How to Stop a Witch

by Bill Allen

  “Step off,” Shorty snarled. “No one here’s interested in your protection.”

  “But the Netherworld is a dangerous place. I can offer you peace of mind . . .”

  “I got plenty of mind already, thanks.” He turned back to the children. “Now it don’t have to be fingers. If one of you wants to give up an eye or an ear instead, I think we can work out a deal.”

  “Tell you what,” Bob cut in when he witnessed the looks of horror on the children’s faces. He glanced about the empty room again, as if to see if anyone was eavesdropping. One of the two patrons in the corner slid off his chair onto the floor with a thump, but did not wake.

  Obviously intrigued, Shorty stopped wiping the glass he was holding and placed it back on the bar. “I’m listenin’.”

  “I came across an unusual find not long ago,” Bob said in a low voice. “I may not know much about you or your situation here, but I’m sure it’s something you could use.”

  Shorty’s eyes darted toward the children. “Did I just see that hump of yours move?” he asked Greg.

  “No, sir.”

  Even if he suspected Greg was lying, Shorty was not to be distracted from a deal. He turned back to Bob. “I’m still listening.”

  Bob reached inside his suit jacket and removed the folded kerchief from his pocket. Shorty leaned forward curiously, but Bob turned his back on the man. He carefully unfolded the material, removed a single hair, and folded the kerchief back again. His eyes darted around the shady establishment a second time. Then he regarded Shorty seriously and held out the hair.

  “What’s this, then?” Shorty asked. He leaned stiffly forward for a better look and reached across the bar with two elongated fingers.

  Bob yanked the hair out of reach. “Careful, it’s very valuable.” His hand eased forward again, and Shorty’s mouth lolled open as he accepted the proffered hair.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Shorty asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Nothing less,” boasted Bob. “Finest red hair this side of the Styx border. Red as the locks of the Pendegrass queen herself.”

  Priscilla made a grunting noise that was quickly stifled by Greg’s palm.

  Shorty offered a low whistle. He looked back to Greg and the others. The smile that split his face held all the warmth of an injured badger. “I may be just a simple country boy, but I’m thinking we might want to have us a look under them hoods.”

  The children drew back as one. Bob jumped between them and Shorty. That, plus the tall wooden bar between them, kept the situation nearly tolerable.

  “Now, see,” Bob said, “that’s just the type of tone that frightened my clients before. I told you, they have nothing to give. I picked up that treasure weeks ago.”

  But Shorty didn’t stop leering at the children. “Then these . . . clients of yours should have nothing to hide, should they?” He dipped his shoulder below the bar and straightened again, gripping a large wooden club in his massive fist.

  Bob backed up a step. “Now you’re just being rude. I have half a mind to take our business elsewhere . . . oh, ah . . . do you think I could have that hair back before I go?”

  “Sure,” Shorty said, grinning. He placed the hair temptingly on the bar between them and slapped his palm with the club. “Soon as we see what’s under them hoods.”

  In blatant disregard for all the messages his body was desperately trying to send him, Greg willed himself forward and threw back his hood. “This is ridiculous. We don’t have time to waste on this guy. We need to find Nathan and get back to the kingdom before Witch Hazel figures out how to use that amulet of hers.”

  Shorty grunted. “Just how’re you planning to get to the kingdom, boy? No one can cross out of the Netherworld—except Dolzowt Deth, that is.” He laughed, a hollow, humorless sound.

  “That’s not true,” Melvin argued. He stepped forward and threw back his own hood. “My dad says he came over here to slay the dragon Tehrer and got back home again without any trouble at all.”

  The barkeep laughed again, even louder than before. “Your dad’s a liar, boy. Tehrer still lives. I seen him just yesterday with my own eyes.”

  “He’s got a point, Melvin,” Lucky whispered.

  “Now I see why you’re so desperate to find the sorcerer,” said Shorty. “But what makes you think someone of Dolzowt Deth’s ilk would help you?”

  “We don’t need Dolzowt Deth to get back home,” Melvin told him. “We just want to reach him to find our friend. Nathan can provide all the magic we need.”

  Bob reached out a hand and pulled Melvin back by his hood. “I’m not sure your policy covers you if you go aggravating a man with a club. However, if you would like to purchase a rider to your policy . . .”

  Shorty had not taken his eyes off of Melvin. “A sorcerer with friends? Not very likely.”

  “Nathan’s not a sorcerer, exactly,” said Greg, “but he is a powerful magician—the best in the kingdom.”

  “Yeah, and he’s not going to be happy when he hears you tried to stop us from reaching him,” said Kristin. Apparently she’d once again forgotten she didn’t know Nathan.

  Shorty was in no way intimidated by her outburst. Again he slapped his palm with the club. “Too bad you’ll never reach your friend to let him know I stood in your way.”

  Lucky had been sidling around the others this entire conversation and had managed to position himself just a few feet from where Shorty stood on the other side of the bar. With a sudden lunge, he landed flat on his chest on the counter, thrust out one arm and snatched the hair off the counter. Shorty’s eyes grew wide, but before the barkeep could do more, Lucky scurried out of the club’s reach.

  “I believe this is ours,” Lucky said, and his indignant tone left Greg half expecting him to flip back his hood and replant the hair in his own scalp.

  “Oh, please,” said Priscilla. “This man doesn’t know any more about Dolzowt Deth than I do. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait.” Shorty struggled to keep the hair Lucky had stolen in sight. “I do know where he lives, I swear.”

  “And where might that be?” Bob asked.

  “It’s rather hard to say,” said Shorty.

  Bob scowled. “Let’s go, folks. We’re wasting time here.”

  “No, wait. It’s hard to describe, but I could show you.”

  Bob paused with his arms stretched wide as he corralled his clients toward the door. “Well, now, if you can get us safely there and back . . .”

  “Oh, if you’re talkin’ about getting there safely, then that’s another matter entirely. I can offer protection, but for that I’m afraid I’m going to need more of those pretty red hairs.”

  “What makes you think I’d have more?” asked Bob.

  “Well, do yeh?”

  Bob’s arms dropped to his side. He looked reluctant to answer. “I believe I may have one other.”

  Shorty grinned. “And I have just the guide. Tom!”

  Greg heard a rustling from within a small room behind the bar.

  “What is it?” a voice replied.

  “Get out here. I got a job for yeh.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Short.”

  A chair scraped across a hard wood floor, followed by ever-strengthening footsteps as the owner of the voice approached the door. All eyes fixed on the doorway. Finally the man stepped from the tiny office and glanced around at the small party gathered there. Briefcase in hand, he straightened his tie.

  “Well, now, Mr. Short. Something tells me we’re looking at a rider to your policy.”

  Dual Indemnity

  “Hold on,” Bob told this newcomer with the briefcase. “I already have a standing agreement with these folks to offer all their insurance needs. They signed on with me exclusively. Isn’t that right, sir?” he said, addressing Greg.

  “Huh?” said Greg. “Oh, yeah, I guess so.”

  The man called Tom looked to Shorty and back again. “I’m confused. Do you folks want m
y help or not?”

  Shorty picked up another glass from the bar and attempted to blow off the grime. “They do if they want to find their sorcerer friend.”

  “He’s not a sorcerer,” Melvin insisted.

  “I don’t trust him,” Bob told Greg. “I don’t think he has your best interests in mind.”

  “Oh, and you do, I suppose,” said Tom.

  Greg lowered his voice. “We need to reach Dolzowt Deth,” he told Bob. “If you don’t know the way, well, I think we have to go with him.”

  Bob’s frown was equally wide as Tom’s grin. “I’m sorry you feel that way. But you know, you’ve already paid me for a policy to cover the trip. I think I’ll tag along anyway, make sure nothing bad happens along the way.”

  Tom laughed. “You folks are in the Netherworld now. Of course, something bad’s going to happen along the way. The whole place is crawling with organ-hunters.” He regarded Greg with an expression that made Greg want to run. “That’s precisely why you’ll be needing my protection.”

  Tom Olson led Greg and his party out of Edmonton and deep into the woods toward a destination only he knew. As Bob had promised, he walked at the back of the group, guarding them from behind. But after all of Mordred’s warnings, Greg couldn’t help but take it upon himself to scan the trail ahead and behind. Organ hunters or not, he wasn’t all that comfortable letting his guard down around his two protectors, either. Tom, on the other hand, was not the least bit tense. He had been Shorty’s insurance agent for the past five years. With the type of clientele that frequented the Dirty Flagon, Tom had to pay out claims on a regular basis. He was so accustomed to dying, the thought of barging into the residence of the Netherworld’s darkest sorcerer to rescue Nathan didn’t concern him in the least. If anything, he seemed anxious to try it.

  “Then last month these two sorcerers got in an argument over which was better for spells, livers or spleens,” he boasted now. “And when they pushed back their chairs and jumped to their feet, electricity zapping between their splayed fingers, who do you think had to step in and take the full brunt of the blast?”

  Greg walked just a step behind. “Say, where are we going, anyway?” he asked for the tenth time since they had left the Dirty Flagon. He had decided after the first dozen of the man’s stories that attempting this trip without a guide might have been worth the loss of a few organs.

  Tom offered the type of smile only a salesman could manage. “Dolzowt Deth lives on a secluded island just a few miles off the coast of New Haven.” He observed Greg’s blank expression. “It’s a small town five miles north of Old Haven,” he said, as if this would make everything clear. “We can rent a boat there and try to reach him. Just because everyone says it’s impossible doesn’t make it so.” His grin widened. “I don’t mind helping at all. Really, I don’t.”

  Bob scowled. “As long as they’re willing to pay, you mean.”

  Lucky pulled his hood tightly about his ears. “We already paid that creepy bartender.”

  “To have me take you where Dolzowt lives and protect you from common threats along the way,” Tom said, “but I imagine you’ll find plenty other, far more terrible threats between here and there, waiting at every turn.”

  “Wouldn’t that make them common threats, too?” Lucky asked.

  Tom scowled. “They’re not covered under your current policy. If such a threat were to occur and my protective services were required, I’m afraid I would have to ask for additional payment.”

  “Wait, no one ever mentioned that.” Greg looked to Bob for support, but Bob just shrugged.

  “He’s right. That’s standard policy in the insurance business.”

  “Now,” Tom continued, “Shorty said you would have no trouble covering any additional services that may be required—he mentioned something about a certain hair?”

  Lucky’s face blanched. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Something about a certain . . . red . . . hair?”

  “H-he must be confused.”

  “We have plenty of red hair,” said Melvin. “Just get us to Dolzowt, and it’s all yours.”

  “Melvin,” Lucky hissed.

  Greg was so intent on the conversation, he nearly missed a sudden rustling in the bushes.

  “Organ hunters,” Bob warned.

  From all sides, men stepped from the woods. Each was heavily bandaged like the villagers back in Edmonton, and Greg didn’t spot a single one who wasn’t missing at least one appendage.

  One raised a curved blade that glittered in the midday sun. A scar ran from the bridge of his nose, under one eye and across his cheek to his neck. If Greg had to guess, he’d say whoever tried to take an eye or an ear from this man was now known as “Lefty,” or something equally gruesome. Worst of all, he appeared far less intimidated by magicians’ robes than Mordred had theorized.

  With a sneer that was probably his scarred face’s best attempt at a grin, the man spoke in a raspy voice. “What’s this I hear about red hair?”

  Greg had spent years running from trouble on Earth. He was more than willing to draw on that experience now, but he worried for the others. Lucky was a fast sprinter, he knew, and Melvin must be too, to have lived through the type of excursions he claimed to have shared with his brother. Even Princess Priscilla had survived her share of scuffles. But what about Kristin?

  Scar-Face waved his blade experimentally and sneered wider still. “We can do this the easy way, or my preferred way.”

  The bandits drew closer, tightening the circle. Each carried a blade. One used his as a distraction while another reached out and flicked back Lucky’s hood. His booming laughter cut off abruptly, and everyone gasped—Lucky loudest of all. Tom was just as surprised as any. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

  “Seize them!” shouted Scar-Face.

  Lucky dodged aside but ran into Melvin, and both boys dropped to the ground. The man who had flipped back Lucky’s hood grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. Another flipped back Melvin’s hood and frowned.

  Greg stood frozen in horror. Then one of the men reached for Priscilla’s hood, and Greg let out a scream that might have been heard back at Pendegrass Castle. The man who’d tried for Priscilla stopped in mid-reach and spun, releasing a long dagger to meet Greg’s charge.

  Greg didn’t have time to stop. He was flying forward, out of control. He clamped his eyes shut. But then someone screamed, and again his world shifted.

  The knife never struck, but the ground was less kind. It smacked Greg so hard in the chest, he couldn’t catch a breath to cough. Hard to imagine it could have felt worse if the blade had found its mark. The soft loamy trail had been replaced by solid rock, and Greg knew at once he had again been transported by magic.

  He rolled over on his back and fought to breathe. “Ow.”

  Lucky stood over him, one hand clenching a walking stick, the other extended to help Greg to his feet. Greg glanced about the area. Apparently the organ hunters had not been transported with him, but everyone else was crowded around, all looking on with concern. All except Tom, of course. Having paid out a claim, the insurance salesmen now lay dead at Greg’s feet.

  Even Bob was there. He stared down at the fallen agent and prodded him with a toe.

  “You okay, Greg?” Lucky asked. “That was close.”

  Priscilla and Kristin knelt and started fawning over him in a way that made him less comfortable than before. He felt somewhat relieved to find it was Rake’s tongue probing his ear. He gently pushed the shadowcat away, then did the same with the two girls and slowly stood.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. But what about Tom? Is he . . . ?”

  “Dead?” finished Melvin. “’Fraid so.”

  With a shriek, Tom jerked awake and scrambled to his feet. He jumped about, staring at his chest, until finally he shook off the effects of his payout and smiled Greg’s way.

  “I’m fine,” he assured them. “Happy to assist. Though we do
need to discuss an adjustment to your rate for the next few days.”

  “For what?” Kristin asked. “You were already paid to protect us.”

  “Against common threats, yes.”

  “But you said this whole place was crawling with organ hunters.”

  Tom tried quite unsuccessfully to offer a sympathetic expression. “Your policy does cover danger from organ hunters,” he explained, “to a certain extent. But not when you walk carelessly into a group of them due to your own negligence. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just be taking me a little more of that fine red hair of yours.”

  Bob handed a knife to Lucky and spoke to Greg in a low voice. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

  One thing Greg liked about having Lucky with him on his previous adventures on Myrth was that trouble tended to remain at bay whenever the boy was around. Such was not the case in the Netherworld. By the end of the day the group had been attacked over a dozen more times, mostly by monsters of various sorts, twice by organ hunters, and once by the forest itself.

  Tom reacted so quickly to the attacks that Greg and the others never had a chance to raise their walking sticks, even on a few occasions when Greg never felt he was in much danger. In each case, Tom insisted that the threat was not covered under a standard policy, and Bob sheepishly agreed. Lucky’s head was starting to look like a patchwork quilt, and tensions were mounting. Who knew how far it was to New Haven? What if Lucky ran out of hair before they reached their destination?

  “Well, I’ve always wondered what I would look like with short hair,” Priscilla quipped. Both Bob and Tom were out of earshot, hunting firewood. It was the first time the two men had left the others alone since leaving the Dirty Flagon, and Greg absently wondered what would happen to their “protection” if someone or something were to attack them now.

  “But your hair is so beautiful,” Kristin said. She stroked Priscilla’s hood softly. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Priscilla smiled back at her. “Well, unless you have some organs you’d like to donate when the time comes, I’m afraid we’ll have no choice.”