by DC Thome
“NEI,” I said. “Not enough information.”
“This is not a standard magical language, so I had to find its key,” Abigail said. “The problem is conflation of concepts and poor diction deriving from a few critical foundational mistakes.”
“I don’t need a Goddessdamn post-graduate course in linguistics! Have you figured it out?”
“Yes,” Abigail said. “When it says ‘fuck me,’ it means ‘love me.’ It doesn’t know the difference between sex and love. It’s begging you to love it.”
“Not easy when it’s thrashing my boyfriend around like gin and vermouth in a martini shaker. Can you ask it to let Hunter go?”
“Actually,” Abigail said, still looking smug, “‘ooh—nice’ is an attempt to tell you it’s not trying to hurt Hunter—and that it’s not evil and never meant to harm anyone. It has to feed on sexual energy to survive, and it tries not to overdo it, but it’s too easy to lose control in the moment.”
“It happens to us all.”
“‘Want come on Pru,’” Abigail continued, “is best translated in context as, “I want to come to,’ or ‘get to’ Pru. Seems that ever since the night on Sabbat Hill, it’s been working its way back to you.”
“For revenge?”
“No. It did what it had to do to survive. The reason the animals kept getting bigger is that every time it satisfied its hunger, its appetite grew.”
Okay, I can identify with that.
“It’s suffering in this incarnation,” Abigail continued. “When it says, ‘do me now,’ it’s asking you to set it free to fulfill its purpose in life.”
“And that purpose would be...”
“To bring joy.”
“And I’m the one to do that because…”
“Because when it says ‘baby,’ it’s referring to itself. In short, it thinks of itself as your baby. You are its mother, and as such, you are the only one who can set it free.”
I suddenly felt very bad. I’d created this thing and set it loose on an unsuspecting population, and all the while, it was trying not to be too much of a pain in everyone’s butt while getting no help from a woman who, it turns out, was not only a shitty healer and marriage counselor, but also a shitty mom.
“I had no idea,” I said. “And I have no idea. What am I supposed to do?”
“Heal it.”
I lifted Abigail to eye level and shook her. “Are you fucking crazy? You just said it’s actually kind of nice, and now you want me to heal it! You know what a shitty healer I am!”
Abigail grinned. “Yes, you are. And, yes, you should. And, please don’t shake me anymore.”
I put Abigail down and focused on the task at hand—not easy since if I looked one way I saw Brigid’s sneering mug, and if I looked the other—
Holy fucking shit! Hunter’s eyes slammed shut. His muscles went limp, but his body continued to shimmy—more violently than ever.
This would require more power, more concentration—and more luck—than I’d ever been able to muster. It would require an incantation.
And more than anything, I suck at incantations.
Goddess who made me deficient
Grant that I will be efficient
To heal this Orgasmism and set it free
So Hunter—and everyone—it will let be!
I raised my arms, extended my fingers, shut my eyes and—
KABLAM!
So much energy flowed through me that I could feel my ancestors well up inside me. Every one of them.
All the way back to Calabria.
For two thousand years.
Brigid froze.
Hunter froze.
The Orgasmism froze—but only for a second. Then it trembled.
Then burst in a tsunami of pink.
The concussion shot backward into the midst of a crowd I did not know had gathered and onto my cushy bumbodoro, where I witnessed the weirdest and most dazzling spectacle I’d ever seen: Thousands of mini-Orgasmisms tumbling and scampering about, their translucent bodies twinkling in the glow of the parking lot lights.
And then the noises began.
A sigh over here.
A moan over there.
“Oooh!”
“Uh!”
“Oh!”
“Ah!”
“Yes! Yes! Oooooh!”
“Aye-yi-yi zippie doopy doodle-doo! Come to mama!”
The sounds grew into a hallelujah chorus of people and creatures vocalizing as they jumped and skipped and shuddered and clapped in response to little pink bubbles scurrying up their legs and disappearing into their nether regions.
A yelp came from beside me. It was Abigail. She flipped onto her back, her tongue hanging from her mouth, and let out a long sigh.
A quivering droplet appeared at my feet. Jiggling and clicking and squealing, and seeming not at all threatening, it said, “Pru rock whirl.”
I put a hand on Abigail’s chest and gave her a nudge.
“Ahhh, yes,” she said sleepily, “keep doing that.”
“Some other time,” I said. “What’s the mini-O saying?”
Abigail sighed. “Duh. It’s saying ‘thank you’ and would like to repay you by rocking your world. Now rub my chest.”
Warmth spread through my entire being. I wanted to pick the globule up and cuddle it, but it went “squeeee,” took a hop, scampered up one thigh and…
“Ooh!”
Not quite the hurricane-force thunderquake I’d felt on Sabbat Hill, but pleasant enough to make me feel drugged and weak all over.
And then a groan hit my ears through the commotion around me.
Hunter!
Good freaking Goddess of Dingleberries! Am I going to be as shitty a true lover as I am a healer?
I shook off my post-coital contentment and rushed to Hunter, who was lying naked in human form in a veritable pond of pearly jam. I slipped and sloshed my way to him, cradled his head in my lap and brushed back his hair.
Is he breathing?
“Hunter! Hunter! Speak to me!”
His eyes half opened. “Is that a spell, a request or a command?”
“A command. Are you all right?”
He licked his lips. “I could really go for a snack.”
Men.
I kissed his forehead. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a bunny approach the circle of goo and sniff it before morphing into a human shape.
Roger Rabbit.
He sat on his haunches and considered the crystalline lake, then scooped up a dollop of goo and brought it to his lips.
“Goddess in knee-high boots and a torpedo bra, Roger, don’t—”
Too late. He jabbed the finger into his mouth and licked it clean.
I felt what I call my “horrified” look screw up my face.
“Actually,” he said, “it’s quite sweet. Treacly, I’d say. Melts in your mouth.”
“Nice to know.” I looked at Hunter. “Nonetheless, let’s get you out of this mess.”
As I dragged him onto dry grass, a furious shriek tore through the night and quieted the giddy crowd. It came from the top of an outcropping of rock, where Brigid pointed at me and wailed, “She’s a witch!”
Camille the wall lizard shouted from the crowd, “We know.”
“And she’s a bimbo.”
“We know that, too,” cawed Cameron Crow.
Thanks. I guess.
The last dab of Orgasmism skittered toward Brigid. She raised her foot and squished the oblivious blobule. It burst under her heel like a really juicy cockroach.
Steam rose from her foot, and her eyes bugged out. “You cursed slut! Look what you’ve done! I’m melting!”
Abigail trotted up to her and surveyed the situation. “No, it’s just your shoe.”
Brigid stomped her foot, but the steam continued. Glaring at me, she pointed and bellowed, “You will pay, Bitchdenzia, Whore of Douchecanoe!”
She swept her arm across the starry sky and disappeared.
The crowd
was stunned. No one said or did anything—until Pokey Quill raised his torch and shouted, “Hail, Dorothy!”
Everyone remained quiet—until Fluffy asked, “Dear, who’s Dorothy?”
Pokey pointed at me. “She is.”
Barely recovered from his stupor, Lawrence Elk said, “The other healer just called her Bitchdenzia.”
“Her name’s not Bitchdenzia or Dorothy,” Cheryl Crow squawked. “It’s Prunella.”
“Not quite,” I said.
“Parsnippia?” Pokey guessed.
“Not that, either.”
Ashley Banshee jumped in with “Eaaaayighhhhaaaiiiiiiiiigh?” Which rendered almost everyone within earshot temporarily deaf.
“No,” I said, “it’s—”
Pokey jumped up and down like a little kid. “I got it! I got it! Perpendicularia!”
“Try Prudenzia.”
Pokey blinked. “Who’s that?”
I pointed to myself.
“Oh. In that case,” he spun in a circle and yelled, “hail Prudenzia, the Not-Totally-Incompetent Healer of Douchecanoe!”
All the torches went up as the crowd chanted my name and my not-as-bad-as-it-could-be new title.
Chapter 12
Back in the courtroom, the Inquisidipshits stared at me. Except for No. 9. He hustled in with his arms and hands flailing about under his robe. I hope to fuck he’s coming from the Little Wizards Whizz Room.
Inquisidoopwad No. 3 raised his hand. “None of this jives with what we heard from the competent one. Are we to be expected to take this stunted trollop’s word over that of a respected member of our community?”
“Yes!” There was a collective gasp. I turned to see a tall man with shoulder-length tawny hair and a fringed brown leather jacket striding down the middle aisle toward me.
“Hunter!”
Without breaking stride, he leapt over the railing, landed soundlessly in his scuffed hiking boots, and put an arm around me. “Hey, babe.”
Only this man could get away with calling me babe. “Speaking of which,” I said, “you look good in that outfit.”
“This old thing? I only wear it when everything else is in the wash.”
Handsome. Attentive. Fights off monsters. And does laundry. What more could a girl want?
The Lord Snide Inquisitatertot slammed his gavel. “Who are you and what is the meaning of this?”
“I am Hunter, Prince of Shifters for the county of Deau De Cheneaux—and I mean to vouch for every word she said,” he announced in a voice just this side of menacing. “And if I ever again hear you—or any of your pussy warlock buddies—refer to Prudenzia La Strega as ‘stunted,’ I’ll shift into animal form and feast on your innards.”
But “trollop” you’re okay with? I latched onto Hunter’s arm. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” he said without turning his stern gaze from the Inquidinkadoodles. “This is a travesty. You’re out of order! This whole court is out of order!”
The Promasturbator whacked his paddle again. “I object!”
“You can’t object,” I said. “You’re the judge.”
“In that case,” he said, “objection overruled! This body has only one goal, and that is to ascertain the truth!”
“The truth?” Hunter snarled as he crouched and looked from one judge to the next. “You can’t handle the truth!”
“But,” I whispered into his ear, “they have to be able to handle the truth; that’s what I just told them.”
“Mr. Prince—or Hunter, or whatever,” the Procurawimp said, “do you have anything new to add to the testimony?”
“I do.”
The Inquisilosers mumbled and grumbled, but the Lord Gourdinator banged his gavel again. “Because of your high position in the community, I’ll allow it.”
“For months,” Hunter said, “Brigid came on to me.”
Murmurs.
“And this after showing no interest in me at all for years—until Prudenzia came to Deau de Cheneaux. At first, I was flattered. But I quickly learned that beneath that lean, sexy body, gently curving hips, full lips, enchanting lavender eyes and made-for-a-centerfold tatas—I mean…” He cupped his hands and held them in front of his chest.
I tugged his arm. “First of all,” I said quietly, “the tatas are fake.”
“No way!”
I rolled my eyes. “Believe me. And besides, everyone here knows what Brigid looks like.”
“Oh, right.” He put his hands down. “Where was I?”
Inquisibastard No. 5 raised his hand. “Tatas. You were just about to go into detail about tatas.”
Hunter peeked at me. I gave him a you’re-on-your-own-and-you’d-better-not-fuck-up look.
“Right. In short, underneath all that—uh—stuff lurked a very ugly personality.”
Whew.
“They call her ‘Frigid Brigid,’” Hunter continued, “for good reason. She can’t enjoy sex because she uses sex as a weapon. I told her to stop, but she was jealous of Prudenzia for winning the affections of Spurlock the Warlock.”
Murmurs and gasps.
“She got angry when I rejected her advances. But then, at the Cozy Coven on the Solstice, she seemed to have come to terms with it. She even introduced Prudenzia and me that night.”
Hunter paused. All eyes turned to him. “Mr. Hunter,” the Prodickurator said, “is there more?”
“Prudenzia covered most of the rest,” he answered. “Things are a little hazy from there.”
Inquisidingle No. 1 pounded the bench with his fist. “There is no more! I move that testimony be closed and judgment be rendered. My vote is to—”
“Stop!” Abigail balanced on the rail behind me. “I’m Abigail, Prudenzia’s familiar. And I guarantee you, there is more.”
The Prodoodoorator sighed. “A lot more?”
“Not a lot. Important, though.”
No. 1 stood and shouted, “I object.”
“Well, I don’t. Let the hideous dog speak.”
“She’s actually a cat,” I said.
“Or I could help you,” Abigail said to me, “by letting these wankers sentence you to a century or two in some putrid witches prison in Salem, Massachusetts.”
“No—by all means,” I said. “Speak.”
“The reason Hunter and Prudenzia have holes in their memories is that Brigid poured malleability potion into two shot glasses and tequila into another.”
So you were there after all, you little peckerwood.
“Spurlock said he was buying a round for them all and gave them the potion. It was all part of Brigid’s plan to discredit and humiliate Prudenzia by catching her in a ménage à trois.”
Murmurs and harrumphs.
“You said you weren’t there,” I growled as quietly as I could. “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” she said. “I was helping you by—um—I’m sure there was a reason. Maybe I should go on.”
“Yes. I definitely think you should.”
“Brigid’s plan was going well—until weird things started happening. When Brigid emerged from behind the tree, she looked confused. Spur asked her what she was doing, and she said that she wasn’t doing anything, that Prudenzia had taken control.”
That’s more of a relief than I would have predicted it to be.
“Brigid raised her arms to zap them,” Abigail continued, “but just then—sparks! Everything turned pink.”
That’s why she kept having me tag along after the attacks. She knew how the Orgasmism came into being and thought that if it attacked, it would go after me instead of her!
“So, what you’re saying,” the Lord High Proctologist said, “is that Prudenzia wasn’t solely responsible for the creation of this evil menace?”
Abigail shrugged. “More or less.”
“Your honor,” Hunter said, “it’s not fair to denounce what happened as ‘evil’ or ‘a menace.’” He faced me, held my hands and gazed into my eyes. “I had the most amazing org
asm I’d ever had in my life. How could that be evil?”
Pandemonium! The Lord Douchecanoe pounded his hammer to within an inch of its breaking point, but all it did was add to the cacophony.
A blast of lavender smoke between Hunter and me and the Inquisawhizzers made everyone shut up fast.
Brigid emerged from the smoke—and she didn’t look happy.
“Enough lies!” she screeched. “Decide now, warlocks!”
The Lord Heinous banged his gavel so hard the handle broke. “And I’ve heard enough of you, Brigid de la Glace. You may be a competent healer, but we were unable to find even one witness who would corroborate your account. Prudenzia, on the other hand, has the backing of this gentleman of the forest. Speaking for the Celestial Court of Witches and Magical Beings of the Southern Branch of the Eastern District of North Deau de Cheneaux, West Virginia, I declare Prudenzia La Strega innocent of the charge of conjuring magic most heinous and foul to bring forth unto our peaceful environs, yada, yada and so forth.”
He held up his arm to give the gavel one really serious rap, then noticed he was only holding the handle. “Crap,” he said. “Wait a second.” He worked an instant spell to mend the gavel, then said, “It shall be so,” and brought it down with an authoritative smack.
That was quickly followed by a flash of lavender light as Brigid blew a hole in the ceiling. “I’m not through with you, Hookerdenzia!” She pointed and spun three hundred sixty degrees. “Or the rest of you, Douchecanoe! You will rue the day you humiliated Brigid de la Glace!”
She made a sweeping arc with her arm and disappeared in a wisp of lavender smoke and a whiff of strawberry puke.
“Typical,” said Mitch the cross-dressing wolverine shifter. “It always seems as though her panties are a little too tight.”
“Maybe she should take them off a little more often—if you know what I mean,” Jane Doe offered.
“Or get a good vibrator,” added Teddie Bear. “SlutStuff.com has a good selection.”
All the females nodded in agreement. Camille the wall lizard shifter called out, “But what about Brigid’s threat?”
Hunter turned to the crowd. “We must take it seriously, but we can’t let it make our lives miserable. Together we are strong, so be on guard, but we all must go about living our normal lives.”