Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One)

by Christiana Miller

  "You are a witch, my dear. She is but a mundane woman, a sycamore in the forest of the trees of life. You have talents no mere mortal can possess."

  I rolled my eyes and cut into the scotch egg. It was my first time, so I was a bit curious. It turned out to be a hard-boiled egg in the middle of a banger (a mixture of sausage meat and flour).

  Gus folded up the Recycler. "You doubt me? You are more powerful than you think."

  I rolled my eyes. "Gus, you may be able to magic yourself up a house out of monopoly pieces, but I can't."

  "Pish tosh. You're obviously not trying hard enough."

  I couldn't think of an answer to that, so I speared a piece of banger on my fork and waved it at Gus. "How come Brits have mongo thick slabs of pork for bacon but they can't figure out how to make a decent sausage?"

  But Gus was completely focused on the tabletop, where he had crossed his fork over his knife and was now drawing a circle around it with a spoon. Then he closed his eyes and hummed -- a tuneless, droning sound.

  "Would you stop that?"

  "Hush," he said, holding up his hand. "I'm crafting for you."

  I took a swig of my shandy and hoped no one was watching. "You sure are. You're crafting me a headache."

  "Cynicism is for sycamores. Tell Gus what you want."

  "Money. A house. A boyfriend. Hot sex."

  "One thing at a time. Money. Toss some coins into the circle."

  I dug into my pocket and took out a quarter. I tossed it into the circle Gus had created on the table.

  He chanted: "Money go and money come. One hundred thousand times this sum. Money come and quickly though. Within a fortnight it must flow. Money come, my will be done. And with a breath, this spell is done."

  He exhaled on the coin with a loud growl, momentarily attracting the attention of the other pub-crawlers. I ducked my head to avoid meeting their gaze and eventually they turned back to the soccer match on the television.

  "There you go," Gus said, cracking his knuckles. He picked up the quarter and tossed it into his water glass. "Money's on the way."

  Chapter Seven

  After dinner, the waitress and the bartender brought over a bowl of treacle pudding with a birthday candle stuck smack in the middle of the spongy glop. And much to my amazement, embarrassment and, (though I'd never tell Gus), delight, they started singing.

  "Happy birthday, uh! Happy birthday, UH! May the candles on your cake burn like cities in your wake! Happy birthday, uh! Happy birthday, UH!"

  Soon, it seemed like the entire bar had joined in. I put my hands over my bright red face and tried not to laugh at the boisterously out-of-key, drunken rendition of the never-ending Mongolian Birthday song.

  "Now that you're the age you are, your demise can not be far. Happy Birthday, uh! Happy birthday, UH!!"

  After ten more verses and just when my candle was down to a nub, they were finally done. I blew out the candle to a round of applause.

  Gus turned to me, grinning. Inordinately pleased with himself. "Surprised?"

  "Mortified."

  "Same thing."

  "I'm going to have to kill you if you ever do that to me again." But I couldn't get the goofy smile off my face.

  "You'll get over it. And thanks to my spell, you'll be rich in no time."

  "Uh-huh. That lottery ticket better come in soon, or I'll be the little old woman who has to live in a shoe."

  "Oh ye of little faith. There's more than one way to influence the web of fate." With his eyes closed, Gus waived his highlighter over the Recycler, then randomly stabbed an ad. "Here you go. Call it up."

  I leaned over, quickly scanned the ad and laughed. "Are you kidding?"

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "I'm not living in Vernon. It's all slaughterhouses and sweatshops." I plucked out the candle remains and poured custard syrup on top of the still-warm treacle pudding.

  Gus waived his spoon at me. "They have a nice little tent city next to the expressway. And lots of free roaming dogs. You've always wanted a dog."

  "You know what? You're right. All that community and Toto too. After we eat, let's run to Office Depot. Pick out my cardboard box. Maybe I can even build me a new-fangled corrugated home."

  "No need. I have a tent you can borrow. Live in style." He stuck his spoon in the treacle. "How is it?"

  "Crunchy."

  "Really?"

  "Are they supposed to leave the eggshells in?"

  "That would be a no. How is it otherwise?"

  "Good. You better try some of the custard though, before I wolf it all. That's amazing stuff. It should be illegal. It might actually be better than chocolate."

  Gus took a spoonful and stabbed at another random ad. "What about this one?" he asked, pushing the paper towards me.

  "This is about Grundleshanks, isn't it?"

  "What?"

  "You're trying to punish me."

  "What's wrong with that one?!"

  "East L.A.? I take it you're supplying me with a Kevlar wardrobe?"

  Gus narrowed his eyes. "You're busting my balls, woman, and I'm all out of steel-plated jockstraps." He flipped to a different section. "I suppose Chinatown is out?"

  I licked my spoon. "If you stand still too long, taggers cover you in graffiti."

  "You're impossible, you know that?"

  "I like where I'm at."

  "Too bad they don't like you."

  I made a face, Gus dipped into the treacle and we both fell into a troubled silence.

  After dinner, Gus talked me into going to see a nearby "charming studio with room to grow." The place was stifling hot, the water faucets spewed rust, the kitchen was full of ants and the security gate was broken.

  "But there's a small garden you can grow herbs in and a swimming pool."

  "Swimming pool?!" I cast my mind back to the front courtyard of building. "Wait, you mean the over-sized duck pond? That was a swimming pool? It had algae growing in it."

  "How picky can you afford to be?"

  I sighed. "Fine. How much?"

  Gus waived the page from the Recycler. "A rock-bottom seven-hundred a month. It's like a gift from the Gods."

  One more minute of Gus the Cheerleader and I was going to strangle him. "Keep it up and I'm going to knee you in the goonies."

  "What?" He gave me a hurt, puppy-dog look. "What did I do?"

  Before I knew it, I was in the building manager's apartment, actually filling out the paperwork for the god-awful sinkhole. At least, until I dropped my pen. As I bent over to pick it up, my pentacle fell out of my shirt, into plain view. The building manager took a look at the pendant, the tattoos that peeked out of the bottom of my tee-shirt sleeves, the Celtic man-jewelry Gus was sporting and suddenly remembered the apartment had already been rented. Gus got so upset he launched into an almost physical rant over religious discrimination. I thought he was going to clock the guy. I had to drag him out of there with promises of a Shrek marathon and a big bag of Twizzlers.

  After Gus finally went home, quoting the "onion boy" dialogue between Shrek and Donkey all the way back to his SUV, I sprinkled vervain and sea salt into a hot tub and had a long, decadent, candle-lit soak. I hoped the cleansing properties of the salt and herb would send all the negative energy of the day down the drain with the dirty bath water. And it seemed to work. I went to bed feeling a bit more relaxed.

  Unfortunately, a peaceful night wasn't exactly what was waiting for me when my eyes closed.

  The same cottage, shrouded by night. This time, the night was full of life. I could hear the gossipy chatter of crickets, a rustling of small scavengers in the underbrush, the haunting sound of victory as an owl caught a field mouse, even an angst-ridden howl of a distant coyote.

  Suddenly, I was inside the cottage, standing in front of a full-length, antique mirror. The bald, tattooed man stood behind me. He slowly unlaced my corset, watching my image in the mirror as the fabric fell to the floor.

  My breasts were magnificent and full, sw
ollen under my pale white skin. As I stared at my reflection, the aureoles darkened and my nipples grew incredibly large and thick. The man cupped my breasts with his hands, kneading at my nipples until milk flowed out of them. I leaned into him and sighed.

  His image shifted and he turned into a long-haired man dressed in a flowing white shirt, breeches and boots. I struggled, but I couldn't get away. He held me hard around my waist and brought up a bloody knife. Placing the tip of the knife on my breastbone, he slowly sliced my chest open. The pain of the blade was like liquid fire.

  He peeled open my skin, exposing my inner organs. My lungs expanded and contracted against my ribs. He turned me to face him and he opened my ribcage as if it was the lid of a jewelry box. He reached in past my lungs and removed my still beating heart.

  He brought the writhing organ to his mouth and bit into it, letting the blood run down his chin.

  Then he turned into Mr. Lyra, standing there, laughing at me, still holding my heart in his hand.

  I gasped and sat up, rubbing my chest. I tried going back to sleep, but there was no escaping that restless, nightmarish dreamscape. Every time I closed my eyes, I was right back in it.

  So I gave up and walked over to the kitchen. These dreams were driving me crazy. The microwave clock said it was four a.m., and I was more exhausted than when I went to bed.

  I started the coffee pot brewing and got a container of half-and-half out of the fridge. I may as well get a jump on the day. The thought of going back to sleep gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  I swear, I should TiVo kid's TV and watch it before going to bed. That way I could dream about harmless things like Caillou or the Wonder Pets instead of malevolent, knife-wielding men.

  Although with my luck, I'd still dream about that damn cottage. It would just be relocated to Sesame Street and a furry red Muppet would be wielding the blade.

  When I went out to water the plants a few hours later, I found a fresh copy of the eviction notice taped to my door, along with a mini-calendar with the days of the month marked off. Just in case I forgot how much time I had. Talk about a knife to the chest.

  Next time I saw Lenny, I was going to shake my traitorous little Dutch uncle until his little gold ear studs fell off.

  Chapter Eight

  The difference between normal humans and witches, is if humans want something, they pray for it. Their God takes it under consideration, and if it fits the grand design, God grants their prayer. Witches, on the other hand, plunge ahead blindly. Their preferred method of prayer is spellcrafting.

  Their Gods take their prayers under consideration and if they find the potential outcome sufficiently amusing, they step aside and let the witch give it her best shot, in a "be careful what you wish for" type of way.

  Probably, the best decision I ever made was never to use witchcraft to get what I want. Too bad I couldn't have stuck to my guns for longer. But back then, I was too naive to understand the difference between doing what was necessary, and doing what I desired. Which would ultimately lead to my downfall. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

  After a week of apartment hunting and nightmares, I was exhausted. Since my only source of income was unemployment, pentacle or no pentacle, no one was willing to take a chance on renting to me. I signed up with another temp agency but they all said the same thing -- business was slow, the number of available temps was ridiculously high and they'd let me know when they had something.

  Thursday night, I sat out in the courtyard, watching the stars, as I tried to let go of my worry and angst. Not that there were all that many stars visible in the Los Angeles sky. But if I relaxed my focus, I could almost see a constellation or two twinkling behind the clouds and ever-present haze of city lights.

  Gus walked up as I was about to turn in, a bottle of Ouzo in hand. "I thought I'd stop by and help you take the edge off," he said, unscrewing the cap.

  "A night of floating in a dreamless, drunken stupor sounds like bliss." Anything to escape the nightmares. To sleep, perchance not to dream.

  "That's right. Any time you need a night you can't remember, just keep me in mind."

  I went into the apartment and came back with a big bottle of Fiji water and two glasses full of ice. Gus mixed the drinks and handed me one.

  I took a small sip. Cool, licorice-y and delicious. I sighed in contentment. It had been a long time since I had ouzo.

  We drank in silence. I let my eyes wander about. The jacaranda trees were in full bloom, their delicate purple petals lazing about over the pebbled deck. There was a nasty crack that ran across part of the deck and down the pool stairs -- a remnant of the Northridge earthquake, a scar that would never heal. But the underwater pool lights lent everything a wavy blue, surreal glow and made the courtyard seem magical.

  I waved a hand at my plants. Poor things. They did their best to look like a menacing urban forest around the pool. "Who's going to take care of them after I go?"

  It was one of the few accomplishments I was proud of -- turning my black thumb into a green one. The thought of Mrs. Lasio forgetting to water my babies was depressing.

  "I'm disappointed in you. You're being a lousy witch."

  "You try finding an apartment without a steady income."

  "You could have had that place on the corner if you didn't go out of your way to fuck it up."

  "That was an accident."

  "I don't believe you."

  He kinda had a point. I could have put up a shield, deflected the manager's gaze. Bottom line was, I didn't care. I hated the place.

  "You could craft for Mrs. Lasio to have a change of heart. Or a change in circumstance. Something that would make her go away."

  "That old battle-axe? She's as stubborn as they come. Besides, I don't like the idea of using magic on people. It's not right to take away their free will, just to impose my own."

  "So have her find her dream house. Positive karma points and it would get her off your back."

  Probably. But it really galled me to be nice to her and have her win the lottery or something like that. And being nasty tended to backfire. That's how my dad found out I had inherited my mom's 'witch' gene when I was a kid. When I really wanted something, I would wish for it and more often than not, it would happen. I thought everyone could do it. I didn't know it was something special.

  But if I wished for something bad to happen... Man, did I pay for it. When I was seven, I was furious at Tommy McGregor, because he'd shoved me into a mud puddle and ruined my brand-new dress. So I wished that something bad would happen to him. I even drew a picture of him with spots all over his face. Three days later, he got chicken pox. Two weeks later, so did I. Even worse than him. Followed by the German measles. Karmic payback can be a bitch.

  So, in general, even though doing it feels as second nature to me as breathing, I've tried to steer clear of magic whenever I could. For my own safety, if nothing else. Unlike Gus, who spellcrafted his way through life. How he got around karma, I have no idea. He must have done something really good in a previous life, because he sure seemed to get a free pass in this one.

  A pair of curtains twitched up on the second floor. Gus looked up, curious.

  "Mrs. Lasio," I explained, "making sure we don't toss any animal sacrifices into the pool."

  I was never gonna win her over. She was so full of preconceived notions, there was no room in her head for the truth. Gus must have seen the despair leaking out of me, because he topped up my glass with more Ouzo, then gave me the Gus version of a pep talk:

  "You, my love, have got to change your attitude. You pull in what you push out. You keep putting out this negative, I'm a victim of life, bullshit and you are going to be living in a shoebox. In the streets of Vernon."

  Gus rummaged through his man-bag, (because, as he frequently told me, "men don't carry purses"). After a few minutes, he pulled out a wooden pipe, hand-carved to look like a witch's head. He filled the bowl with a vanilla-smelling tobacco and tamped it down with his thumb.

/>   I looked at him in consternation. "What are you doing? You don't smoke pipes."

  "I know," Gus lit up and puffed on the pipe to get it started. "But this looks really cool. I mean, c'mon. It's a head. I'm smoking head. How cool is that? And it's a Hag's head at that."

  "Well, that's appropriate. As long as it's going to kill you, why not carve it into the shape of the Hag? At least it smells better than those god-awful cigarettes."

  I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the vanilla scent of the tobacco. Above us, the moon was just rising, low in the sky and orangey red, like the glowing eye of a dragon.

  "What kind of witch are you if you refuse to bend fate to your will?" That was Gus, getting back on his soapbox. Whenever Gus got rolling on one of his witchy tirades, there was no stopping him. "You know what you need. Stop panicking and figure out how to get it."

  "Did you come over to lecture me or to hang out?"

  "A bit of both, actually." He re-lit the bowl and took another puff. "Call what you need to you. Your desire will create the void and the universe will rush to fill it. Spellcrafting 101. It doesn't get any easier than that."

  "I just don't think people should use magic to do things they can accomplish mundanely." Besides, I couldn't quite shake my Dad's warning to lay low.

  "Why the hell not? Might as well have everything working for you on all fronts. And if you have the ability, not using it is just criminal. Stupid. Criminally stupid."

  "But magic can be tricky. Uncontrollable, cantankerous. It's always a risk. You get what you want, but in a way where you don't want what you get."

  Like on my last birthday. I had made a wish that the universe would help me figure out what I was supposed to be doing with my life. You know, the old "what am I supposed to be when I grow up." And the universe responded by promptly taking away my dead-end job, so I'd have time to find my bliss. Magic can be a tricky thing.