Bell, Book and Dyke - New Exploits of Magical Lesbians

by Barbara Johnson, Karin Kallmaker, Therese Szymanski

  "It's my freaky shit, so no worry to you," I said. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins, pumping me up, exciting me, turning me on. "And... fuck, you'd better leave. Now." It was more than just adrenaline, though. It was like during everything that'd happened I'd started tapping into something within me, something powerful and primal—and now all that energy and power was juicing me, and I liked it.

  "Why?" She put her hands on my arms and stepped even closer to me, looking right into my eyes. She licked her lips, slowly and sensuously.

  "If you don't leave now, I'm gonna pin you against that wall— the one right behind you—and make you scream."

  "Please." She was practically panting as she stood with her shoulders and hands flat against the wall.

  "Please no or please yes?"

  "I don't know."

  I felt like a predator as I advanced on her. Her nipples were standing up, hard and rigid, under the covering of her blouse. I took her hands in mine and lifted them above her head, holding them against the wall. Pinning her to the wall. "You spent the night with him. You were with him last night, at least your body was. But you"—I suddenly knew that when she had looked at her watch the night before she was wondering if I was asleep yet— "you were thinking of me when he was inside of you." I shoved my thigh up into her crotch so she moaned and opened her legs more.

  "I don't know what's going on," she said. "Please, Ty, don't do this."

  I realized I could easily overpower her and take what I wanted. "What is this?"

  "Ty, do you really want to... do this?" She was gasping for air. Our bodies were grinding together.

  "You're mine," I said, grasping both her hands in my left. I touched her hair ... her cheek... her breast... Down to her hip, tracing over to her inner thigh. Her crotch. My sense of reason tried to scream for my attention, but it was as if I had lost control of myself.

  My phone started ringing. Which was strange, since almost no one knew my number. I hadn't even given it to Christie yet.

  Sydney was frozen, pressed up against me. "Are you going to get that?"

  I suddenly realized how we were standing, where my thigh was, where my fingers were. "Oh, god! I'm so sorry!"

  My answering machine, set up on the floor on the other side of the room, kicked on. " 'All the world's a stage, all the men and women merely players.' This is Ty. Leave a message and I'll get back to you if I feel like it."

  Syd was staring at me with a somber expression.

  I couldn't believe I'd almost... It was almost rape. Except it wasn't, since she was going along with it. Quite a bit along with it, in fact. But still, she'd asked me to stop and I hadn't. I'd been enjoying it. What was going on with me? This wasn't like me. Who was I becoming?

  "Ty," a voice said over my machine. I wanted to grab the phone before the caller said another word, but it was too far. "I got your new number from your agent. I... I just wanted to see how you were doing. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Give me a call, please?" She rattled off a series of numbers, then said softly, "Oh, and this is... Michele. Micky. In case you didn't know."

  Syd was leaning against the wall, staring at the machine. "That wasn't who I thought it was, was it?"

  I shrugged, looking down at the floor. "Who'd you think it was?"

  "I dunno."

  "You wouldn't have said anything if you didn't."

  "It's stupid."

  "What already?"

  "Michele. She said her name was Michele. That wasn't Michele Anne Browning, was it?"

  "Uh, yeah. It was." It was time to let go of Sydney. I had to pry myself away. Once there was some distance between us a drink seemed a good idea. I headed down to the kitchen and grabbed a Miller Lite.

  Her boots sounded on the stairs as she followed me. "Ty. She just left her home and cell numbers on your machine!"

  "Did you eat dinner?" I opened the fridge and stared inside, scoping out the options, which were none and none. "Or should I find enough for two?"

  "No, I haven't eaten yet. I was just climbing out of my car when I saw you in the backyard. But that doesn't matter. That's not the topic."

  "Okay, so what I'm seeing in the quick-dinner options here are—somewhere that delivers."

  She came to my side and wrapped an arm around my waist. Like we were together. A couple. "What can I do to help?"

  "Tell me the name of your fave pizza delivery joint and what you like on your pie."

  "Order from Cottage Inn. They're in the book. I can't actually stay for dinner, though. But I still want to know why Michele Anne Browning calls you."

  "I was her stunt double. We got to be friends. Kind of." I turned to face her. "Why can't you stay for grub?"

  She started edging toward the front door. "Well, um, my boyfriend—his name is Tom—is coming over to..."

  I walked toward her. She wouldn't be so worried after being so comfortable unless she was attracted to me.

  "Uh... spend the night... We're having dinner first, though and he's due over at any moment." Her back was against the front door.

  I was all but dry humping her again. It was like I couldn't control myself. "Your perfume is driving me insane," I said, the heady aroma filling my senses and overwhelming me.

  "Ty, Ty..." she moaned, then, as she tried to pull away, as if she was trying to change the subject, "Tell me... so tell me..."

  "What?" I asked, gently sucking at her pulse point.

  "Is it true Browning stands on boxes during filming since she's so short?"

  I pushed away. "What is with your fixation on her?"

  "I don't have a fixation on her—it just seemed odd her calling you at home and all that."

  I was uptight. On edge. Not myself. I wasn't sure who I was, but it definitely wasn't me. I tried for sarcastic humor. "You would so not believe how much money goes into boxes each year. And it's such a pain, how big the boxes are for each person—the bigger the star, the bigger the box. I mean, Tom Cruise's box in his next movie is taller than I am. It's ridiculous."

  She stared at me like a squirrel standing in the middle of the road eating a nut and waiting to get run over.

  "I'm sorry," I said, pushing away from her. "I'm not quite myself today. I'm By-the-Book Black. Even keel and all that. Not like this."

  "It's all right," Sydney said, pulling me into her arms. "You've been through a lot lately. It's okay." She was soothing me and then I heard a car door slam outside. She pushed away from me. "That's Tom."

  It looked almost as if she was afraid. "You'd better go then, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  As soon as she'd gone I went downstairs and grabbed a sword, strutting through the house yelling about ghosts, comeuppance, come and get it. "Oh, for fuck's sake, don't play all hard to get." I was still way off-keel, and going ever further off-kilter with my failure to be my usual calm, cool and collected self.

  I went through the house, searching it from top to bottom, for any other secrets, passages, or additional mystical crap.

  It was clean from what I could see. Even my closet was normal now.

  From my bedroom window I saw an Expedition parked in Syd's drive. It obviously belonged to a man with a very small penis.

  I wandered outside, pretending to check on the front lamp, but wanting to get a better look at Syd's place. I saw the lights go out in her living room and go on upstairs, in what I assumed was her bedroom.

  And then those lights went out as well.

  And no one left.

  I went back inside, stomping my way to my bedroom, to my closet. To anything to keep me from getting any more stalker-like.

  I was going to try it again and again until it worked and got me back there. I wanted ... no. I needed to find the room I knew had to be there. Sydney had dreamt of it, and so had I. It was hiding something. I just knew it.

  I slunk toward my closet. "Oh, closet o' mine, the cause of such torment, such pain, such trouble, and now such wardrobe-su
ck-age!"

  Just because I was just a stunt person didn't mean I couldn't drama queen with the best of them. I slapped the back of my hand against my forehead and then, just to catch it off-guard, slammed the door open.

  Chapter 5

  I looked into my closet and saw my suits and trousers. I closed the door. Opened it again, and saw my shirts, ties, and sweaters.

  Closed it again. Opened it again. Still just as neatly organized as the last time I saw it before it all became a black hole.

  I closed it, went down to the kitchen, cracked another Miller Lite, slipped my pocket Maglite into my, well, pocket. Then I returned and reached for the closet door.

  I paused, thinking about what Sydney had been doing when she'd fallen in. Maybe I needed to be equally distracted in order for it to happen again. After all, things happened when you were looking the other way all the time. »

  So I looked the other way, opened the closet and stepped in... to some other place. Wherever that was.

  I fell, hit the ground, rolled and jumped to my feet, ready to rumble. Just in case. But then I realized I wasn't where I'd been before—I was someplace else. This wasn't a dirt passage, it was a dark, paneled hallway leading toward a light in the distance. I carefully made my way toward it, wondering why Sydney had taken me somewhere else than I ended up by myself?

  It was annoying that my focus kept drifting to Sydney. Sydney was straight. Or at least she thought so and I wasn't in the habit of recruiting. I'd never figured out why so many liked straight girls so much. And, well, I already had a toaster oven. Plus she had some beefsteak of a boyfriend, who so had nothing on me.

  It was when I got to the end of the hall and saw the room in front of me that I understood a big difference between the place Sydney had taken us and this place I had brought myself: that place had been filled with the greatest challenges of my career, whereas I was now looking directly at my greatest fear. This was something only I would know, but even I would never admit it, until now.

  The last challenge in that other realm had been whirly blades that were easy to do in movies, but dangerous as hell in real life.

  But now I was looking at a room that was the set from my most difficult work—the day I'd almost died. I should have died, but I hadn't. I still couldn't figure out why I hadn't died. But now I knew... I realized...

  There's something worse than death.

  Life. Life with death, actually.

  Or, more precisely, life after death.

  I realized that this wasn't the first time I'd lived. I'd been alive before, and found The One, but I kept losing her and had to go on without her. So many times before.

  I knew that to understand what my dreams meant, to figure out who I was in the greater scheme of things, to know what I needed to do, I simply had to overcome this challenge that I'd obviously set up for myself.

  I got it now. In some other life, I'd set all this up to guard my secrets from anyone other than me. This was the secret place I'd been searching for.

  But was I going to have to relive that stunt? Feel the certain pain of death again? I realized I was sweating and for the first time in my life, I couldn't make my body obey my thoughts. I wanted to go inside and face whatever it was that waited. My body obviously didn't agree.

  I don't know how long I was frozen, warring with myself. Finally, I managed a small step, then another. I could feel a wave of cold as I passed from the dark passageway to the brightly lit set, and the strain of making myself move had my heart pounding hard in my ears.

  One more step, and I was through.

  I did a flying backward somersault through the window, out onto the balcony. It was all happening exactly as it had that day, horribly the same. He was coming after me and hitting me before I could find my footing. My foot glanced off a piece of die window frame and I was tumbling toward the railing, hitting it and flying backward off the end of it.

  The pads were set up on the ground off the side of it. There was only a car where I was about to hit. Like that day, I hoped they caught it on film, since it was going to hurt. Seemingly in slo-mo, like the most awful times in life, I flipped in the air, trying to work out how to best land while breaking as little of my body as possible when I noticed something wrong—Michele was standing next to the director, next to a camera. Watching me.

  But she wasn't part of this movie. I realized that wasn't right and so I could control this. I landed on die car hood on my feet and then jumped to the ground. The crew began rushing around, but I ignored everyone except Micky.

  "Nice job," she said. "But—"

  "Don't even try it," I said, waving a hand so all the window-dressing disappeared. None of that belonged here, so it went away now. All it took was a single focused thought. "You have something to show me. You're hiding something, and I need to know what is." I looked deep into her eyes, and I knew I was dreaming or imagining or something, since I thought, looking into her now, that she had feelings for me. But Sydney was The One.

  I didn't think, right then. I didn't have time to figure it all out. I couldn't afford to be confused, but I was.

  Fuck it. This wasn't real.

  But yet I still couldn't even try to kiss Michele, who was looking at me like that was just what she wanted, since this was the place I'd nearly died. Should have died. Was I even alive, now?

  "This isn't about that." Michele pointed at the door of the building in front of us. "It's about that."

  The door flew open and it was as if I was looking down a long corridor toward a dark room where a figure crouched. I stepped toward it and the room churned into a black hole that swallowed ... everything. I was alone in the universe except for the crouched figure.

  I realized the figure crouching was me, and I looked like a Native American. Then the other me disappeared and I was alone in this hole in the ground, a dark, dank room in the ground and there was no one there at all.

  On one wall was a bloody dagger with an elaborately engraved hilt. There were some strange markings on the blade. The blood was dried on it, and I guessed it'd been on there for a long, long, longer, longest time.

  I didn't touch it.

  Mounted on another wall was a beautiful sword that I wanted to play with. It was incredibly balanced, delightfully designed, and fit my hand and the strength of my arm as if it had been made for me. It whistled as it sliced air.

  Mama liked. I'd be taking this with me. It felt as if it was mine— belonged with me, was a part of me.

  Next to where this fabulous sword had been hanging was a wicked cool battleaxe, and crossbow, shield, long bow and quarter staff.

  This was just like Toys "R" Us for psychotic adults! Cool! But then I had to wonder if I could take this stuff with me when I left. That is, if I could figure out how to leave.

  One step at a time. I'd gone through a lot to get here, so I wanted to figure out where I was and what it contained. This was what I had been meant to find, and I still didn't understand why.

  In the middle of the third wall was a stand with a box on it. I picked it up and realized it wasn't a box at all—it didn't have any sort of a latch or opening or seam where the wood came together. It was a solid block of wood without any way of opening. This box was mine, and only I could open it.

  I held it in my hands, pressing my palms against it, trying to figure it out. Just holding it made me want to strut. It made me feel powerful and in control. My palm suddenly sank into the wood as if it was making a mold of my hand. It felt like the stuff makeup artists used to create casts and molds and impressions. But just a moment before it had been solid wood. Oak, I think. But the only thing that mattered was that I had it now.

  And then the wood was entirely solid again and the block opened, revealing an ancient book with leather binding. The pages were brittle, and it looked as if the text had been hand-inked. By several—many—different people. I sat on the floor and began reading... reading writing that looked to be from more than
a dozen different pens, but was all probably illegible to most people in the galaxy today. I could read it because it bore a strong resemblance to my own writing.

  I wrote this. And my energy had unlocked this book—a karmic fingerprinting had just occurred.

  I flipped through the pages, reading passages here and there, and taking note of the strange-looking recipes peppered throughout. They all had crazy-ass ingredients, like eye of newt, twice-blessed sage, the legs from six dung beetles that drowned in single-malt scotch, and the finely ground lungs from an anemic cow. Ingredients that were to be added in a specific order while reciting certain phrases and words.

  Well, duh. I wasn't always the spiciest taco at the picnic. Sharpest needle in the haystack. Best-aged single-malt in the cellar. These were spells. My spells, collected over many lifetimes, over a lot of long, searching years. I had hidden them myself and somehow my mother's house had been the conduit to this place. The black hole, the freaky shit, it was all my shit, and all about leading me to this moment in my life.

  I was a witch, and I had power.

  I started seeing all the ways I'd avoided injury at work, and realized it wasn't just dumb luck. It was magick. I saw how I'd influenced the laws of physics, right down to not dying when I should have.

  Dear sweet God, I was stupid. I'd been doing shit and looking the other way for years. Mom and Dad had done it too—beat the odds so many times that a less skeptical world would have called them magicians. Just call me Cleopatra. What a selective memory I had!

  Patrice had said as much. I wondered how much he knew.

  I wondered how much anyone knew.

  But if Mom and Dad both, or either one of them, had power, how had they died?

  And I also wondered what, exactly, were the specifications and ramifications of the spells I'd cast in previous lives. And just how powerful was I?

  Did I kill my parents? Did I cause them to die? Was that part of me remembering? Was it the triggering event to make me remember and bring me to Michigan and this house and Sydney and... Where the hell'd that thought come from?