by C. J. Canady
Many female entertainers have called Taffy’s home. Many have made names for themselves while working here. Many have gone on to do remarkable things after. Belinda, the newest recruit, had shared with me her dreams of being a doctor when she and I attended grammar school together. But medical school will cost you an arm, leg, a few toes, and your soul. And thus, Belinda sold her soul to work for Taffy’s.
I just hope she doesn’t lose herself in the high praise from horny men like my mum did. Mum could have started her dancing career years ago and even opened her own school of dance. Instead, she lost herself in the façade of fame. As with the previous women who’ve danced at Taffy’s, she’ll soon be forgotten about once she leaves for good.
“Taffy’s can be lively at this hour,” I say, motioning to the ruckus that will last for a few more hours. There are already a few patrons passed out on the floor and even one on a table. “We don’t typically have women here for... uh, reasons.”
The lady in red regards me with a swift nod. “Men are strange creatures. They all come from women and are desperate to get back inside. At least those two—” she flicks her finger at my mum and Belinda “—have the right idea. Not that I’d stoop to this low. I believe women should have more class than that.”
My cheeks warm, fingers twitch. How dare she judge my mum and Belinda for trying to make an honest living. I’ve dealt with women like her who criticize my mum relentlessly, nail her to a cross because of what she does. I’d never want to end up like my mum, that’s for sure, but everyone must do what they can to survive.
Politely, I swallow down the fire building in my throat and take a breath. “What will you have today, ma’am?”
The woman shudders, jerks back in her seat. “Please, Elyse, call me Vahilda.”
“Will do, Vahil—wait.” I pause, scratch my head. “How d’you know my name?”
A wide grin lifts her lips. “I know quite a lot about you.”
It’s my turn to jerk back. Doing so, I bump into a patron who reeks of alcohol and belches his annoyance at me. Bowing my head apologetically to him, I turn to face Vahilda. What does she mean she knows about me? Honestly, there isn’t much to know. I’m an ordinary person who exists on the outskirts of society. I’m no one special. And yet, Vahilda regards me as if I am special.
“Who are you?”
“Come. Sit.” She flourishes her hand at the empty stool on the opposite side of the table. “We have lots to discuss, you and I.”
“I’m on the clock,” I say, clasping my hands on my belly. “I could get into a lot of trouble if my boss saw me taking a paid break.”
“No need to worry.” Vahilda raises her right hand, branded with an intricate star-shaped tattoo on the back, and with a flick of her wrist, opens her palm to me, revealing a cherry plum flower. The white-pink petals of the flower crinkle, fading to an ashen gray color as the entire flower turns to dust.
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence envelopes Taffy’s Tavern.
Stealing a glance over my shoulder, I gasp, cupping a trembling hand over my mouth. Along with the eerie quiet, everyone is motionless, frozen. Mum is mid-kick, left leg straight like an arrow, standing akimbo on her right foot. She’s mid-dance, her famous high kick, the move all the men lower their heads for to sneak a peek under her dress. Belinda is hoisted in the air by a muscular brute, whose gnarly beard she runs her fingers through. Avery holds Peter, a regular who insists on skipping on his bill, in a headlock, face raging red with anger.
Heart thundering in my ears, I squeal, realization kicking me in the gut, “You’re a witch.” I point an accusatory finger at her.
“What gave it away?” She coyly bats her eyelashes at me, but not in a flirtatious manner. It’s more sinister than anything. Unnerving.
Witchcraft is an arcane art, devious in nature and design. I’d expect nothing less from her kind; they’re all the same—wicked savages who desire nothing more than the blood of the innocent to be spilled. My knowledge of witches stems from the many stories in the press to the books I’ve read as a child, to the Mayor of Yardenfeld himself. He would have Vahilda executed for her acts. Being near her, breathing the same air as her, is undoubtedly a one-way ticket to Parnissi. The underworld. A human like me would die a thousand deaths at the hands of all magical entities who call Parnissi home.
Being the bookworm I am, I’ve secretly skimmed through tomes and Apocrypha pertaining to witches and witchcraft. Something, perhaps my thirst for knowledge, lured me into the forbidden section of the library. A sort of beguiling tug at a piece of my soul that I can’t quite explain.
The Vicar, Saint Luke of Holy Mountain Church, would condemn me, accuse me of having a malevolent attachment to me, and have me drowned in holy water if he ever caught me reading restricted books.
But I’m a good person whose curiosity is natural to all humans. I’m not evil. Or wicked. Or a witch.
“Vahilda,” I say, voice trembling, “I kindly ask that you leave Taffy’s. We have the right to refuse service to anyone—even witches.”
Vahilda grimaces, lips quirking in an odd smile. “You’d kick out one of your own?” She drums her fingers on the table, makes a kissy noise as she looks around me. The pesky cat, who just can’t take a hint and stay away from the tavern, leaps atop the table to nuzzle his head in the palm of Vahilda’s hand. I’ve read about cats and their affinity for witches. It makes sense why this pest is unaffected by the magic; the cat belongs to her.
Staring daggers at her, I question what exactly she meant by “one of your own.” Does she think I’m a witch like her? If so, she’s sadly mistaken. I may have my mean streak at times, perhaps a bit thorny when I speak to others who are rude for no reason at all, but I am no witch.
“Elyse.” Vahilda breathes my name like a curse. “You’re a smart girl, always reading books and whatnot, right?”
“How do you know so much about me?” And how much more does she know? And what does she want from me? More importantly, how do I escape? I’ve only skimmed through those books about witches; I never thought to read about how to flee should I encounter one.
Vahilda answers my question by scratching the cat under his chin. “My friend told me. My trusty feline has followed you around for a week or so, gathering intel for me—”
“What do you want from me?” I ball my hand into fists, straighten my spine, hold my head high. I can’t show fear in the face of a witch; it’s how they get you. But deep inside, my blood curdles, my stomach roils.
“I came here to save a fellow witch in need,” she says as she smooths a hand down her throat. “It’s rude not to offer a paying customer a drink. I’m rather parched.”
Keeping my eyes trained on the witch in red and her furry companion, I slowly creep to the bar, avoiding the frozen patrons. Their cheerful smiles would shrink to fear if they only knew about Vahilda. “I’m not a witch.” I shuffle through a rack of clean dishware and remove a squeaky-clean tankard.
“Fine then,” Vahilda scoffs. “Bring me an empty glass, and I’ll show you just how much of a witch you are.
Doing just as she says, I head back to the table with the empty tankard and slam it in front of her. The cat jerks its head back and hisses at me, claws extended in surprise.
Vahilda frowns, brown eyes glinting in the candlelight. “You’re very rude for such a pretty girl.”
I nearly lose my balance, legs going weak, knees wobbling. Was that a compliment? Or something to force me to put down my defenses? I’m not... pretty. Mum would laugh right in Vahilda’s face if she heard the witch say such a thing. Mum has always told me the truth about my beauty—I’m unattractive. Mum says my only options are living alone with a horde of cats or praying to the Goddess that I marry a wealthy man stricken with blindness.
Vahilda offers me a seat next to her, pats the open stool to her left. Shaking my head, I sit opposite her and her familiar just in case she tries anything sneaky. Witches are crafty beings; you can neve
r be too careful.
“If I do this,” I say, adjusting my weight on the stool with uneven legs, “will you leave and—” I raise my hand at the still petrified crowd “—fix this.”
“Of course.” Vahilda scoots the tankard to me. She rolls her tattooed hand and shows me her palm. A small lavender hydrangea rests in it; the petals rustle under the cat’s nose as it sniffs the flower. “Take this.”
I’m hesitant, uneasy, in case this is a trick. My mind is unable to process how Vahilda can achieve such a feat. An electric prickle of curiosity guides my hand to hers, fingers hovering over her offered hand.
“Go on.”
Plucking the shrub from her palm, I shrug at her, unsure what to do next because I am not a witch. Yet, I can’t help but notice how my shoulders relax as I cup the flower between my hands, how a ghost of a smile lifts my lips for a beat before I suck in my lips.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Using your intent, draw on the hydrangeas essence to fill this glass with fresh water.” Vahilda slides the tankard closer to me, taps a finger on the glass. “I can see the confusion in your eyes, the doubt, and the anticipation. You know who you are; you just need a witch like me to show you how amazing you are.”
I, once again, thwart off her beliefs about me being like her. And yet, I can’t seem to move from this spot because I am intrigued and frightened at the same time.
Focusing on the empty glass, I imagine the tankard being filled with sparkling water to the very brim. This all seems so silly. So useless.
I’m not a witch.
I’m not a witch.
I choke out a breath, jaw-dropping, eyes nearly bulging out of my skull. The hydrangea crumples to ash, drifts away on a wayward breeze of winter’s breath as water rises in the cup, overflows over the rim, and spills on the table.
“I-I’m a w-witch...” I jolt off the stool, topple onto my backside, and scurry away from the table. Tears sting my eyes and roll down my cheeks. “Parnissi,” I screech, scrambling to my feet to stand. “I’m going to Parnissi. Is that why you’re here? Did my mum send for you?”
My mum has delighted in torturing me with stories about how she wishes I were dragged to the underworld. To be taken away from her in a blaze of glory. She says it would be the happiest day of her life to get rid of me.
This must be her way of finally getting everything she’s ever wished for. She’ll be with Igbob, planning a wedding and starting a new family without me. Her fairytale cannot be actualized until I’m out of the picture. Far out of the picture.
“I came here on my own accord.” Vahilda lifts the tankard in a celebratory motion, sips the water daintily. “Well, not really.”
Wiping my face with my sleeve, I shake my head at her. “You don’t have to defend my mum. Please don’t lie to me again.”
“What do you mean ‘again’?”
“I’m not pretty. And you’re not here to save me.”
Vahilda rolls her eyes. “Are we fishing for compliments now? Or is your self-worth nonexistent?” She assesses me, then says, “I’ll take the latter as being true—such a shame. I haven’t lied to you, Elyse. I am here to save you. However, I can’t force you to go anywhere you don’t want.”
“I don’t want to go to Parnissi,” I blurt out. “To burn for eternity.”
At this, Vahilda cackles like a hyena. “Your books are filled with lies about our true home. Besides, the weather this time of year in Parnissi is quite marvelous. Sunny and warm. My garden thrives like none other. It’s where I’ve cultivated my collection of flowers.”
A garden? Sunny and warm? Marvelous? Words I’ve never once read about Parnissi. Words I’ve never heard the Vicar utter about the underworld. All magical beings are born from the eternal fire and brimstone plaguing Parnissi. They come to earth with the intent of causing chaos, confusion, and destruction.
“I don’t believe you.” I search her face for a hint of a lie, a speckle of untruth. But Vahilda’s stunning face is pinched, unamused. She looks as if she’s defeated and has had enough of the back and forth with me.
“It was a mistake coming here,” she says, but not to me, to her cat. “We tried to save her. But her fate is sealed.” She gathers the front of her dress in one hand and stands to her full height. The cat snarls at me, then leaps onto Vahilda’s shoulder.
“What do you mean my fate is sealed?” I ask, crossing my arms. “You’re keeping something from me. Just like a witch to withhold information.”
Vahilda’s brows furrow, lips quivering as she bares her teeth. “Here’s two bits of information I’ll leave you with before you meet your fate tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? What’s going to happen tomorrow? Perhaps nothing as witches are tricksters, manipulators. This is probably her ploy to scare me into joining her in Parnissi. For my deed of conjuring water, I’d be surprised if my soul were allowed into heaven for my witchcraft. It was an honest mistake. Everyone sins. And everyone can be forgiven—even me.
“Your father was Edwin Marguerite.”
I’m speechless. The air knocked from my lungs like a punch to the gut. My... father. She knew my father. No. This must be a deceitful tactic.
Vahilda continues, “He was an extraordinary wizard who made a foolish choice of coming here to Yardenfeld almost nineteen years ago where he was killed.” The cat on her shoulder dips his head as if in mourning and mewls. “About a month ago, I had the strangest dream about you, Elyse. I had no idea who you were, but I knew what you were. In that dream, Edwin is mourning you. Crying like a child over a deceased girl he never got the chance to know. He begged me to find you—to save you—”
“I’m going to die?” I press a hand over my mouth, stifling the urge to scream. It can’t be true.
“I’ve already said too much.” Vahilda turns her back to me and saunters to the door.
“Don’t go.” I barrel to her, shoving aside the statues of human flesh trapped in time.
Vahilda disappears behind the door and slams it shut. Yanking the door open, I am met by blistering cold and a packed roadside where pedestrians and horse-drawn carriages meander about like normal. No Vahilda to be found amongst the traffic of bodies.
A cacophony of noises erupts behind me. Taffy’s Tavern comes back to life with song and dance, unaware of the witch who just foretold my coming death.
Chapter 3
THE HEAVENS ARE DAPPLED with heavenly white stars and dark, gray clouds threatening Yardenfeld with an unyielding downpour of snow. My cheeks are exposed to the icy winds, my hooded sweater, peppered with holes that allow the cold to nip at any exposed skin, is a size too small and can’t quite fit over my head of hair. Gingerly padding my way to the carriage across a sleek sheet of ice, I clumsily enter the cart and flop into the leather seat. Mum is already inside, slumped against the window, drifting off into slumber. She’s worn out from her final night as an entertainer at Taffy’s, and I’m worn out from the overload of information Vahilda dumped on me. I could use some sleep too. Maybe I’ll wake up from this weird dream.
Worse still... I’m going to die tomorrow. If Vahilda’s word is to be trusted. Though tomorrow is never promised, to have it verified by a witch is alarming. Should I believe her? Can I trust someone like her? A witch.
Can I trust myself now that I know that I’m... I’m... a witch...? Am I still me? Still the same Elyse before I filled the tankard with water? Still the same girl who loves to read books?
And what of my father? The man Vahilda says is a wizard who traveled to Yardenfeld nineteen years ago and was killed. I wonder if my mother knows anything about him. Not that she’d remember a guy she had a one-night fling with so long ago. Or would she? It wouldn’t hurt to ask. But what would come of it?
“Edwin Marguerite,” I say under my breath, to which my mum stirs.
Rubbing her eyes, she squints at me. “Be a dear and close the door, you.” She wraps her arms around herself and shivers.
Sliding the door close, I
rap my knuckles on the front window and nod at the driver. Mum and I lurch forward as the horse begins to trot down the road.
“Who’s Edwin?” Mum stretches her neck and yawns. “Is it the name of your imaginary boyfriend?”
I bristle, scoot myself closer to the door, and try to put as much space between us as I can in this confined carriage. “It’s no one.” I’d rather not retort in an impolite manner, which would turn into a full-blown argument. Mum and I argue far too much for it to be considered healthy. She’s always the agitator, but puts the full blame on me for starting a fight I never initiated.
Fighting with her would be no good if my final words to her are ones filled with vitriol. I’d rather have a quiet ride home, a peaceful end to the night, if tonight is indeed my last. Would my mum even care if I perished tomorrow? Or even pretend to care?
Mum’s tired voice cuts through my morbid thoughts of death. “Igbob and I will be leaving by noon tomorrow to move into his mansion. You should be grateful he’s pulling a double tonight at the hospital. Now you can keep your dear mother company.”
I nod my head, refusing to engage her in further conversation. She’s been with Igbob for four years too long and has never seen or been inside his alleged mansion. She even believes he’s a doctor at the local infirmary but never thoroughly investigated his claims after being told repeatedly that someone by the name of Igbob McArthur doesn’t work there. I’d like to believe she’s smarter than this, yet she’s so infatuated with the tall, lanky, and somewhat handsome man that she is blinded by his dashing smile. He could lie and say the sky is falling, and she’d believe it.
Warming my hands by the interior lantern, I turn to face my mum, lips twisted in contemplation. “Is there a reason you failed to mention that not only are you engaged, but you’re pregnant?”
“Avery can’t hold water, I see.” Mum digs a hand in her bosoms, fumbles for a second, then pulls out a massive diamond engagement ring that reflects the lantern light in my eyes.