For one fleeting moment, Rakon considered wishing the woman a stern good day and turning to leave. He pushed the impulse down, remembering why he had come to her in the first place. His father wasn’t getting any younger. Already he was talking about Rakon taking his place as leader of the satyrs. All his life, Rakon had assumed that was what he wanted. To be loved by his people, to be respected. To lead. He was surprised to discover that as the time for Pyros to step down grew closer, the idea of taking on his father’s role made him feel sick and restless. He came to the horrifying conclusion that he did not wish to lead his people. He wished to continue his comfortable life of drinking, entertaining beautiful satyrs, and making frequent pilgrimages to his favourite whore houses. The desire burnt within him so fiercely, it had driven him to the door of a witch. A glamour spell would allow him escape into the metropolis of Armoria; perhaps even passage on a boat bound for the Island Nations and beyond. Somewhere he would be free to carve out his own life.

  Rakon fixed Vixana with what he hoped was an earnest expression and said in the calmest voice he could muster, “Please tell me, witch, what manner of spell have you placed upon this amulet?”

  The corners of Vixana’s thin-skinned mouth turned up ever so slightly. “It has been spelled with a glamour, my boy,” she said. “A glamour I think will serve you well. It will cast upon the wearer whichever form is foremost in their heart.”

  The necklace was still hanging from her fingers. She began to pass it to him before pausing as another thought occurred to her. “Just don’t be thinking about that ooze toad,” she warned. “I am presently out of the ingredients needed for the elixir that would clear up that particular mess.”

  With hands he could barely keep from trembling, Rakon took the necklace from Vixana. He marvelled at its exquisite ugliness, and lifted it over his head. As soon as the sharp-edged rock touched his bare chest, he felt the weight of an invisible force descend on him, knocking him backwards and almost sending him to the floor. It was a dark, rasping presence that eased beneath his skin and raised the hair on his arms.

  “What is this?” he managed, leaning one hand on the table to steady himself. “What have you done to me, witch?”

  Vixana did not answer. She simply watched, her face twitching beneath a disarming smile. Rakon took several deep breaths before he finally felt able to straighten. Something still did not feel right. The pressing weight of whatever hex was placed upon the necklace sat within his chest like a squat, foul beast, heavy and immovable.

  “I do not believe I can bear this.” He reached for the amulet, intending to rip it from his neck.

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  “Do not do that,” Vixana said. “You will regret it.”

  “The only regret I have is coming here in the first place.”

  He tried to remove the necklace but the roughly spun rope began to coil about his neck. It grated against his skin, moving like a snake as it tightened. Rakon could feel a swelling pressure grow behind his eyes as he fought for air. He glared at Vixana, enraged. If he could have spoken, he would have ordered her to stop. To his amazement and dismay, the witch began to laugh. The sound was hoarse and throaty, as though it came from a pipe-smoking woman twice her age.

  Vixana watched him sink to his knees as he struggled with the rope pulling ever tighter across his throat. With no particular sense of urgency, she moved closer and bent to pass one marble-cold hand over the amulet. Instantly, it released him and Rakon fell the rest of the way to the floor, drawing in huge ragged lungfuls of air. When he could finally speak, he rose to his full height and glowered at the grinning witch.

  “What is this trickery?” he demanded. “I will have the entire might of the satyr people tear down your pitiful cottage in return for this dirty transgression.”

  “Stop your whining, satyr. Have I not given you exactly what you asked for? Look down at your hands, at your feet. You now wear the glamour of a frail human man.”

  Rakon did as she asked, a strange thrill flashing through him when he saw the witch was right. His hands were small and hairless, his legs thin, trembling within the flapping expanse of his newly oversized leather breeches. He pulled the material aside to see his strong, proud hooves had been replaced with the flaccid appendages humans called feet. His head no longer brushed the ceiling and when he lifted a tentative hand to feel at his scalp, he found his horns had vanished. A dull panic stirred deep in his gut at the jarring absence of his horns, so tall and proud they often provoked jealousy amongst his kin.

  “If your father was to pass you by, he would no longer recognise you as his son,” Vixana said. “You have become a ghost and no longer owe any tiresome obligation to the satyrs.” The tone of her voice led Rakon to guess the meaning hidden in her words.

  “Do I instead owe an obligation to you, witch?” His voice rasped from his bruised throat.

  “Nothing in this world is ever given for free, my boy. Let that be a second lesson for you. Always demand to know the terms before you strike a deal.”

  “And what are your wretched terms? I simply wanted a glamour cast over which I would have control, so I might come and go freely from the satyr lands. I do not believe such a request should warrant this… unpleasantness.”

  “I will give you control over the spell,” Vixana said. “After your debt is repaid. I am not a wicked woman. I will not keep you in my service forever. I ask only for a short period of ten years. A simple wink in time for one with a lifespan such as yours. Once the ten years have passed, I will release you and you may do as you wish with the spelled amulet.”

  Rakon began to shake with rage. He could feel the blood rising to his face, knew his eyes were wide and watery. He curled his hands into tight fists and willed himself to be calm. The memory of the rope tightening about his neck was still horribly fresh.

  “What does this service entail?” he said through gritted teeth. “What is it you ask of me?”