The Incompetent Witch and the Very Big O

by DC Thome

  “No! Of course not!” His eyes darted from side to side. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

  I pulled down the shrug and inspected my shoulders. “Well…no marks. So, why are you here?”

  “Like I said: To protect you. And maybe other stuff.”

  “Such as…”

  “Help you figure out how to kill the monster.”

  ***

  I took Abigail from Hunter and plopped her onto the waiting room rug. She woke up and glared at me. “What’s the big idea?”

  “Hunter and I go into the office, you stay out here.”

  She made a dash for the door, but I stopped her with my foot.

  “You have to let me in,” she said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But I want to help you.”

  “No, you don’t.” I levitated her and put her back on the rug. “You can help by staying out here.”

  “Three heads are better than two.”

  “Right. You just want Hunter to scratch your little feline belly.”

  “Canine belly.”

  “Whatever. Stay off the chairs. I don’t want my clients getting a butt full of cat hair.”

  I closed the door so I wouldn’t see Abigail climbing onto a chair. Hunter stood by the bookshelf, with the window behind him. He wore a beat-up leather fringe jacket with some bits of fringe missing over a plaid flannel shirt, tight-fitting jeans and scuffed-up brown hiking boots.

  He turned his head sideways, scanning the book titles. “So, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking you look pretty good in clothes.” Though not as good as without them.

  “I’m talking about the monster.”

  Hunter ran his finger down the dusty row of books. “Think any of these can tell us something?”

  “It’s possible.”

  He tried to take The Healer’s Guide to Witches, Shifters and Other Magical Beings off the shelf, but it wouldn’t budge. “That’s one heavy book.”

  I didn’t feel like explaining that it’s not really a paper book, but a living, breathing, ever-changing compendium of knowledge about every magical creature in the universe. “It doesn’t work the normal way.” I called the book, and it hovered in front of me.

  Hunter’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ve seen a slug morph into a three-hundred-pound man, but I’ve never seen anyone order a book around like that.”

  “That’s nothing,” I said. “Check this—book, please open to Orgasmism.”

  The pages flipped all the way to the back, to a section headed “Theoretical Beings.”

  Hunter nodded. “You’re good.”

  I flushed at the uncommon praise. Unfortunately, the passage recounted everything Roger had told me. “Not much new here,” I said. “But get this—‘No one has yet discovered how to eradicate an Orgasmism through nearly a dozen movies. Look for possible solutions in upcoming sequels. Three more are said to be in the works.’”

  Goddess with mudflaps and braided pit hair! Three more!

  Hunter looked interested. “Three more!” When he caught my disapproving gaze, though, he shuffled his feet and said, “That’s crazy. I’ll make sure not to look for it.”

  “How ’bout we move on?” I let the Healer’s Guide go back to the shelf. “One of these books must have relevant information.”

  Chapter 8

  Hunter and I slogged through the books on my shelf, conjured distant-viewing images of ancient scrolls in faraway castles, and even conversed via crystal ball with a twinkly-eyed professor at a wizarding school in England—but learned nothing. Apparently no one had conceived of such a thing as an Orgasmism until the era of DVDs.

  By 3 p.m. I was burned out. I crumpled onto the couch. “We’re never going to find the answer.”

  Hunter stood at my desk and paged furiously through a tome we’d already scoured twice. “Somebody must know something about Orgasmisms!” He pounded the desk with his fist. “It can’t be that you and I just created one out of thin air!”

  “You and I?”

  “When we…” He made the universal sign for sex, making a circle with one hand and pumping his index finger in and out.

  “You and I…” I copied his gesture. “I thought you”—I cupped my fingers and stroked the air—“all over my mamarangies.”

  He cocked his head. “I’m sorry?”

  “Mamarangies. Bustiafiglias.” I sighed. “Oh, for crying out loud, now I’m doing it. Boobs! I mean, when you came all over my boobs.”

  He blinked several times. “Well, no. When I was...” He did the sex thing again.

  My racing heart skipped a beat. “I thought Spur…”

  Hunter blushed a very pale pink. “He didn’t tell you?”

  Now I cocked my head and blinked, giving the universal sign for “woman who’d better get a good explanation, fast.”

  Hunter took a deep breath. “Spur was on his knees, getting ready to”—he did the sign again—“and then a bolt of lightning shot out of your, you know—girly whirligig—and rolled him down the hill. Our eyes met, and you held up both hands like you were lifting something. I suddenly flipped over onto my back and a second later, you were on top of me. And”—he sped up the movement of his finger—“we both tensed up; sparks flew everywhere, and then—kaboom!”

  “Kaboom?”

  “You and I pushed hard into each other. It felt like electricity was shooting through my whole body. And it felt like forever. Time literally standing still.”

  He’d better not be playing the Magic Hoo-Ha card. “And then what?”

  “Next thing I knew, I woke up with Spur on top of me, digging his knee into my chest. I felt disoriented, weak. You were off to the side, sitting in a pink glow with your eyes closed and your head tipped back—and a huge smile on your face.” Hunter smiled. “You still had pink and blue sparks crackling on your skin. I tried to crawl to you, but Spur pinned me down and yelled at me to promise never to tell you—or anyone—what happened.”

  My blood started to boil. “So not telling me was some kind of bro thing.”

  “No. An honor thing. He thought I took advantage of him to horn in on his girl.”

  HE felt taken advantage of! “And did you? Take advantage of him?” I could feel marriage counselor rage rising. “Because that’s fucked up.”

  “No! You seemed thrilled about being there with the two of us. When all the sparkly-crackly stuff happened, I went with it. I thought it was what you wanted.”

  I felt calmer, but punched him in the chest anyway. “That’s still fucked up.”

  “I made him promise something, too,” Hunter said. “I made him swear he would watch out for you.”

  “You are talking about Spurlock the Warlock,” I pointed out. “Why ask him to promise anything?”

  “Because that was strong magic. Stronger than I’ve ever seen. It didn’t seem natural.”

  I thought back to the night in the Cozy Coven. Was it really Spur’s idea to go up Sabbat Hill with Hunter? Wavy images formed in my mind. Hunter’s intense eyes. A touch of his hand to mine. Me taking his hand and guiding it to my thigh. While we were still in the bar.

  But, where was Spur?

  Talking to someone else.

  “If you promised not to tell me what happened, why are you telling me now?”

  “You guys broke up.”

  “And if we hadn’t?”

  “I would have waited till you did.”

  “But we might have stayed together forever.”

  He laughed. “You’re a counselor. You should know Spur isn’t exactly marriage material.”

  “Hunter, do you remember anything else weird about that night?”

  “The sparks and crackles aren’t weird enough?”

  “When we were climaxing.”

  His eyes half closed. “It was…special.” And he didn’t mean it in a Jane Doe way.

  I grabbed his leg and shook it. “Yes, but—do you remember anything else? After the sparks.”

&nb
sp; “There was something,” he said. “Just before I blacked out. A flash. A big pink flash.”

  ***

  Not Spur! The news hit me like a big pink flash. But am I ready for Hunter? Couldn’t the Orgasmism writers have left the “true love” part of the equation out of it? Ugh. The movies were fiction; the real-life Orgasmism that apparently Hunter and I had created was science.

  Or, more likely, magic. A kind of magic apparently nobody knew even existed.

  The floodgate holding back tears I hadn’t even felt burst.

  Hunter sprang to my side and put his arm around me. “The last few days have been hard on you.”

  Between sobs, I said, “I never hurt anybody. I’m just an incompetent witch who likes sex! Is that so horrible that everyone should hate me?”

  Hunter squeezed me to him. “I don’t hate you.”

  “Then everyone else.”

  “All the creatures you’ve helped?”

  I shook my head. “All I do is tell them they’re being dicks.”

  “Even the females? The females can’t be dicks.”

  I felt a smile coming on. “They could be pussies, I suppose.”

  “No,” he said, looking serious, “a pussy is a male acting like he doesn’t have a dick.”

  The laughter was fighting the tears—and winning. “Oh, you,” I said, “‘dick’ is just a figure of speech. It can refer to anyone.”

  He gently wiped my cheeks with his thumbs, then pulled my head forward and kissed my hair. “Besides, whatever you tell those couples seems to be exactly what they need to hear.”

  I pulled back. “If I’m so smart, I should be able to figure out how to defeat the Orgasmism.”

  “You will!”

  “Now you’re just bullshitting me.”

  “Does it look like I’m bullshitting you?”

  I gazed into the blue horizon of his eyes and saw depths of kindness, wisdom and caring that I’d never thought could exist. “If you’re my true love,” I whispered, “I’m the luckiest woman alive.”

  “And I’m the luckiest man-slash-lion.”

  He kissed me hard. As I threw my arms around him, I peeked to check for sparks and there were none dancing on my skin—or his.

  He laid me back on the couch, kissed my neck and whispered, “I want you.”

  I placed my palms on his chest. “We have to figure out what to do next.”

  “I know what to do next.” He ran his hand over my hips.

  “We don’t have much time.”

  “We have until dark.”

  Good point. “But, I’m afraid.”

  He peeled back the shrug and kissed his way to my shoulder. “Of what?”

  “Of creating another monster.”

  He tugged the halter straps down my arms. “If we do, at least we’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  “But what would happen if the world had two living Orgasmisms?”

  He licked and kissed my breasts at the edges of the dress. “That’s in Orgasmism 9: O-tack of the Clones. Everybody get twice as much nookie.”

  “I’m not feeling as optimistic as you are.” “Maybe this will help.” He pushed the dress down past my hips and licked his way toward my spundulinapoli.

  Fuck resistance! I pulled his shirt over his head.

  He slid off the couch, kneeled before me, coaxed the dress all the way off and removed my panties. He buried his face between my legs and stroked me with his tongue. Softly at first, then harder, squeezing my ass with both hands and tilting me back and working my bastiglione with his linguamenti. I caught a glimpse of the worrisome burn marks on his hip, but I closed my eyes and stroked his hair, shoulders and broad, bare back, and soon my movements and his squeezing and tonguing fell into rhythm.

  He seemed to be getting a lot of pleasure, too, from kneading my fleshy bumpaloopa. “I didn’t figure you for an ass man,” I said.

  “I like ass. Women’s ass, that is. Especially yours. That’s good, right?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “And I like all these other parts, too.”

  He stood. I cupped and massaged my breasts as he removed his pants and briefs, revealing his bolognaplungiara grande.

  Now that I remember from Sabbat Hill!

  He moved back to the couch, held up my legs and pushed into me.

  ***

  Making love with Hunter while conscious, I’d seen stars, but none of them were pink. There were no sparks on my arms or his back, just in my head.

  Very good signs.

  Lying on my couch naked, my curves tucked neatly into the sweep of Hunter’s body behind me, I felt dreamy and warm with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window. Is he my true love? I was increasingly open to more arguments in favor.

  He patted my shoulder with a palm that felt padded and scuffed, like the leather of his hiking boots. If this was how male lions treated their females, all women should envy lionesses. “What’s it like being a shifter?” I asked.

  “Interesting question. What’s it like not being a shifter?”

  I chuckled. “Hard to describe what’s normal to you if you can’t tell what it’s like any other way.”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. “Full disclosure—I’m not exactly a ‘normal’ shifter.

  “My fur. Some call it ‘white,’ others say ‘tawny.’ Very rare. Expectations change if you’re born different in the shifter world.”

  “For better, or worse?”

  “First people said my birth was a sign that something big was going to happen. Then they pegged me for a prince or a mage.”

  I peeked back at him. “Are you a prince or a mage?”

  “Not yet determined.”

  I rolled over to face him. “But someday,” I said. “Someday it will be.”

  “When the Assjacket Honey Badger Rebellion spread here, there was so much fighting to do. Not a lot of time to rule or dispense wisdom.”

  I looked at the red slashes on his side. “So, those aren’t burns from the other night.”

  “The Battle of Mystik Creek. I almost died. I’d swear I was dead for a while, but if I was, Brigid could never have healed me. I’m glad to have the scars; they remind me that we won that battle. And of the many friends who died. We won the battle, but there’s no telling when the next uprising will come. I don’t feel like a ruler or a wise man.”

  I ran my fingers over the jagged furrows of flesh. “If we really are true lovers,” I said, “this battle will become my battle, too.”

  His eyes lit up. “I could kick some royal honey badger ass with you by my side.”

  Or maybe not. “You realize that I was born different, too.” I pulled on a lock of hair that was about ninety-nine percent black and one percent red. “I come from a long line of very powerful witches, healers whose names will be remembered forever. If anyone remembers my name, it’ll be as the one who didn’t make the grade.”

  Hunter put a finger over my lips. “You’re like me, still trying to figure out your place in the grand scheme. If we’re together, we can help each other achieve our destinies.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said. “We can start now. It’ll be dark in an hour.”

  Before we could even get off the couch, though, smoke filled the room.

  Lavender smoke.

  Brigid.

  Arrrgh.

  The Indouchie-ators’ eyes were wide. Except for one who had passed out and fallen from his chair to replace the one who’d replaced the first one.

  “I hope you’re finally nearing the end of this drawn-out tale, Miss La Strega,” the Grand Inquisidick said.

  “The truth about everything that’s happened over the past few days hasn’t been told,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of hope that this insane clown posse will consider the facts when judging me, but at least I will have presented them.”

  He sighed. “In that case, proceed.”

  One of the morons raised his creaky arm. “I have a question for the la
dy. Could you repeat that part about lightning shooting out of your girly-whirly?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Somebody must’ve taken notes. Who here took notes?”

  Eleven hands shot up.

  Inquisifool No. 8, who had emerged from his stupor only to be replaced by No. 11, said, “Since I indeed have no intention of considering the facts, I’d like to get the hearing over with.”

  Grumbles and murmurs came from behind me. I gave my supporters a reassuring wink.

  “Continue, Miss La Strega,” the Grand Douche said. “However, please refrain from filling in the lurid details.”

  Ingoofitor No. 6 raised his hand. “If I may, Your Lordship, I’d rather she refrain from filling in the boring details.”

  “I agree,” No. 1 added. “I rather enjoy the lurid ones.”

  The Lord Dumb Inquisitor sighed again. “Proceed as you will, Miss La Strega.”

  Chapter 9

  I jumped from the couch and glowered at Brigid. “You might try knocking.”

  She gave me the once-over. “You might trying wearing clothes—especially when you’re at work.”

  Oh, right. Naked. I pressed my knees together and crossed my arms over my tatalaglias. “I wasn’t working. My last couple canceled.”

  Hunter stood behind me, put his hands on my shoulders and nodded coldly. “Brigid.”

  She put her hands on her hips and addressed me. “The sun is setting. The abomination you’ve unleashed on our community is about to rear its ugly head again.”

  I looked out the window. The sky was purple and pink and laced with ominous streaks of orange.

  “What makes you think I unleashed it?”

  “Everyone knows,” she sneered. “Do you think I’m not aware of the ‘investigation’ you’re conducting? People confide in me because, unlike you, I take care of them.”

  Hunter went toe-to-toe with her. “Prudenzia takes care of them, too,” he said. “Her methods might not be the same as yours, but the results are.”

  “Certainly the wise-man-king-of-lions,” Brigid jeered, “would be able to recognize a loser.”

  I crowbarred my way between Hunter and Brigid and thrust my chest forward. “He’s not a loser,” I said. “And he’s a prince, not a king.”