Quill Me Now by Jordan Castillo Price

Author:Jordan Castillo Price
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JCP Books LLC
Published: 2019-10-07T16:00:00+00:00

8

Staring at Mr. Flint the whole while, Yuri swirled the brush in a pan of brown paint that was little more than a crust in the corners. He scowled so hard his thick eyebrows drew entirely together, and then he placed the brush on the paper—left handed—and swept it across in a graceful stroke

Mr. Flint planted his hands on his hips and looked down at the small painting eagerly. “A knot? How…romantic.”

“Maybe you would prefer a ball and chain.”

Flint chuckled stiffly. “Russian humor. Ha ha. No, I’m sure this will do quite nicely.” He pulled a heavy keyring out of his pocket and selected a tiny key. He opened his top drawer, pulled out a metal cashbox which he opened with another key. Inside that was a locked bankers bag—yet another key. And once that was unlocked and unzipped, he withdrew a silk-wrapped bundle which he conferred to reveal…a fountain pen.

The same pen I’d taken yesterday’s test with—the fountain pen with the nib that looked suspiciously like a feather quill. Obviously because it actually was a feather quill. A quill that had once belonged to a Spellcrafter.

It’s Spellcrafter tradition to bury the dead with their quills—at least that’s how my grandparents were sent off. But I suppose a desperate family could stand to make a few bucks by selling one. It didn’t seem like there’d be much of a market, though. Spellcraft was genetic, passed from parents to children. It’s not like you could just pick up a quill on eBay, watch a few YouTube videos, and get Crafting.

At least, I didn’t think so.

As soon as Mr. Flint unwrapped the fountain pen, Yuri snatched it away. There was a red dot of color on each of his cheeks, and his eyes roiled with fury. He was so angry he was shaking. And when he turned to hand the pen to me…he dropped it on the floor.

“Idiot,” Flint yelled.

Yuri bent to retrieve the pen, and snapped, “It’s fine.” And maybe it was. But while he was crouched over, out of Mr. Flint’s line of sight, he slipped another fountain pen from his sleeve and tucked away the one that had been kept under lock and key. With a look in his riveting hazel eyes I can only describe as pleading, he handed me the switcheroo and said, “Good luck.”

Obviously, he didn’t want me to Craft anything for Mr. Flint—and given how hinky the guy was acting, I could see why. But all the subterfuge was unnecessary, since I’d never Scribed a word in my life. At that point, all I wanted to do was jot down some kind of semi-coherent sentiment and get the heck out of there without anyone calling the cops.

Unless the thousand dollars was still on the table…. No, there was no thousand dollars. Was there? Probably not.

“Well?” Flint said. “It’s not getting any earlier.”

Right. I settled my butt cheeks in the seat, sat up straight, cupped my hand around the tip of the fountain pen to disguise the fact that it was not the modified nib, and penned the first phrase that popped into my head.

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