24. snapshots
Another round of
There is a storm coming soon. It will thunder for hours. The rotten branches will be torn from the trees. The small-hearted will cower in fear of its fury.
A caravan has just entered the forest. Five wagons. Seven men on horseback. The wheels rattle shrilly over the pitted path. Chests heavy with gold and silver coins chink over every bump. A woman sits in one dressed in bright silk edged with fur.
Your lover sent me. She waits by the waterfall. She says she has news from the south. More men have pledged their support. They are bringing swords and arrows. They will come with the storm. Your army is growing.
I open my eyes. Shake my head firmly. The messengers drop the dark tresses they’ve plucked into sharp claws. After losing a day in deception, walking through Court in a blue dress to allay my mother, my Queen, of her worries, I had need of news. My birds are very good at answering my summons, bringing with them all of the gossip and information I require.
I stand and pull the dress up over my head. Toss it aside and don my fitted brown trousers and jerkin. Knot my hair back to keep it from my eyes and sling my quiver and bow over one shoulder. I’ll have to hurry to meet Ingrid and apprise her of the caravan situation-with luck, we can waylay them and be off with their cargo before the storm begins.
Can’t be sure where they came from. Seems like they was just there one day. Skulkin’ in the shadows. Crawlin’ round corners. Sometimes they just freeze, like a rabbit caught in a truck’s headlights, and just stares at ya until ya start to wonder if they ain’t just a statue. Some weird piece of art left in the middle of the road. They likes to crawl up tall buildings, perch themselves on window ledges like them fancy gargoyles on that church in France. Hunched over in on themselves, almost like they in pain or somethin’.
Some look like women-most do, actually. Mother-naked and sharp. So skinny ya wonder if they ain’t ever had a real meal. Ya notice their ribs more’n their tits. Ribs and their arms, which strike ya as bein’ just a mite too long. Lot of ‘em reach out towards ya, but not like they want anythin’. Not like they pleadin’ with ya. Almost like they’re pushin’ ya away. Or maybe it’s just the world they clawin’ at.
The ones that look like men terrify me, I ain’t afraid to admit that. Can’t really lay my finger on just why-maybe it’s how they clutch at their faces, as if they about to rip ‘em off. Or the milky white of their eyes, which ya can only just see between the shaking lines of their fingers. The male ones got a real tension around ‘em, an almost visible fog of pain an’ sufferin’. Just walkin’ past one gives me the shakes. Takes hours to feel human after.
Lots of people got they own theories on what they is, what they ain’t, where they came from, what they want. I don’t bother much with philosophizin’. Way I see it, none of that don’t matter much. They keep to themselves, and I’ll keep to me. Things are just better that way.
But the way they scream in the night sure does give me pause.
On Monday he drowned when he stepped off the bus and into a deceptive puddle-what looked only two inches deep turned out to be two fathoms deep, and his head was under the surface before he’d even realized his mistake.
On Tuesday he lost his way in the forest and discovered the most incongruous of mirrors. The gold gilt frame suggested a castle rather than a clearing, and he picked it up with the intention of taking it back into town and putting an ad in the classifieds. Found: Ostentatious mirror with gold frame. Reminiscent of the Sun King. Call 578-8684 to inquire. Instead, his hands stuck to the glass as if glued there, and try as he might he couldn’t set it down again. Most peculiar.
On Friday he found a floating tangle of arms in a river. They were singing a song by Beyonce. Off key, he might add. He paddled by quickly, hoping they wouldn’t reach out to capsize his rowboat as he passed.
And on Sunday he was abducted by aliens, their tractor beam pulling him up so quickly that his briefcase fell from his hands. Unforgivably rude of them, considering his quarterly reports were in there. The printing fees at Kinko’s had been devilish, and the briefcase was a smart one-he’d be hard pressed to find another of its like. He couldn’t help lamenting its loss as the saucer sped off back to Wexsler Blodge 555.
When the goddesses have a fashion show, attendance is mandatory.
Corvinus was as black and forboding as usual, customary raven familiar at her shoulder. The dress hardly stood out from her usual wear, but the judges gave her tens anyway. None of them wanted an army of undead turning up on their doorstep for slighting the goddess of death.
All eyes were on Lumeria, the gorgeous goddess of the sun, as she started down the catwalk. But after three steps, her gown had melted from the heat of her skin, wreathing her in mist and smoke. Only her golden circlet managed to maintain any sort of shape, and she ended up running off in embarrassment. One of her priestesses said she went to the seaside to recollect her thoughts. And anyway, a prophecy had foretold the coming of a great warrior, and she had to be there to give him a magical dagger, so it all worked out for the best.
Gormaltho of the Hunt wanted to bring horns back in a big way, but the judges agreed that there was such a thing as too much when it came to entrails and antlers. But they did applaud her for being brave enough to wear heels-everyone knew she hated impractical footwear, preferring boots or going barefoot.
Nimuene was the crowd’s favorite. Her spectacular hat containing the whole of the cosmos wowed the spectators into speechlessness. No one gave her plain black dress a second look, too mesmerized by the glittering of supernovas and shooting stars above her head. And while Corvinus grumbled about it, even she had to concede defeat: the goddess of the night outshone them all.
I keep the house while Mistress is away. Open the windows every day to air out the rooms. Plump the pillows. Dust the shelves and build the fires. She likes the house to feel lived in when she returns from her travels.
The fact that I no longer live is irrelevant.
“You know, Jasper,” she told me one night as she sipped the hot cocoa I’d made for her. “I’d be utterly lost without you. They say good help is hard to find, but I found it impossible before you came along.”
“Lucky day for both of us when you purchased my book, Mistress.”
“Dashed cruel of that witch, to bind you to that old book. I still remember the mess you left the library, that first night. Books tossed about, my desk a disaster zone. You’d even blown dirt from the garden all over the floor.”
“I remember the night with acute distress, Mistress. It was exceedingly bad mannered of me.”
“That was all ages ago and I forgave you eons back, Jasper. Don’t fret any further on it. You had every right to a proper tantrum, after the decades you’d spent trapped inside that musty journal. I’m having company for tea tonight, old bean. Would you mind terribly lighting the lanterns out on the deck?”
“I’ll see to it immediately, Mistress. And as always, I’m very glad you’re home. I hope you’ll be staying till next year?”
“Might do, might do. I’m rather looking forward to a Chrimbo at home. What do you want this year, Jasper? You always manage such lovely gifts for me; it’s only right that I return the favor.”
“All I require is the pleasure of your company, Mistress.”
“Come, come, sir! You must give me some idea! Else I shall knit you the most atrociously jolly scarf to wear around the house.”
“…If you insist, Mistress, I’d enjoy a scrying mirror.”
“What for, old boy?”
“It’d be an easy way to keep in touch with old friends and family. I would like to ring up Gertrude and Paul now and then.”
“Say no more, say no more! It’s as good as yours!” She took another deep drink of her cocoa. “And impeccable work with the kettle as always. You’re such a dear. I brag about you all the time to the ladies of the Adventurers’ Club, you know. I tell them, ‘Forget valets and ladies’ maids. You simply cannot best a ghost when it comes to loyal service.’”
“You flatter me greatly, Mistress. I am merely happy to be of use in my spectral years.”
It hurt every time.
That was something nobody ever talked about. Magic wasn’t nice, or pretty, or sweet. And angels weren’t any of those things, either. They were the soldiers of God, creatures meant for blood and war and fire. Everyone whispered fearfully about demons, but angels weren’t any different-demons were just more upfront about it all.
Angels were incomprehensible, too. Too many eyes, too many limbs, wings made of feathers that were more like razorblades. Humans couldn’t look at them, not really. Something in their brains simply shut down, unable to process what the eyes were seeing. So most of the people who saw angels claimed to see flashes of light. Wings. Wings were comprehensible. Birds used wings to fly, and angels were supposed to fly down from heaven. Yes, there had been wings.
His mother remembered the wings, and the light, and a voice that echoed everywhere. Poor heirlooms to pass down to a son.
He wondered if it hurt because he was only a half-breed. His sire simply was, no transformation necessary. His wings didn’t have to sprout fully-formed from a smooth back, bursting from shoulder blades and a spine that was only just designed for upright support. He didn’t have to feel the burn of heavenly fire coursing through his bones, giving him the divine strength to fly-that all came standard.
Sometimes he hated him, the unknown and unknowable father. Sometimes he even hated God. But mostly he hated himself, for being caught between two worlds and unable to exist fully in either one. For having to hide the truth, for having to rely on his angelic heritage to protect the people he cared about, and for the nauseating mixture of joy and pain he felt every time he unfurled his wings.
He called himself king. Not by divine right, not even by birthright. By the right of conquest, with cutlass and musket powder and an armada of ships at his command. He was the terror of the sea, raiding and pillaging as he pleased. Sinking galleons regardless of the flags they flew. Governments and their law meant nothing to him. He accumulated wealth beyond most men’s imaginings, but it was not all in gold or jewels.
He called them his harem. A quartet of beauties he’d stolen from ships then sent to the ocean floor. Yingtai. Adaeze. Janne. Tatia. Ladies of wealth and standing-now his brides.
But some fine ladies do not take kindly to being toyed with. Some women are not so easily cowed. And one night, when the pirate king was snoring after a day of ale and fighting, the queens united to overthrow him. Cut his throat on his own cutlass, stormed the decks with muskets blazing, and took his empire as their own. No man would claim them for his own again. They were no treasure to be stolen or won. And they were far more ruthless and terrible than the king had ever been.
In a matter of weeks, the seven seas were theirs. Each claimed her quarter of the world and swore to rule it without mercy, to kill any who dared to oppose them, and made an oath on shared blood over a pit of doubloons and rubies.
“Let no man tear asunder what we have put together,” said Janne.
“They say the sea is a cruel mistress,” said Yingtai. “We shall show them the truth of that.”
“Better to die than to bow before another king,” said Adaeze.
“The king is dead-long live the queens!” shouted Tatia, drawing her sword.
“Aye!” they cheered with blood-red smiles.
She hadn’t meant to do it. The doom she had wrought upon them was unintentional. Not that that would count for much.
All she wanted was to dance for one night. To wear a beautiful dress and glitter like a diamond in the candlelight. To smile and talk lightly about how beautiful the room was and how fine the food was and how charming the guests were.
Just one night. One night with other people, pretending that she was just like them. One night to be graceful and dainty. To wear her grandmother’s dress-the one she had worn the night of the ball when the Prince had found her glass slipper-and live vicariously.
How could she have forgotten it was the night of the full moon? And that her husband, half-sick with worry when she didn’t come home after dark, would venture out in search of her red cloak? Would follow her scent to the castle, where so many women were wearing red, just as the moon broke through the clouds?
She let herself cry for just another moment. Allowed herself a few more heartbeats to mourn the loss of her dream and the hope of normality.
Then she pushed herself up from the bracken. Waved a hand to wish away her delicate dress and replace it with her thick, warm, practical red cloak. And set off to rescue her wayward, hungry husband, who even now had the entire force of the castle’s guards out hunting for him. She felt a pang for those noble, well-meaning men with their crossbows and swords. They thought they were hunting down a beast, unaware that a far more dangerous hunter was tracking them.
A witch’s work was never done.
“You actually a bewitcher?” he asks, voice a lazy drawl. His suit’s too tight, obviously made with a thinner man in mind. Probably got it at a pawn shop. He reeks of hair pomade and cologne, the cheap kinds.
One of those. Goody.
“Sign on the door says ‘bewitchery’, don’t it?” I reply, crossing my legs. He watches with obviously lecherous interest, running a tongue over his bottom lip. His whole focus is on the pale skin beneath the daringly short hem of my rose-pink dress. “What can I do for you, mister?”
“Oh, plenty, sweetheart,” he says, clearly convinced of his own debonair charm. I can’t stop my nose from wrinkling with disgust. “But mainly I wanna hex my business rival. Just a little something to clog the gears in his machine, you know? Make the smooth things not so smooth. Catch me?”
“I understand you perfectly, but I’m afraid I don’t truck with black juju. That sort of thing tends to come back to you threefold.”
“I ain’t asking you to kill the mook. I don’t even want him hurt any, at least not in the physical sense. That I can do on my own. I just want some bad luck to befall him. That ain’t so bad, is it?”
“It comes back threefold, mister. I didn’t stutter, did I?”
“Listen up, baby,” he hisses, lunging forward suddenly, face suffused with red anger. My hands move quickly, brushing back my dress to draw the slim little blade I keep tucked in my garter. He stops just short of grabbing me, eyes bulging slightly.
Maybe he’s not a total idiot-he obviously knows when a girl knows her way around a knife.
“I don’t need bewitchery to hurt you, either, mister,” I purr, the light in my eyes not wholly due to the lamp overhead. “You want left-handed juju, why don’t you mosey down by the docks? There’s plenty of bokors with stalls down there, and they don’t mind playing with the balance. Me, I’ve got a brain, and rules I live by. I don’t break them for nobody, especially not a flea like you. So why don’t you leave my consulting fee on the table and walk out with a smile-before I make yours wider than nature intended.”
It’s a sad night when a bewitcher has to resort to petty threats to get results.
Don’t go in the woods at night.
But if you do go in the woods, don’t stray from the path.
The left-hand path, that is. Never, ever take the right-hand path.
And if you find yourself on the right-hand path, never-under any circumstances-follow it to the end.
To the clearing at the heart of the woods. To the lake that is frozen solid in the winter months. The lake that is cold and milky even in the spring. The lake that always has mist hanging above it.
There are people in that lake, people that aren’t really people. They look peaceful, as if they are only sleeping beneath the ice. Their hair hangs like a dark cloud around their faces. And there is another cloud, a red cloud, that hangs around their lips.
If you find that lake, don’t ever come within arm’s reach of the surface. Especially not during a thaw.
Plenty have let their curiosity get the better of them. Many have ignored the warnings.
And all that’s left of them is a red cloud under thin ice.
There is a storm coming soon. It will thunder for hours. The rotten branches will be torn from the trees. The small-hearted will cower in fear of its fury.
A caravan has just entered the forest. Five wagons. Seven men on horseback. The wheels rattle shrilly over the pitted path. Chests heavy with gold and silver coins chink over every bump. A woman sits in one dressed in bright silk edged with fur.
Your lover sent me. She waits by the waterfall. She says she has news from the south. More men have pledged their support. They are bringing swords and arrows. They will come with the storm. Your army is growing.
I open my eyes. Shake my head firmly. The messengers drop the dark tresses they’ve plucked into sharp claws. After losing a day in deception, walking through Court in a blue dress to allay my mother, my Queen, of her worries, I had need of news. My birds are very good at answering my summons, bringing with them all of the gossip and information I require.
I stand and pull the dress up over my head. Toss it aside and don my fitted brown trousers and jerkin. Knot my hair back to keep it from my eyes and sling my quiver and bow over one shoulder. I’ll have to hurry to meet Ingrid and apprise her of the caravan situation-with luck, we can waylay them and be off with their cargo before the storm begins.
Can’t be sure where they came from. Seems like they was just there one day. Skulkin’ in the shadows. Crawlin’ round corners. Sometimes they just freeze, like a rabbit caught in a truck’s headlights, and just stares at ya until ya start to wonder if they ain’t just a statue. Some weird piece of art left in the middle of the road. They likes to crawl up tall buildings, perch themselves on window ledges like them fancy gargoyles on that church in France. Hunched over in on themselves, almost like they in pain or somethin’.
Some look like women-most do, actually. Mother-naked and sharp. So skinny ya wonder if they ain’t ever had a real meal. Ya notice their ribs more’n their tits. Ribs and their arms, which strike ya as bein’ just a mite too long. Lot of ‘em reach out towards ya, but not like they want anythin’. Not like they pleadin’ with ya. Almost like they’re pushin’ ya away. Or maybe it’s just the world they clawin’ at.
The ones that look like men terrify me, I ain’t afraid to admit that. Can’t really lay my finger on just why-maybe it’s how they clutch at their faces, as if they about to rip ‘em off. Or the milky white of their eyes, which ya can only just see between the shaking lines of their fingers. The male ones got a real tension around ‘em, an almost visible fog of pain an’ sufferin’. Just walkin’ past one gives me the shakes. Takes hours to feel human after.
Lots of people got they own theories on what they is, what they ain’t, where they came from, what they want. I don’t bother much with philosophizin’. Way I see it, none of that don’t matter much. They keep to themselves, and I’ll keep to me. Things are just better that way.
But the way they scream in the night sure does give me pause.
On Monday he drowned when he stepped off the bus and into a deceptive puddle-what looked only two inches deep turned out to be two fathoms deep, and his head was under the surface before he’d even realized his mistake.
On Tuesday he lost his way in the forest and discovered the most incongruous of mirrors. The gold gilt frame suggested a castle rather than a clearing, and he picked it up with the intention of taking it back into town and putting an ad in the classifieds. Found: Ostentatious mirror with gold frame. Reminiscent of the Sun King. Call 578-8684 to inquire. Instead, his hands stuck to the glass as if glued there, and try as he might he couldn’t set it down again. Most peculiar.
On Friday he found a floating tangle of arms in a river. They were singing a song by Beyonce. Off key, he might add. He paddled by quickly, hoping they wouldn’t reach out to capsize his rowboat as he passed.
And on Sunday he was abducted by aliens, their tractor beam pulling him up so quickly that his briefcase fell from his hands. Unforgivably rude of them, considering his quarterly reports were in there. The printing fees at Kinko’s had been devilish, and the briefcase was a smart one-he’d be hard pressed to find another of its like. He couldn’t help lamenting its loss as the saucer sped off back to Wexsler Blodge 555.
When the goddesses have a fashion show, attendance is mandatory.
Corvinus was as black and forboding as usual, customary raven familiar at her shoulder. The dress hardly stood out from her usual wear, but the judges gave her tens anyway. None of them wanted an army of undead turning up on their doorstep for slighting the goddess of death.
All eyes were on Lumeria, the gorgeous goddess of the sun, as she started down the catwalk. But after three steps, her gown had melted from the heat of her skin, wreathing her in mist and smoke. Only her golden circlet managed to maintain any sort of shape, and she ended up running off in embarrassment. One of her priestesses said she went to the seaside to recollect her thoughts. And anyway, a prophecy had foretold the coming of a great warrior, and she had to be there to give him a magical dagger, so it all worked out for the best.
Gormaltho of the Hunt wanted to bring horns back in a big way, but the judges agreed that there was such a thing as too much when it came to entrails and antlers. But they did applaud her for being brave enough to wear heels-everyone knew she hated impractical footwear, preferring boots or going barefoot.
Nimuene was the crowd’s favorite. Her spectacular hat containing the whole of the cosmos wowed the spectators into speechlessness. No one gave her plain black dress a second look, too mesmerized by the glittering of supernovas and shooting stars above her head. And while Corvinus grumbled about it, even she had to concede defeat: the goddess of the night outshone them all.
I keep the house while Mistress is away. Open the windows every day to air out the rooms. Plump the pillows. Dust the shelves and build the fires. She likes the house to feel lived in when she returns from her travels.
The fact that I no longer live is irrelevant.
“You know, Jasper,” she told me one night as she sipped the hot cocoa I’d made for her. “I’d be utterly lost without you. They say good help is hard to find, but I found it impossible before you came along.”
“Lucky day for both of us when you purchased my book, Mistress.”
“Dashed cruel of that witch, to bind you to that old book. I still remember the mess you left the library, that first night. Books tossed about, my desk a disaster zone. You’d even blown dirt from the garden all over the floor.”
“I remember the night with acute distress, Mistress. It was exceedingly bad mannered of me.”
“That was all ages ago and I forgave you eons back, Jasper. Don’t fret any further on it. You had every right to a proper tantrum, after the decades you’d spent trapped inside that musty journal. I’m having company for tea tonight, old bean. Would you mind terribly lighting the lanterns out on the deck?”
“I’ll see to it immediately, Mistress. And as always, I’m very glad you’re home. I hope you’ll be staying till next year?”
“Might do, might do. I’m rather looking forward to a Chrimbo at home. What do you want this year, Jasper? You always manage such lovely gifts for me; it’s only right that I return the favor.”
“All I require is the pleasure of your company, Mistress.”
“Come, come, sir! You must give me some idea! Else I shall knit you the most atrociously jolly scarf to wear around the house.”
“…If you insist, Mistress, I’d enjoy a scrying mirror.”
“What for, old boy?”
“It’d be an easy way to keep in touch with old friends and family. I would like to ring up Gertrude and Paul now and then.”
“Say no more, say no more! It’s as good as yours!” She took another deep drink of her cocoa. “And impeccable work with the kettle as always. You’re such a dear. I brag about you all the time to the ladies of the Adventurers’ Club, you know. I tell them, ‘Forget valets and ladies’ maids. You simply cannot best a ghost when it comes to loyal service.’”
“You flatter me greatly, Mistress. I am merely happy to be of use in my spectral years.”
It hurt every time.
That was something nobody ever talked about. Magic wasn’t nice, or pretty, or sweet. And angels weren’t any of those things, either. They were the soldiers of God, creatures meant for blood and war and fire. Everyone whispered fearfully about demons, but angels weren’t any different-demons were just more upfront about it all.
Angels were incomprehensible, too. Too many eyes, too many limbs, wings made of feathers that were more like razorblades. Humans couldn’t look at them, not really. Something in their brains simply shut down, unable to process what the eyes were seeing. So most of the people who saw angels claimed to see flashes of light. Wings. Wings were comprehensible. Birds used wings to fly, and angels were supposed to fly down from heaven. Yes, there had been wings.
His mother remembered the wings, and the light, and a voice that echoed everywhere. Poor heirlooms to pass down to a son.
He wondered if it hurt because he was only a half-breed. His sire simply was, no transformation necessary. His wings didn’t have to sprout fully-formed from a smooth back, bursting from shoulder blades and a spine that was only just designed for upright support. He didn’t have to feel the burn of heavenly fire coursing through his bones, giving him the divine strength to fly-that all came standard.
Sometimes he hated him, the unknown and unknowable father. Sometimes he even hated God. But mostly he hated himself, for being caught between two worlds and unable to exist fully in either one. For having to hide the truth, for having to rely on his angelic heritage to protect the people he cared about, and for the nauseating mixture of joy and pain he felt every time he unfurled his wings.
He called himself king. Not by divine right, not even by birthright. By the right of conquest, with cutlass and musket powder and an armada of ships at his command. He was the terror of the sea, raiding and pillaging as he pleased. Sinking galleons regardless of the flags they flew. Governments and their law meant nothing to him. He accumulated wealth beyond most men’s imaginings, but it was not all in gold or jewels.
He called them his harem. A quartet of beauties he’d stolen from ships then sent to the ocean floor. Yingtai. Adaeze. Janne. Tatia. Ladies of wealth and standing-now his brides.
But some fine ladies do not take kindly to being toyed with. Some women are not so easily cowed. And one night, when the pirate king was snoring after a day of ale and fighting, the queens united to overthrow him. Cut his throat on his own cutlass, stormed the decks with muskets blazing, and took his empire as their own. No man would claim them for his own again. They were no treasure to be stolen or won. And they were far more ruthless and terrible than the king had ever been.
In a matter of weeks, the seven seas were theirs. Each claimed her quarter of the world and swore to rule it without mercy, to kill any who dared to oppose them, and made an oath on shared blood over a pit of doubloons and rubies.
“Let no man tear asunder what we have put together,” said Janne.
“They say the sea is a cruel mistress,” said Yingtai. “We shall show them the truth of that.”
“Better to die than to bow before another king,” said Adaeze.
“The king is dead-long live the queens!” shouted Tatia, drawing her sword.
“Aye!” they cheered with blood-red smiles.
She hadn’t meant to do it. The doom she had wrought upon them was unintentional. Not that that would count for much.
All she wanted was to dance for one night. To wear a beautiful dress and glitter like a diamond in the candlelight. To smile and talk lightly about how beautiful the room was and how fine the food was and how charming the guests were.
Just one night. One night with other people, pretending that she was just like them. One night to be graceful and dainty. To wear her grandmother’s dress-the one she had worn the night of the ball when the Prince had found her glass slipper-and live vicariously.
How could she have forgotten it was the night of the full moon? And that her husband, half-sick with worry when she didn’t come home after dark, would venture out in search of her red cloak? Would follow her scent to the castle, where so many women were wearing red, just as the moon broke through the clouds?
She let herself cry for just another moment. Allowed herself a few more heartbeats to mourn the loss of her dream and the hope of normality.
Then she pushed herself up from the bracken. Waved a hand to wish away her delicate dress and replace it with her thick, warm, practical red cloak. And set off to rescue her wayward, hungry husband, who even now had the entire force of the castle’s guards out hunting for him. She felt a pang for those noble, well-meaning men with their crossbows and swords. They thought they were hunting down a beast, unaware that a far more dangerous hunter was tracking them.
A witch’s work was never done.
“You actually a bewitcher?” he asks, voice a lazy drawl. His suit’s too tight, obviously made with a thinner man in mind. Probably got it at a pawn shop. He reeks of hair pomade and cologne, the cheap kinds.
One of those. Goody.
“Sign on the door says ‘bewitchery’, don’t it?” I reply, crossing my legs. He watches with obviously lecherous interest, running a tongue over his bottom lip. His whole focus is on the pale skin beneath the daringly short hem of my rose-pink dress. “What can I do for you, mister?”
“Oh, plenty, sweetheart,” he says, clearly convinced of his own debonair charm. I can’t stop my nose from wrinkling with disgust. “But mainly I wanna hex my business rival. Just a little something to clog the gears in his machine, you know? Make the smooth things not so smooth. Catch me?”
“I understand you perfectly, but I’m afraid I don’t truck with black juju. That sort of thing tends to come back to you threefold.”
“I ain’t asking you to kill the mook. I don’t even want him hurt any, at least not in the physical sense. That I can do on my own. I just want some bad luck to befall him. That ain’t so bad, is it?”
“It comes back threefold, mister. I didn’t stutter, did I?”
“Listen up, baby,” he hisses, lunging forward suddenly, face suffused with red anger. My hands move quickly, brushing back my dress to draw the slim little blade I keep tucked in my garter. He stops just short of grabbing me, eyes bulging slightly.
Maybe he’s not a total idiot-he obviously knows when a girl knows her way around a knife.
“I don’t need bewitchery to hurt you, either, mister,” I purr, the light in my eyes not wholly due to the lamp overhead. “You want left-handed juju, why don’t you mosey down by the docks? There’s plenty of bokors with stalls down there, and they don’t mind playing with the balance. Me, I’ve got a brain, and rules I live by. I don’t break them for nobody, especially not a flea like you. So why don’t you leave my consulting fee on the table and walk out with a smile-before I make yours wider than nature intended.”
It’s a sad night when a bewitcher has to resort to petty threats to get results.
Don’t go in the woods at night.
But if you do go in the woods, don’t stray from the path.
The left-hand path, that is. Never, ever take the right-hand path.
And if you find yourself on the right-hand path, never-under any circumstances-follow it to the end.
To the clearing at the heart of the woods. To the lake that is frozen solid in the winter months. The lake that is cold and milky even in the spring. The lake that always has mist hanging above it.
There are people in that lake, people that aren’t really people. They look peaceful, as if they are only sleeping beneath the ice. Their hair hangs like a dark cloud around their faces. And there is another cloud, a red cloud, that hangs around their lips.
If you find that lake, don’t ever come within arm’s reach of the surface. Especially not during a thaw.
Plenty have let their curiosity get the better of them. Many have ignored the warnings.
And all that’s left of them is a red cloud under thin ice.