by Al K. Line
What did she want with Sasha?
I made it to the front of the house and ran at the three figures of George, Sasha, and Vicky, all standing facing the front door as Martha came through, looking wild and smug.
"You all okay?" I asked as I stopped beside them.
"Fine. What's going on?" asked George.
"It's Juice's mum, she isn't dead. She's half fae, she's controlling the Hangman, who used to be her husband somehow, and she's got it in for Sasha. All of us actually. Revenge, she said."
"I understand," said Sasha, stepping forward.
I reached out for Sasha and grabbed her hand. She turned and smiled at me as a jolt of fire ran though my arm, forcing me to pull away, gasping.
"Sorry, my love, but I must deal with this alone. I am your faery godmother, here to protect you, not put you and your family in danger. Please don't interfere."
"Sasha, I owe you my life, many times over. You don't have to do this alone. I won't let you. We won't let you."
"Dad's right," said George. "You're family."
"We're in this together," said Vicky, bless her tiny heart.
"So sweet, all of you. But I believe this is a family matter, am I right?" Sasha turned to face Martha.
"You killed our father. I am here for justice."
Nobody said a word as we tried to make sense of this latest revelation. We watched as the Hangman came around the house and stood beside Martha. She looked at him lovingly and then frowned as Juice made an appearance.
"He... He... This freak was your husband?"
"My dear departed. He's not the man he once was, are you, my dear?" Martha smiled adoringly at the Hangman; he hardly even glanced at her. "We were together for many years. Such good old days, in the wild west of the Americas when you could truly be free. We had some magical times, haha. But then he went and got himself shot, and I was alone. Sad times. I found a way, through my magic, to bring him back. Now he can be by my side, and we are together, if only for a little while."
Martha lifted her hand and the noose in the hangman's hand darted out like it was solid steel. It pointed directly at me.
"He isn't happy about you getting away. But no matter."
"You leave him alone," warned Sasha.
"Mum, what are you talking about?" Juice was clutching his head, like his brain was about to explode. "This can't be happening. You're my mum."
"Yes, and so much more besides. I have been biding my time, waiting to get this treacherous woman. She took my father from me. He would visit me as a girl, and stay with me and Mother, then he didn't return. I discovered I was fae many years later, and learned how to be a part of both this world and Faery. I know what you did." Martha glared at Sasha with pure hate. "You murdered him."
"He was a monster," whispered Sasha, the memories surfacing.
"He was our father. He was to be obeyed. You killed him because you were a spoiled brat. I heard all about it. Those loyal to him told me, not the lies the weak ones like you spread, but the truth."
"You weren't there."
"I've been alone all these years, lived with a man just as foolish as this stupid boy for a while, but he had to go because he was weak, pathetic, like his son."
"You killed Father?" asked Juice, reeling under the onslaught of revelations.
"He was a fool. I have only one true love."
"Doesn't seem to be reciprocal," I said.
"He loves me in his own way!" spat Martha. "He's different, but he enjoys his work. And it needs to be finished."
And as if on cue, the noose wavered then shot out faster than I could follow. Rope tightened around my throat.
Everyone shouted and screamed as I gasped for air, then was yanked off my feet and hung there, the rope tightening. It wasn't even tied to a tree, just suspended in mid-air.
I'd expected something like this, and I was ready. Although it hurt, Wand and I had formed a barrier around my throat, a cushion of magic stopping the rope touching flesh, unable to get any tighter. I grinned down at Martha as she looked up at me, expecting me to be breathing my last, clawing at my throat, liquid foulness running down my legs, shaming me in my dying moments.
"Surprise," I said, and let the magic shield expand around my throat. It pushed hard against the rope, and for a moment I panicked as it faltered, but then Wand flared bright and the noose loosened, my head slipped through, knocking Grace from my head, and I landed, cat-like, crouched on the ground.
I caught Grace as she drifted down. "You aren't in Faery now," I growled, before all hell broke loose.
Pandemonium
There was a very good reason why I liked working with just one diminutive sidekick, and it wasn't just because I could shove her in the glove box when she got annoying. When you get other people involved, it gets chaotic and you lose authority. I like order, things in their place, and to know what's happening. When you have others meddling in your business it's hard to remain in control.
Things get awkward, you can't get a clear blast at your enemy, and you can't just run away either as you'd leave someone behind.
A clusterfuck, I believe is the technical term.
This was one of those. A right royal clusterfuck.
Vicky screamed and lost the plot entirely. She ran straight at Martha, fingers curled like she was willing, maybe even able, to gouge out her eyes.
Martha glanced at her and batted her away with a backhand slap like she was swatting an annoying gnat. Vicky was catapulted backwards, slamming into George who was in the middle of forming some kind of spell that never saw completion.
Sasha's face darkened as Vicky yelled. Wind whipped up from nowhere, battering Martha and the Hangman, who's hat remained firmly on his head. He looked kinda cool, I have to admit, apart from the footwear, but then the mystery solved itself. Of course! Martha was obsessed with clean feet, hated seeing dirty shoes or boots, and she'd obviously had a real issue with her dead husband wearing cowboy boots covered in the dust and grime of centuries.
Martha cackled as Sasha lifted her arms and willed the heavens to darken.
Birds in nearby trees stopped singing, the chickens were silent and ran for the nearest barn, even Juice stopped babbling.
The Hangman, oblivious to it all, merely stared at me with utter loathing. He was a one trick pony, and obviously hated leaving unfinished business, but more than anything I could tell he despised being beaten. The artifact slithered across the ground then shot up and into his hands, and his own noose appeared in the other—double whammy. He sneered at me, and then with a flick of the wrist one noose shot out and lassoed me around the neck. Damn but he was persistent.
The shield was down as I hadn't expected such swift retaliation, and I clawed at my throat as the rope tightened and he yanked hard with calloused hands. It was so sudden, so forceful, and so damn powerful, that I was immediately off my feet, flying toward him, dying as I went.
For a split-second I took in the mess around me. George and Vicky were scrabbling to get to their feet as the wind battered them, Juice was backing away, looking afraid and pretty bloody miserable with so many revelations and such harsh words from his mum, and there was Sasha and Martha, faery dust streaming from both women, one a true faery, the other a halfblood like my daughter. But that was where the similarity ended. George was new to this, Martha had centuries of experience, could draw on power from Faery George would need many years to master. And Martha was wild.
Her loose gray hair was streaking out behind her as she became shrouded in tendrils of thick magic that protected her and supplied immense power. Sasha moved swiftly forward, talking under her breath, summoning strength from the Nolands. Martha did the same.
Fae are violent to the very core, it's part of who they are, what they are. They have an inordinate amount of power to call on, and magic isn't just some esoteric thing to them. It's their reality, what they are made of. And both of them were really annoyed with each other.
They launched simultaneously, left the
ground and practically flew toward one another, incredible forces unleashed as they drew on magic that was their birthright. They collided in a shower of sparks as faery dust splintered from them like an explosion. When the flash dimmed they were wrapped tight in a deadly embrace, grabbing at each other, punches flying, hands in strange configurations, each trying to outdo the other with magic, trying to cause maximum damage through their knowledge of all things fae.
They shot skyward, still in their tight embrace. Violent gusts died as their focus became only for each other. Both spun around in fast circles, a blur of sparkly material and hair flowing as though in a force-nine gale. The air split with thunder and a Path opened, black, silent, and undoubtedly deadly, the other side certainly leading somewhere nobody would ever want to go, would definitely never return from.
Then another, then ten, twenty, thirty, each woman opening up portals to despicable parts of the Nolands full of suitably nasty beasties. Or maybe to the inside of mountains, lava pools, that kind of thing. Fae were rather inventive when it came to eliminating their enemies, and some of the stories were sickening.
I had my own set of problems to worry about though. Namely, the two ropes now around my scrawny neck. It had happened so fast I didn't even realize the second was there until I felt a stronger tug and locked eyes with the Hangman.
I dropped at his feet, staring at the clean pair of Adidas Originals, and he looked down at me with a grim smile. He twisted his wrists and the rope coiled around his arms, growing shorter, dragging up, cutting off all chance of breathing. This was becoming a bad habit, and it would kill me if I didn't break it once and for all, but how do you kill something already dead? How do you get rid of someone who could live forever in a limbo designed especially for him?
Get rid of what allows him to return here. Leave him in his own private hell and be done with him. That was my only chance, but there were several flaws in an otherwise perfect plan.
I'd be dead in several seconds, and I had no idea what was keeping him here.
Great Timing
Through the shouts and screams, the crying—that was just Juice—the threats, the cackles, the flaring magic, the ravaging of firm flesh—I wish—and the burning of skin, through all of this I still heard, and recognized, the sound.
It was the sound of a man having his balls assaulted.
Now, I've had my fair share of testicle attacks, some have even been pleasant, but there is an unmistakable sound all men make when their nether regions are being unjustly pummeled. Be it by hand, by boot, by elbow, by head, by well-aimed missile, or even by the flick of a well-placed finger, whatever the cause, there is always an, "Oomph," followed by an, "Argh," often times followed up with an, "Argle," before you lose all sense of what you were doing and your world is consumed by a pain unlike any other.
You feel sick, you get all sweaty, then you go cold, while you wonder how your testicles have been shunted up into your kidneys. Pain flares out from two golf ball sized—at least that's how big mine are—lumps to encompass your whole groin and you see stars and lose all control. All you can do is double over, gasp, and pray it won't last for the eternity it feels like.
All of this I heard, and recognized, in an instant as I stared into the Hangman's already watering, very wide eyes. I also recognized another sound, one I was also rather familiar with. It only happened to me the once, and it is something I will never repeat if I can help it. The sound of said ball attack, but with an evil added twist.
Ball bite!
Few men have encountered such a violation of their manhood and lived to regret it, usually because they bleed to death once their chopper is well and truly felled, along with the two spherical motor units powering the pumper of procreation. Those who survive never tell the tale, but usually drag themselves off to a monastery somewhere without uttering another word about it or anything else for that matter.
From my position being held up above the Hangman by two magical nooses, I was dropped as the pain and indignity of a full on pelvic blitzkrieg took place. His immortal eyes streamed, his face turned puce, and he screamed the scream of a man under the most terrible of assaults known to the more exposed sex.
As I landed on the ground, gasping and retching, I was confronted with the sight of a badger's bristly bottom. The beast was reared up on stubby yet powerful legs, and it was hanging on for dear life to the undoubtedly flaccid, probably almost decapitated, member of my persecutor.
"Oh, hey, Steve, forgot you were here," I croaked happily. Had he really been hanging around for a week though? Guess he was waiting for us, knowing how life went in this game we all played.
He and Vicky would make a nice couple. He was cool and didn't like to think too much, Vicky was hot-headed and babbled. They'd even each other out. I'd have to see if I could speed the relationship along once this was all over. That'd be nice.
Deciding now wasn't the best time to ponder my match-making skills, I slipped the ropes over my head, put Grace back on, and as Steve in badger form yanked and tugged on a dead man's decidedly decimated dick, I did the only right thing in such circumstances. I repeatedly punched the defenseless Hangman as hard as I could in the face until bone broke, cartilage cracked, and his features became a bloody mess.
Steve never once released his grip, and badgers have a lot of pressure they can exert with their surprisingly strong jaws. Steve tugged over and over, tearing through cloth and denim, and judging by the heightened screams, and Steve's snarls through a mouthful of Hangman bits, he'd torn loose something altogether more important than the fly of the jeans.
With a final nightmarish rip, Steve's hold came free and he tumbled backwards, a mess of black and white bristly fur with his snout covered in blood, a mouthful of denim and fast shrinking flesh his awful prize. He deserved a nice fry-up for this, maybe once it was all over.
Disgusted, and trust me, badgers aren't normally fussy when they're of the shifter variety, Steve spat out Hangman bits and glanced around, eyes darting this way and that. He spied Vicky close to George and ran to them then stood in front, fur standing on end, little eyes full of menace. He growled and snapped at the air, warning everyone to stay away.
Did I mention, I liked Steve?
The Hangman howled, and I wasted no time dropping the limp nooses over his neck. Wand was out of my pocket and shouting, "Yippee! Let's do for this eunuch and laugh at his gaping void," which I thought was a bit mean, as I lifted him high and called down as much magic as I could muster.
"You like this bit, don't you?" I asked.
"Hey, I'm stuck in a foul-smelling pocket most of the time. It's nice to get some air. Damn, Steve's a right nob-muncher, isn't he?"
"I wouldn't let Steve hear you say that. Um, not that he can, but he's not that way inclined. At least, I don't think he is. And that's pretty disrespectful to anyone that likes um, munching on nobs."
"You know what I meant. Ugh, bet it tasted all gristly and musty."
"Can we please get on with being dramatic and blasting the hell out of this guy?" I asked with a sigh.
"Sure thing, buddy."
My will descended, or rose, whichever way you want to think of it, and was shunted hard and fast and with considerable annoyance into the faery wood. Wand's sigils flared brighter than they ever had and I let lose a spell that we both agreed would do the trick.
Wand seemed to know exactly what to do, and he snapped to attention, pointing up at the ropes as the air took them and dragged the Hangman into the sky violent with the madness that still raged as Sasha and Martha spun like dervishes above.
The ropes snapped to attention, and the Hangman shot up into the air. His neck broke as he did so. It was a terrible sound, so sudden, and if he'd been alive it would have been the end of him.
But this was the Hangman, and he was already dead. Blood poured from his groin, his head was at an obscene angle, and his legs kicked in death throes that would last an eternity.
Wand shifted and so did the Hangman, a
ngling up and sideways heading straight for one of the Paths opening and closing, snapping in and out of existence at an astonishing rate. The ropes went through, they pulled tighter, and the Hangman gasped as his head was almost severed from his body. He disappeared inside the Path, first his head, then torso, until all that was left were his legs.
The Path snapped closed; his screams were cut off. Two leg stumps and a pair of bright red suede Adidas Originals fell to the ground with a thud.
All was silent. Martha extricated herself from Sasha and came to the last bits of her husband without a word. Tears fell from her wrinkled face as she bent and picked up the Adidas.
She stood, staring first at them then at me. She placed them back down, lined them up neatly, then rose, her focus entirely on The Hat.
She wasn't happy.
Old Lady Wrath
"You killed Paul," screeched Martha, so incandescent with rage that she shook like she was about to explode. Which would have been nice, and saved everyone a lot of hassle.
"Who's Paul? Oh, you mean the already dead, homicidal freak who keeps trying to kill me? Yes, I killed him." I paused for a moment, thinking. Just trying to wind her up really. "Actually, come to think of it, no, I didn't kill him. How could I? He's immortal, in limbo. No, it was you, and your need for revenge, that opened the Path, and that's where he went. Wherever that Path led. So, how about it? Care to share where you, and I emphasize you, sent him. Old lady?"
Now, I'm not saying she was happy before, but Martha had always been funny about her looks and her style. I think calling her old lady may have been a step too far, because she screeched and kind of turned feral.