The Incompetent Witch and the Very Big O

by DC Thome

  “I’d take offense if that remark hadn’t come from someone who has more ass in her personality than in her panties. Anyway, now that we’ve figured out why you’re not here”—I punched my pillow—“maybe you could answer my question.”

  “There have been more incidents. I had to rescue beavers bonking, foxes making flippy-floppy, porcupines playing ‘plant the parsnip’ and deer doing the greased-weasel tango.”

  “Earl Buck and Jane Doe?”

  “No. A young gay couple: John Deer and Jane Doe’s brother Pillsbury.”

  “Was that the exact order?

  Brigid sighed. “What difference does that make?”

  “Lizards…crows…wolverines…deer…foxes…porcupines…deer. The animals keep getting bigger.”

  “Deer are on the list twice.”

  “But, you see, going from wolverines to deer is a big jump compared to going from wolverines to foxes to porcupines and then deer.”

  “And water is wet,” Brigid said. “You’re really on top of your game this morning, Whoredenza.”

  I heard the insult; I just didn’t care. I sprang from the bed. “Did they all see pink flashes?”

  “How would I know what they saw?”

  “By asking them.”

  “And I would ask them specifically that because…”

  “Because the lizard, crow and wolverine couples all had the same experience.”

  Brigid threw up her arms. “You’re making even less sense than usual, and it’s not just because I’m tired. I dropped by to keep you up to date; do what you will with the information.”

  “Why are you so gung-ho about keeping me up to date?”

  “Because it’s your job as much as mine to protect the magical creatures who live amongst us. Perhaps it would be easier for you to do that if you’re there to help them when they need it.”

  Shit. I hate it when you’re right. “I was on the scene last night when Earl and Jane were attacked. I blasted the thing and stunned it enough to make it leave them alone.”

  “You stunned it?”

  “Yes.”

  She snickered. “How many ways is it possible for a witch to be incompetent?”

  Shit again. I hate it more when you say hurtful things and I actually feel hurt. “I’m conducting my own investigation,” I said. “I intend to take action as soon as I identify the best action to take. Until then, I’m more than willing to do whatever I can to keep the shifters safe.”

  “How noble,” Brigid scoffed. “You run your ‘investigation.’ I’m going home to get some rest; I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be another long night, whether you show up or not.”

  She flicked her wrist and vanished.

  I flipped off the puff of lavender mist she left behind and shouted, “Next time, knock before you come into my bedroom, you old witch!”

  Abigail pranced into the room. “I object. I’m not a witch, I’m a familiar, and as such, I have full access to every room in the house whenever I want it.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  She looked around. “You were talking to yourself?”

  “I was talking to Brigid.”

  “She’s not—”

  “She already left, okay?”

  “Seems like splitting hairs, but whatever. Scratch my throat.” She put her paws on my knees and wagged her tail. She was more of a pest than a pet, but I couldn’t resist her. I picked her up, sat on the edge of the bed and dug my fingers into the soft fur beneath her chin.

  “You seem upset,” she said.

  “What tipped you off?”

  “You’re choking me.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” I eased up. “Look, something potentially very dangerous is happening to the shifters around here, and I can’t figure out what it is or how to stop it.”

  “I suppose you want me to tell you.”

  “As if you care what I want.”

  “I intend to help you by—”

  “I know—making me figure it out on my own.”

  She rolled over on my lap. “No, actually. I was going to help you by telling you about someone I’ve heard of who may be able to provide important insight.”

  You’re shitting me. “Who?”

  “A shifter with special abilities and in-depth knowledge of shifter carnality. His name is Roger, and he lives just a short transport away, in Assjacket.”

  ***

  With a nod and a twitch of my nose, I clad myself in a black leather miniskirt with a wide silver belt, a matching front-zip corset and four-strap boots with skulls on the buckles.

  Abigail gave me a glib once-over. “Are you serious?”

  “What?”

  “The top.”

  I looked down. Leather in ninety-degree heat? I switched to a sequined black top with a plunging V neck. “Better?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Abigail said. “You’re gonna wow ’em in Assjacket. They’ll all think, ‘I bet she lives in a really nice trailer.’”

  “Two words,” I said. “Fuck, and you. Are you ready to go?”

  “I’m always ready to go.”

  With a wink of my right eye, Abigail and I were outside Assjacket’s professional building.

  The town’s dreary, rundown facades made it look a lot like Douchecanoe. I didn’t know much about the place, but I’d heard of their healer, Zelda, legendary for fending off a power-grab by a witch-gone-bad and her gang of bad-news honey badgers. I’d heard, too, that Zelda was horny and had a history as a fuck-up. Sounds like someone I might like.

  But Abigail and I were there to meet Roger, a rabbit shifter with empathic abilities. We went into the professional building—which, of course, was a lot nicer inside—and stood in the cozy waiting room outside Roger’s office. Technically, he and I were of comparable status, though the big-ass medical school diploma on his wall indicated he was way more qualified than I would ever be.

  I knocked on the door, and a thin, reedy voice came from the other side. “Who’s there?”

  Abigail cleared her throat and said, in a voice just a few notes higher than the typical death-metal growler, “It is I, Prudenzia La Strega, Almighty Healer of Deau de Cheneaux.”

  “You sound like an ugly little dog.”

  “She’s a cat,” I yelled.

  The door opened a crack and a man with a slender face, big bunnylike eyes and a cute little nose popped out. “I see a witch and a dog. Is the cat invisible?”

  “Let’s just skip ahead,” I said. “Are you Roger the Empath?”

  “I am. Who are you?”

  “Prudenzia La Strega. I am not a bad person, but I’m by no means almighty, or any kind of kind of mighty at all.”

  “She’s not much of a healer, either,” Abigail said.

  I glared at her.

  She shrugged. “Just trying to help.”

  “I’m with a client right now,” Roger said. “Can you wait?”

  A red-headed beauty of the traditional tall, thin witchy variety—wearing Prada—peered over Roger’s shoulder. “You’re from Douchecanoe? I heard there’s trouble there.”

  Douchecanoe! If this is Zelda, I like her already. “My name is Prudenzia,” I said. “Prudenzia La Strega. Are you Zelda?”

  “No, I’m Grandma Moses.”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  She crossed her arms. “Does it look like I’m shitting you?”

  “Actually…yes.”

  She laughed. “Got me—I am shitting you. I’m Zelda. What can I do ya for?”

  We shook hands. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “But actually I came here to see Roger the Rabbit shifter.” I nodded toward Abigail. “She suggested it.”

  Zelda’s eyes narrowed as she took in my furry companion. “What is that thing?”

  “My familiar, Abigail. She’s a cat.”

  “Dog!”

  Zelda’s eyes darted between Abigail and me. “Familiars can be such a pain in the ass.”

  “Every now and then they come in handy,” I
said.

  Zelda laughed.

  Abigail snorted.

  “If it’s all right,” I said, “Abigail and I would like to speak with Roger.”

  “But,” he protested, “Zelda and I are in the middle of a session.”

  “It’s all right, Roger, my dad brought me some new duds from Paris I want to try on.” Zelda checked out my clothes. “Nice skirt. Slutty. Goes well with your figure. Where’d you get it?”

  “Not Paris.”

  She shrugged and said, “It works.” She turned and patted Roger’s chest. “Good luck with this guy,” she said to me, “and be careful with him. We like having him around.”

  Then she twitched her nose and disappeared.

  ***

  Roger led us into the office. He had a huge desk and a couch that smelled like it had just been delivered from the store. I fluffed a spot next to me and looked for Abigail and spotted her sniffing the base of a potted hawthorn tree. The way a dog does. And getting ready to lift her leg. Oh, for fuck’s sake! I bounded from the couch and scooped her up.

  “First of all, you’re a cat, and lifting your leg is a dog thing,” I snapped. “Second, you’re female, and even female dogs don’t lift their legs.”

  She looked at Roger. “Can you believe I put up with this all the time?”

  Roger shrugged. “I can’t help anyone until they admit they need help.”

  Therapist school crap. I nodded politely.

  “So,” he said, “how can I help you?”

  “Probably not the same way you help other visitors. I mean, sex, and all—I’m good.”

  I expected a laugh, but Roger remained stone serious. “I see. Then why are you here?”

  “You’ve heard about what’s happening in Douchecanoe.”

  “Douchecanoe?”

  “Deau de Cheneaux.”

  “Ah. I’ve heard stories, but not a lot of details. Something about shifters passing out when doing the deed.”

  “It’s worse than that. Some of them would have died if the healer hadn’t shown up in time.”

  “Oh, dear.” Roger stood and started to pace. “Do these incidents have anything in common?”

  “The victims remember seeing pink flashes, and one of them ends up unconscious.”

  “Streaks, or sparks?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. Just seemed like something to ask.”

  I told him about the deer copulating inside the quivering pink bubble. When I finished, Roger shook his head and mumbled, “Dear, dear, dear. Both unconscious?”

  “Just the doe.”

  He looked confused.

  “You asked me if they both went unconscious, and I said, no, one deer—the female deer.”

  Now he looked intrigued.

  “Is that important?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “It’s not good. Not good at all.”

  Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Abigail crawled into my lap and batted at my hand until I started scratching her chest. “Do you have any idea what this thing might be?”

  “I have a good idea, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

  “I already know I don’t like it,” I said. “But finding out what it is might make it easier to figure out how to fight it.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Roger went to a shelf and ran a finger down a neat row of magical DVDs until he came to one with a pink spine, took it down and handed it to me. The cover showed a pink mass resembling a Jell-O mold—if Jell-O had long eyelashes and wore dark red lipstick.

  The Orgasmism 6. “Rated XXXX!”

  Abigail sniffed the box and seemed to find it interesting. A little too interesting. I moved it away from her and shook it in Roger’s face. “What the hell is this?”

  “Just what the title says,” he said.

  “A porno called The Organississimist?”

  “Not ‘a porno.’ No, no, no. I’m a therapist. The entire series—it’s pronounced ‘or-GAZZ-mizm’—is essential to the professional library of any respectable magical sex counselor.”

  I looked around. “I don’t see a DVD player.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “But you have a TV.”

  He looked at it as though he’d never seen it before. “It’s a gift. A very recent one. I don’t know how to work it yet. Fortunately, I don’t need it to show you what you need to see.”

  He took the box from me and opened it, revealing a disc of suspended glitter. Blowing on it made glitter spin into the air and coalesce into images of sex, sex and sex, followed by more sex.

  “I see how some people might see this as fascinating,” I said, “but it’s not helping me at all with my investigation.”

  “I’ll skip ahead to the most relevant scenes.” Roger poked the swirling glitter with a finger and twirled ahead to a sex scene in which an insanely muscled young warlock cranked so hard on a comely young witch that it looked as if they both might explode. And then, as I watched with mouth agape, they did explode—shooting sparks through a cloud of pink smoke, lighting up not only the screen, but also Roger’s entire office with flashes of pink so bright I dropped Abigail and covered my eyes.

  I shivered. “That felt too real.”

  “That’s why it’s such a popular series,” Roger said.

  “No. I mean the flash—it was just like what happened on Sabbat—”

  “Hey!” Abigail interrupted. “A little warning next time!”

  “Roger,” I said, “what’s happening in this scene?”

  “The witch’s orgasm is so intense that it hyper-activates and merges with her magic and any residual magic in the area—and becomes sentient.”

  So, it’s possible that I…

  “And then what?”

  “It terrorizes the countryside, growing bigger and bigger as it feeds on the sexual energy of unsuspecting lovers.”

  The victims keep getting bigger! I dropped back onto the couch.

  Roger blew on the screen, and the glitter returned to the box. “You seem troubled.”

  “Damn right I am,” Abigail said. “How would you like to be dropped on your head?”

  “You’re a cat, Abigail Fucking Barker, so you landed on your feet. Now go lie down somewhere and lick your crotch.” I swallowed hard. “Roger, could something like this actually happen?”

  “It’s all very theoretical,” he said. “Pure science fiction.” He put away the Orgasmism DVD and ran his fingers lovingly over the row of boxes. “Although, the stuff of science fiction often becomes reality.”

  “What if I told you that my boyfriend and I went up to Sabbat Hill at midnight on the Solstice and…”

  “And what?”

  “Did it.”

  “Did what?”

  Are you fucking kidding me? “‘It,’ for Goddess’ sake. Poked the squid. Glazed the donut.”

  “Slammed the clam?”

  “If that’s the term you’d like to use.”

  “Dipped the cruller?”

  “Sure.”

  “Polished the—”

  “All of the above, okay? Can we move on?”

  “I guess.” He paced again, all the while nodding, moving his lips and counting on his fingertips. “On Sabbat Hill, at midnight on the Solstice, the second most powerful night of the year. That would certainly concentrate a lot of power in one place at one time. Not sure if it would be as much as the film suggests is needed, but if there’ve been attacks—are you sure you’ve told me everything that happened on Sabbat Hill?”

  “Um…well, I did have seven beers too many, plus a shot of something before we went up there. And there was a thunderstorm. And another guy.”

  “Another guy?”

  “It’s not like I’m a slut, or anything,” I said. “It was my boyfriend’s idea.”

  Roger circled around and stood in front of me, nodding and rubbing his chin—and reminding me of the figure looming overhead
in my pink nightmare.

  “Is any of that important?”

  “It’s all important,” he said. “You see, the kind of activity you describe suggests that you may well have created an Orgasmism.”

  A wave of dread washed over me. I did this? Goddess spitting butt plugs from her ears! “How do I kill it?”

  “Did you try zapping it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did that work?”

  “If it had worked, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He nodded as though I’d just said something profound. “All I can tell you is…”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  My heart sank all the way to the bottom buckles of my four-buckle boots. “There’ve been six Orgasmism movies. How can you not have a clue?”

  “Actually, eleven,” he said, “but they’ve never been able to kill it. Which makes sense, because if it died, no more sequels.”

  My marriage-counseling rage bubbled up inside me. “Do you have any suggestions about how to kill it?”

  He mumbled a bit, then poked a finger into the air and said, “They could kill it, and have someone create a new one. No—a prequel! Everyone loves prequels!”

  My marriage counseling rage bubbled over. “I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE ONE IN THE MOVIE!”

  Roger jumped back. “I understand this is stressful, but I simply don’t have any insights. And I would appreciate it if you used your inside voice.”

  “You’re right,” I said in my inside voice. “I’m behaving monstrously.” Apparently, not for the first time. “I apologize. Is there anything else—anything—you do know that might help me?”

  “Come to think of it…” He counted on his fingers again. “A theme emerged in Episode 4 about how an Orgasmism is formed only when the two chugging the choo-choo are true lovers.”

  Oh, fuck no. “‘True,’ as in, ‘meant for each other’?”

  “Exactly! I hope that helps.”

  Anything that suggests Spur is my true love absolutely does not help.

  “It’s also possible,” Roger said, “that you and your lover might be able to work together to undo the errant spell that created your Orgasmism. Magic often works that way, you know.”

  A witchsplainer. “Yes, I know,” I said. “I’m a shitty healer, but overall, as witches go, not far from average.”