Mona gazed longing at the delicious looking little sandwiches. “No, thank you. I just ate.”
Working, expending magical energy, made her hungry.
Despite having eaten less than twenty minutes ago, she was ravenous. But, she had no intention of eating or drinking anything Ruby offered her.
The ex-witch wasn’t fooled. Her rosebud mouth turned up in smirk. “You know, Mona, I wouldn’t hire you and then try to poison you.”
Poison me? No, that wasn’t what I had in mind. More like make me your slave for all eternity. Once a witch, always a witch.
Witches and warlocks weren’t all cut from the same cloth. Folks chose sides, and not everybody chose the side of righteousness.
She made her way to the armchair across from Ruby, trying not to look at tray. Damn, even the tea smells good. “I’m not hungry, Ms. Hauflin,” she lied. “Tell me, why would a troll want your necklace?”
Ruby sipped delicately at her tea. “Please, call me Ruby.
Trolls are very fond of moonstones—nasty little creatures that they are. The stones are magical. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. Their gifts are useless to me,” the older woman smiled. “But in the hands of an Other, I’m sure you see the possibilities. Gail, bring me a scroll and pen.”
Mona eyed the older woman curiously. “But if you knew they were thieves, why let them get close enough to steal from you?”
“As I said before, we were friends.”
That don’t make a lick of sense. But alright, this is your party.
The maid returned with a flowery scroll and a quill pen. “I’m giving you four names,” Ruby said, writing. She stopped, and looked up sharply at her maid, who was hovering over her shoulder. “That will be all.” Her eyes shot daggers of ice.
Gail curtseyed nervously. “Yes, Miss Ruby.” She hurried out of the room.
Ruby waited until she’d left and went on, “One of them has my necklace. I’m sure of it.”
Mona took the list. One name at the top of the list stood out. Dartanian.
Chapter 5
“I know that a troll stole my necklace because the loathsome little creatures are thieves.” Nobody should be called a thief without evidence. But Mona hadn’t contradicted Ruby because she’d been listening. Ruby had told her something very important. She was a racist. Still, Mona would have to be careful. Trolls, like all Others, possessed magical abilities.
At home, Mona dined on an early supper of fried fish and rice. Then she wrapped up her dessert—two cheese pastries—and took them to her office. She stuck a hand-painted calligraphy Closed sign in the window, and drew the shutters.
The tall woman pulled a book, Stones and Their Magical Powers from her bookshelf. She turned to the chapter labeled Moonstones, tapped it twice with her fingertips, and a dulcet voice echoed through the room, “Semiprecious moonstones hold a strong connection to the moon.”
Mona sat back down at her desk, munching her pastries. As the book spoke, mellifluous colors streamed from the pages, and coalesced in the middle of the floor … creating images.
“Some legends say that they were the frozen tears of the Moon goddess that fell to the Earth when she quarreled with her lover …” Image of a woman and man appeared before Mona. They kissed. Fought. And parted.
The moon’s tears fell to the floor, and crystallized. A moonstone waved into view; another moving image of farmers tilling fields appeared beneath it. “Moonstones were especially useful for protection in tough times, for fertility rites.” An image of a midwife came into view … “and for stabilizing the humors of the body …”
Mona wiped her hands on the cloth napkin in her lap,
and tapped the book twice. It fell silent. She waved her hand again, and spoke in singsong voice, “My Spirit Guide needs nourishment.” Mona felt a pulling sensation as the magic left her body. A glowing spout appeared in her chest, and her magic poured from it, creating a replica of the pastries she’d just eaten. Palavers with the spirit realm always came with a price. She only hoped she wouldn’t have to call The Oracle, who would charge a much heavier debt.
“Spirit Guide, please come to me,” Mona said. “I have need of your wisdom.”
A gossamer indigo-blue female creature smudged into view, floating two inches above the floor. She was hairless, and her face was smooth with only a suggestion of eyes, nose, and mouth, her body was a mosaic of curves and shadows.
“I bid you greeting, Mona. You are well?” “I am, my Muse,” Mona replied, “and you?” “I am always well.”
“Here,” Mona held out the magical plate of pastries. “My offering to you.”
“I thank you, Mona.” Her Muse crooked a finger. The plate floated to her, and was absorbed into her shimmering frame.
“I have some questions about the sorceress, Ruby Hauflin.
Is she powerless?”
“Oh, yes,” her guide answered in a voice like a crystal bell. “She has been without power for a hundred years.”
“Is she guilty of evil deeds?”
The being hovered in silent contemplation. “Yes,” she said finally.
Everybody messes up sometimes. “Many evil deeds?” Another briefer, pause. “Yes.”
Damn! She’s a wrong-doer and a racist. Alright, she’s no angel. So what?
“Why does Ruby want the moonstone back?
“That answer is hidden from me.”
Hidden. Someone went to a lot of trouble to hide the truth. But why?
Why would she lie to me?
Mona felt a prickle of unease. She pushed it away. Clients lie. They have their reasons. Maybe some married wizard gave it to her or something, and she’s afraid I’ll find out. She remembered the first name on Ruby’s list. “Did Dartanian steal Ruby’s moonstone?”
“The Troll, Dartanain, has the necklace.”
See, she told the truth. That was easy enough. Mona stood, walked over to her Muse, and intertwined her fingers with those that felt like smoke. “I thank you, my Spirit Guide.”
“Until we meet again, Mona.” She melted away.
The dark woman walked over behind her desk, and sat back down. She opened the bottom drawer on her right, pulling out a copper bowl inscribed with symbols, and a slender glass vase filled with amber liquid, and set them on her desk.
Mona poured seven drops of the liquid in the bowl, and blew softly upon it. “Dartanian,” she whispered, “show me Dartanian.”
The liquid spun slowly in the bowl. The front of her office receded and then vanished altogether. Buildings slowly came into view, as if painted by brush strokes. Yet, her desk, and everything parallel to and behind it, was still visible. It was as if a giant hand had brushed away Clearwater, and supplanted it with another darker city. This part of The Realm existed right under human eyes, just on a separate plane of reality. On her side, the human side, it was 3PM. Yet beyond her desk was shrouded in darkness.
She was gazing into the Shadowlands. Mona stood, slipped her handbag over her shoulder, and crossed over.
Chapter 6
Crooked buildings flanked a two-story edifice just across from her. The door of the house glowed with a soft amber light. This would be Dartanian’s last known place of residence. If she was lucky, he’d still be here. If he’d traveled, she’d have to do another spell to track him down. Her spell was the equivalent of a hound dog sniffing out a scent before it had gone cold.
Mona rapped on the glowing door. A female troll of indeterminate age opened it. She was only four feet tall, but her small body bulged with muscles. Silver baubles dangled from her neck and wrists.
Flaming red hair was piled atop her head. She wore a bone- colored dress with a corset. Her skin was a deep shade of purple with orange circles around her wide-set, long-lashed maroon eyes. Soul music played in the background.
“Good evening. My name is Mona Livelong, and I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for Dartanian.”
The female troll looked her up and down. Then her thic
k lips spread in a smile, revealing huge pointed teeth. “You’re human,” her voice was a smoky contralto. “I’ll say this for you: You got heart to come here. Dartanian’s gone.”
“You mind if I come in?”
“Sure, why not? By the way, I’m Olivia.”
Mona followed her into a spacious living area furnished with oil lamps, velvet divans and chairs. The troll stretched out across from her on a blue and silver couch. She picked up a slender wooden holder from the coffee-table beside her, and fitted a cigarette into it. Olivia lit it with a dragonfly shaped lighter, and puffed smoke delicately from the corner of her mouth.
She gazed at Mona with eyes twice the size of humans. “What do you want with Dartanian?”
“I just need to ask him a few questions.”
Olivia puffed on her cigarette. “It’s that witch, Ruby, isn’t it? Whatever she told you, she’s lying.”
Wow. “You don’t even know what she said.”
“I know she’s a liar,” Olivia countered.
“My client is missing a very valuable piece of property—a moonstone. She thinks Dartanian might have it.”
“Dartanian ain’t no thief. If he took it, it was his to begin with.”
She’s telling the truth. “When will he be back?”
The female troll shrugged insouciantly. “Hard to say. Dartanian’s in and out. He does a lot of business in The Realm.”
“What kind of business?” Mona asked.
Olivia smiled tightly. “Business that’s none of your business, Mona.”
Mona reached into her bag, and pulled out a hand-printed card displaying her name and the moniker Paranormal Detective in bold print below it. She handed it to Olivia. “When he comes back, will you please tell him I wanna to talk to him? Tell him to send me a post at this address.”
The female troll took the card, and studied it for a moment. “Paranormal detective, huh? Will wonders never cease? Sure, I’ll tell him.”
Olivia walked her to the door. “You know she’s a flesh peddler, right?”
Mona whirled to face her.“What did you say?”
Olivia’s maroon eyes were obsidian. “Ruby’s a pimp. She keeps a stable at that house of hers, and arranges dates between Others. Paid dates. And she does it in The Shadow Lands, right under your human noses.”
Mona remembered the terror in Gail’s eyes. A pounding began at her temples, accompanied by the sinking feeling that this time she might really be in over her head.
“She’s powerless,” Mona said slowly. “How could she cross over?” Yet if Olivia was telling the truth—and all of Mona’s paranormal senses said she was—the how didn’t matter. Ruby had crossed over. All bets were off. It was the difference between an insignificant little lie, told perhaps to protect a woman’s vanity, and a lie of immense proportions, told for …
Why?
Olivia was watching her closely, waiting it would seem, for Mona to gather her thoughts. “Powerless or not,” Olivia said at length, “—and mind you I don’t know nothing ‘bout that—she’s still got connections. And if you’re working for her, you’re a fool.”
Chapter 7
Curtis parked his steam-car, got out, and headed toward the door of The Red Rooster, a greasy spoon that sold the best Jerk Chicken in Monterrey. The streetlights fashioned islets of light beneath him.
Normally, he would have stopped by his parents’ house for dinner. He hadn’t seen them in two weeks. He was their only son, and the youngest, so they tended to spoil him. But visiting his folks would almost certainly invite another round of questioning from Madeline over when he intended to marry Mona. He hadn’t even told his mother about the break-up yet.
I oughta tell her that the woman she’s so dead-set on me marrying ain’t human. I bet that would shut her up. He chuckled to himself as he imagined his mother’s shocked face.
A man sat next to the door of The Red Rooster, his legs crossed, his profile half-hidden by a hood. A gnarled hand lifted a corncob pipe to the hood, and a cloud of smoke floated into the air in front of him. Curtis froze. Suddenly he couldn’t move, couldn’t make himself walk pass this stranger into the restaurant.
The man stood, and turned his head to look at Curtis. He was an elderly black man. Or he had been, for now his skin was the grayish shade of a thing long dead. He stared at Curtis with colorless, filmed-over eyes.
For a long moment they were motionless, gazing at each other. Then the creature turned on his heel and walked away, rounding the corner.
Curtis’s appetite was gone. Trickles of sweat ran from his armpits, despite the chilly night. He was rooted to the spot. A miasma of emotions washed over him. He fought with his fists and feet, with musket and a rifle. He had no skills— no weapons— with which to combat demons, wizards, ghosts. He was wholly out of his element.
Underlying this was a curiosity he always felt when in the presence of the supernatural. A simultaneous repulsion and attraction. And fear. The same feelings he’d had as a child when his mother told him stories of Haitian folklore—a wanting, a needing to know more; and at the same time a desire to shut his eyes and ears to things he couldn’t explain or control.
One person could help him sort this mess out. One. Mona.
Fout monchè! It was as if events were conspiring to throw them together!
He wasn’t sure he was ready to see Mona, wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready. But one thing he was sure about. If he went to her, it would be on his on terms. He wouldn’t go crawling back with another case he couldn’t solve on his own.
He didn’t threaten me. Nobody’s been murdered. Hell, it’s a foggy night. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me. Curtis ignored the warning bells going off in his head, and hurried into The Red Rooster.
The Malady of Need
by Kiini Ibura Salaam
She would have looked at you like she knew all your truths. You would have wanted to unearth the secrets you saw buried in her eyes. You’d have caught her glance and your dick would have gone stiff. You would have imagined her licking your chest, your ankles, her own perfect lips.
You would have traded a week’s worth of protein to get your work detail changed, to shatter the barriers between you, to ride with her only a breath away. Had you any gods you would have thanked them for the nutters who were always trying to escape. Even as your shackles were pulled tight over your head, you would have felt love for lockdown. When the lights cut, you would have eased yourself forward, slipping around the others, easing your tether ahead as you went.
She would have whipped around when you stood behind her, then shushed you when you tried to explain. She would have brushed against you and you would have swayed with her, surprised to feel the tug of DNA stirring in your loins. When the shuttle lights blinked back on, she would have sighed before forcing the blankness back into her face.
You would have been left with tremors, tiny spasms whispering your need.
You would have begun to starve yourself. You would go without to nourish her. You would bring her only the best of your rations—long grasshoppers roasted crunchy, thick red caterpillars, the ones with the sweet meat. It would have been the only time you’d have been able to touch her—in the few seconds after your hands had been released from the shackles. You would have smiled as she slipped your food into her zip suit. It would have pleased you to think of objects you had handled resting against her skin.
She would have been thick. With pounds of flesh that could cushion all your hates and angers. You would have lost hours slack- jawed, staring into space, fantasizing about the soft of her breasts.
She would have started to make demands. She would have wanted you to mark yourself, to draw blood. She would have wanted to see the scabs, the thin lines that proved how much you wanted her. You would have begun to enjoy it. It would have felt electric to think of her as you severed your skin. As you bled, you would have imagined her, alone in her bunk, her fingers doing the work your dick had been dying to do.
Your thoughts of her would have become incessant. You would have been thinking about her when they came for you in the night. You would have been desperate to cling to your thoughts of her as they shackled you to the rack. You would have strained to remember the contours of her mouth as they plunged the tubes into your back. You would have tried to recreate her scent as the machine began to whir. They would have begun to drain your blood, as you were imagining yourself slipping inside her. Then the pain would have overwhelmed you. You would have gone slack as everything around you melted away.
She would have known. As soon as she had seen you, she would have known they had come for you. You would have wanted to stare at her, to drink in the vision of her to feed your sanity, but you would not have been able to bear it. You would have lowered your head so she could not see the mania in your eyes.
You would not have known how she did it, but you would have known that she had found a way to force the shuttle screech to a stop. As the shackles went slack and the voices of the others rose around you, she would have come. She would have freed your wrists and touched her tongue to yours. You would have fought it. You would have tried to remember where you were. But she would not have relented.
She would have dragged your buried sobs to the surface. You would have lost yourself under the press of her lips. She would have made visions flash in your mind. Touching her, you would have remembered what the sky looked like, the taste of fresh fruit, the feel of water on your skin.
You would have wanted to stop. You would not have wanted to be this naked, this disarmed. You would have lost yourself in the slickness of her body, in the work, in the friction. The itch of the compound would have dissipated against your will. The burn of the electric wristbands would have faded. She would have straddled you and pummeled you with frantic thrusts. As if she wanted to devour you. As if she wanted to recreate you, then spit you out reborn.
When the shuttle jerked back into motion, you would not have been able to look at her. Slipping your wrists back into the shackles felt like insanity, like suicide. As you worked, her scent would have gnawed at your nostrils. You would have felt as if her dark waters were rising over your body, as if you were drowning in her.
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