by Rick Wayne
“I should think not.” He sat with perfect posture. “He sits at the lower head.”
“Ah. Yes. The lower head. Very uncomfortable. And a terrible view.”
“It is an apprenticeship, of sorts. The thirteenth seat at the stone table is the scapegoat.”
“Like a fall guy?”
“In a manner of speaking. Junior members seeking a permanent position at the table must endure six months and six days and six hours in the thirteenth seat, during which time they become the object of all curses and maledictions directed against the coven. If they survive their tenure, they may challenge any member except the shadow seat.”
I paused. “Coven?”
He looked at me with concern. “Are you certain you do not require medical attention?” He motioned to my eye.
I touched it and flinched. It felt flushed and tender. I was going to have a helluva bruise. That really pissed me off.
I yanked the tissue from my nose. It was soaked in red. I walked back to the kitchen. “I’m very sorry,” I called back to him. “I’m not usually in the habit of getting my ass kicked in front of total strangers. I usually reserve that honor for close friends. It’s just been a really . . . strange couple of days.”
“It is very important that I speak with Mr. Raimi,” he urged loudly from the couch.
“Why is that?”
He made a face like the answer was obvious. “He will possess clues to the identity of the other members.”
“And you think I can give you an introduction, is that it?”
I dumped the ice in a towel. The movement made my chest hurt. A painful stiffness was spreading across my entire trunk.
“Was that not his car leaving earlier?”
“Yeah. I suppose it was.”
I walked back into the living room holding the ice pack to my eye. The sensation wasn’t pleasant. I was really starting to feel like shit. I just wanted to sit. I plopped down on the couch.
“It would be better if he did not know I was coming.”
“Ha. I bet. Look, man. It’s nice that you think I’m Toshiro Mifune or—shit, who was in that crappy remake? Bruce Willis. But I really don’t wanna get in the middle of your rich gangsta turf war or whatever.”
“Of course.”
I covered my eyes. “I’m just trying to keep my friend out of trouble.” A dull throb resounded in my head. It bounced back and forth like a wave between the walls of my skull. And I was starting to feel nauseated.
“A visit to the hospital would be wise,” he suggested, leaning toward me slightly. “It appears you have a concussion.”
I shook my head, which hurt, and I stopped. “I don’t have insurance. It’s fine. I’m fine. Look, if you’re not gonna threaten me or have your bodyguards beat the crap out of me or whatever, then can you get the hell outta my apartment?”
I felt the cushions shift as he got up from the couch, which was cool because I really wanted to lay down. He said something to me then. I was half asleep and didn’t catch it, but it sounded like gibberish.