“The spell on those pills wasn’t intended to contain anything dangerous or powerful. According to Nabu-rihtu-usur, you etch those symbols around the neck of a jar or pot to protect the contents from insects, mold, rot, and so on. It’s the magical equivalent of Tupperware. I suppose it would work to keep things from getting out, but I can think of dozens of better, safer spells to use. This is like locking your front door with a bit of string and tape and hoping for the best.”
“Sounds like whoever’s making those pills might be limited to what they can find in this one particular spellbook.”
I nodded. “A scavenger rather than a proper student of magic.”
“A wannabe can cause as much damage as anyone else if they get hold of the right book or gizmo.”
She sounded like she spoke from experience. “They can cause more. They don’t understand or respect the power they’re playing with, so they’re more likely to do something unpredictable and stupid.”
“Like children.”She chuckled, a melancholy sound that brought feelings of love and fondness.“Ronnie was the same way when he first discovered magic was real. Always getting into our things and causing mischief.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “My father warded half the house, trying to keep me out of trouble.”
“I suspect you found it anyway.”Her gentle teasing brushed over me like a warm breeze at sunset.
I pushed the book aside. “How old were you when you died, Margaret?”
“Thirty-eight.”
I told myself not to be a fool. Margaret Wentworth was less than half my age. Not to mention dead. On the other hand, Annette’s first husband had been centuries older than her, and dead too, so there was precedent.
“I’m glad we found you.”
“So am I.”
I smiled and leaned back in my chair. There was a crack in the ceiling. Nothing as bad as the damage to the basement, but it was another sign of my failing strength. The crack extended about two feet from the edge of the south wall.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” I could accept getting old. I hated that I was taking this place with me.
I pulled my attention from the damaged plaster and took one of the pills from the bag. “When I was young, I would have swallowed one of these by now to learn what it did. Or, if I was feeling really cautious, I would have fed it to a rat or whatever else was available.”
“I agree with your friend Annette. Don’t put the strange magic pill in your mouth.”
“I suppose we can do it the slow way.” From my shelves, I gathered a glass Mason jar, a puck-sized tobacco tin, and a bottle of distilled water. “My grandfather used these jars for canning a century ago. He gave them a magical boost so they wouldn’t break or come unsealed until he was ready. They should hold whatever’s in those pills.”
“Hopefully better than a bit of string and tape.”
“I used to run around catching will-o’-the-wisps in them. The glass is tougher than steel.” I filled the jar with water, then opened the tobacco tin while the pill began to dissolve. Inside the tin was a layer of fine black powder.
“Every spell goes better with a dash of pepper.”
“It’s sand from the Desert of Time. Colloquially known as slowsand.” I was showing off like a young fool.
The pill capsule began to wrinkle and deform. I used a tiny gold spoon to scoop the powder and hold it over the open jar, waiting. I wanted to see what emerged before I used the powder, but my hand trembled slightly, and a few grains spilled free.
The ripples on the water’s surface went still, but it wasn’t enough to affect the entire jar. I swore under my breath and did my best to keep the spoon from shaking.
A tiny gash formed on the top of the capsule. An oily black thread crept upward.
“There we go.” I dumped in the rest of the sand, tapped the spoon against the rim to make sure nothing was left, and screwed the jar’s lid on tight. “Time inside that jar is now moving at about one second per month.”
“I could have used that stuff when I was alive. There was this fellow in the middle of Florida who called himself the Undying Necromancer. He was doing the typical army-of-the-undead thing. As you could guess from the name, he was hard to kill. I tried blessed bullets, acid, poison, fire...nothing stuck. If I’d had a packet of this, I could have snuck it into his pepper shaker. Let him try to conquer the world when his insides are frozen in time.”
I closed the tin and set it aside. “How did you end him?”
“I had to feed him to the gators. Hard to resurrect yourself from that. Gruesome, but I was out of options. This was eleven years ago. Have you ever tried to fight zombies and their master with a six-year-old in tow? I don’t recommend it.”
