mostly the horny kind.”
Gwen leaned against the counter, her freckled face alight with curiosity. “Horny how?”
“You know how.” Rome gestured vaguely with her mug. “The usual. Makes people see you as their soulmate, or forget all inhibition, or turn every touch into a five-alarm fire. They bypass consent. They rewrite desire. They’re messy. They’re boring.”
“Boring?” Gwen’s eyebrow arched. “They sound fun.”
“They’re not,” Rome said, her tone flattening. “They’re predictable. They reduce complex, beautiful, frustrating people into… horn dogs. Single-minded and sloppy. No artistry to it.” She peered into her mug. “The magic’s potent, I’ll give them that. But it’s blunt force trauma. I prefer a little subtlety.”
Gwen wasn’t listening to the philosophy. She was already drifting toward the shelf, her dancer’s build moving with a restless energy. The iron gate was sealed with a complex lock of twisting metal and glowing sigils. “Which one’s the worst?”
“The bracelet. The Deal Sealer.” Rome snorted. “Thick silver manacle, pink stone. Pairs you with a target, links you until you’re both ‘satisfied’. Clumsy. Obvious.”
“And that one?” Gwen pointed to a small onyx figurine of a soldier standing at attention on the shelf.
“The Onyx Watchman. Nasty little voyeur. Its eyes glow when it’s… amused. It feeds on spectacle and encourages more. Put it near any other cursed item and the effects get turbocharged.” She shook her head. “Just a creepy little enabler.”
Gwen’s fingers twitched at her sides. Rome, lulled by the wine and the late hour, missed the specific, focused curiosity in her apprentice’s eyes. Gwen had watched Rome open that gate a dozen times. She’d noted the precise sequence of presses on the sigils, the way the metal yielded not to a key, but to a specific rhythmic tap of intention. Rome thought it was secure. Gwen knew better.
“They all just… make people want to jump each other?” Gwen asked, her voice deceptively light.
“In myriad uncreative ways, yes.” Rome finished her wine. “From the perfume that drives you mad to the glitter that remakes your body to suit some carnal fantasy. It’s all noise. No connection. Just magic-induced inevitability.” She stood, a little unsteadily. “I’m going to wash this mug. Don’t touch the shelf.”
She vanished into the back room, the bead curtain clicking behind her.
The hum of the shop seemed to amplify. Gwen stared at the locked gate. Just to see how it feels, the thought whispered, a thrilling rebellion against Rome’s world-weary pragmatism. She wanted the knowledge, the experience. She wanted, in some small, secret part of herself, to prove to Rome that she wasn’t just an eager kid. That she could handle the raw material of desire.
Her hands moved quickly, before doubt could catch up. She tapped the sigils—fire, binding, release—in the rhythm she’d memorized. The iron gate gave a soft click and swung open an inch.
The air from the restricted shelf was cooler, carrying a metallic tang. Her eyes found the Deal Sealer immediately. It was heavier than it looked, solid and cool in her palm. The pink stone seemed to drink the dim light. With a glance toward the back room, she slid it onto her wrist. It clasped shut with a definitive, silent snick.
For a second, nothing. Just a cool weight.
Then a warmth bloomed from the stone, spreading up her arm in a gentle wave. It was pleasant. Interesting. It made her skin feel sensitive, hyper-aware of the brush of her own dress. She flexed her hand, watching the silver catch the light. This was it? This was the big, bad curse?
Rome walked back in, drying her hands on a towel. “If you’re thinking about asking for a raise, the answer is—“
She froze. Her eyes locked on Gwen’s wrist. On the silver band.
“Gwen.” The name was a bolt of pure alarm. “Take that off. Right now.”
“It’s okay,” Gwen said, but her voice sounded different to her own ears—softer, fuller. “I just wanted to feel it. It’s kind of nice, actually.” She looked at Rome, really looked at her. The sharp line of her jaw, the silver streak in her black hair, the way her fitted dress hugged the curve of her hip. Rome was always beautiful, but now the sight of her sent a jolt through Gwen’s core, hot and immediate.
“It’s not nice,” Rome snarled, striding forward. “It’s active. Who were you thinking of when you put it on?”
“I… I don’t know,” Gwen murmured, but her gaze was stuck on Rome’s mouth. The warmth in her arm was a pulse now, a steady beat that matched her quickening heart.
“Damn it.” Rome grabbed Gwen’s wrist, her fingers trying to find a clasp, a seam. There was none. The metal was seamless. As Rome’s skin touched hers, a second, more intense wave of heat flared through Gwen, making her gasp. It was desire, pure and undiluted, and it had a target.
On the shelf, the Onyx Watchman’s eyes began to glow with two pinpricks of soft, amber light.
Rome felt it too. A foreign heat, a pull that had nothing to do with the wine. It came from the point of contact with Gwen’s skin, snaking up her own arm, coiling low in her stomach. She saw Gwen’s flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the desperate want in her eyes—a want that was usually cheeky and theoretical, now rendered stark and physical by the curse.
She yanked her hand back as if burned. On her own wrist, a band of silver shimmered into existence, an identical, phantom weight solidifying into cold, inescapable metal.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Rome whispered, horror dawning.
The Deal Sealer was clasped. The link was forged. Target: Rome. Wearer: Gwen.
The playful curiosity in Gwen’s eyes was gone, swallowed by a hungry, magnetic focus. “Rome,” she breathed, the name a plea and a promise.
The shop’s wards hummed louder, sealing them in, containing the escalating magic. The Onyx Watchman’s glow brightened, casting long, dancing shadows. The night, and the tedious catalog of cursed artifacts, had just become very, very personal.