Not knowing how to handle this guy, Marilyn turned to leave, but H. McGlade was suddenly holding a small, plush box beneath her nose.
Diamonds.
“These are from our exclusive Mojo Collection,” he said. “Guaranteed to turn heads and inspire intense feelings of smug satisfaction.”
“They're… breathtaking.”
“And if you wear them, you'll be breathtaking. Would you like to try them on?”
Marilyn didn't quite understand why sparkly little rocks made her inner princess want to squee, but she went with it because the plot dictated she do so. The salesman helped her put the posts in her lobes, then held up a mirror.
“Wow,” she said.
“I know, right? Looking at you, in that dress, with those diamonds, I hardly even notice you weigh as much as a pregnant mule deer.”
“Do I want to know how much they are?”
“Maybe. How's your heart? Never mind, I can guess. I can actually hear the blood in your arteries, straining to pump. But I'll be honest with you, Big Boobs Lady, if you don't treat yourself well, how can you expect anyone else to treat you well?”
As irritating as H. McGlade was, he made a point.
“I'll take them,” Marilyn said, smiling.
“You deserve them, Marilyn. Because you're a nice person who should be happy.”
“Where's the punchline?”
“Don't you mean; where's the dessert line?”
“And there it is. A nice moment, ruined.”
“I was serious, though. The dress, the earrings, they make you look very nice. But that really doesn't mean very much, because you're already very nice on the inside, where it counts.”
“Aww,” Marilyn said. “That's actually sweet.”
Then H. McGlade ripped tuna burrito ass.
“I'll have an associate ring you up,” he said, frowning. “My lunch has escaped into my boxer-briefs.” His frown deepened. “And is running into my socks.”
Marilyn got the hell away from H. McGlade, paid, and walked out wearing the earrings. She felt stunning, although she now owed Mastercard slightly more than the gross national product of Peru. But it was all good, because… well… New York.
Chapter Three – A Ride in the Park
Out on Fifth Avenue, outside Tiffany’s, Marilyn checked her palm. Makeover, clothing, jewelry. Check, check, and check. So far, so good, but Zelda’s final instructions had Marilyn baffled.
Enjoy yourself.
How could she enjoy herself surrounded by glamour and money and thin, beautiful people? She was happiest watching the glamour in the movies, imagining she was living it through the pages of books, not actually living a glamorous life. And if she tried, she just knew people would laugh and roll their eyes.
Would sitting on a bench and reading a book qualify? Zelda would probably laugh at her and throw in a couple of eye rotations, but it was precisely what Marilyn would enjoy. And since she had a free Kindle app on her Amazon Fire Phone, she didn’t even have to rely on her spotty magic to conjure up a good book. In fact, she already had a recommendation from Jezebel.
“The park sure is beautiful today!” said someone behind Marilyn.
She turned around and focused on a beautiful, young blonde in her early twenties. Dressed in a short, blue dress and white stockings held up with garters, she looked both sweet and naughty at the same time. And her smile was so bright and so genuine, Marilyn found herself smiling back.
“Have you ever taken a carriage ride through the park? It’s divine.”
Marilyn had to admit, it did sound divine. In fact, with her earrings and dress and bright, blond hair, Marilyn felt divine.
About everything.
“Where can I find a carriage?”
“My name is Alice. Walk with me and I’ll show you.”
So Marilyn introduced herself and fell in beside Alice, and the two of them walked into the cool green shadows of Central Park. Marilyn felt good. About herself. About her new friend, Alice. About everything around her. And even though she’d heard about muggers attacking in Central Park on the news (courtesy of the Foreshadowing Network), she couldn’t focus on that negative thought. Or any negative thought, really.
As they walked deeper into the park, the musical twitter of birds and the clop of horses pulling carriages replaced the bustling sounds of the city. Lush trees shaded her from the hot, afternoon sun. The scent of lilacs drifted on the breeze.
“This is lovely, Alice.”
“And there is your carriage.” Alice pointed to a line of three shiny carriages waiting to give tourists a tour of the park. “I’ll see you later.”
As eager as Marilyn was to climb into the carriage, she was sorry she couldn’t have spent more time with Alice. “Why don’t you take a ride with me?”
“I can’t. I have a tea party to get to.”
“Are tea parties actually fun?”
“Sorry. It's a tea-bagging party. And they are fun, as long as you don't mind a little hair on the tongue.”
“What's…?”
“Google it. And enjoy the carriage ride! We can meet up later. Just tell the driver to take you to the Alice in Wonderland sculpture in the park. Bye!”
Marilyn found it funny that Alice would suggest she visit the Alice in Wonderland sculpture, the two of them having the same name and all. But Marilyn supposed it made sense to believe you resembled someone famous who had the same name, Marilyn herself always felt she had a lot in common with Marilyn Manson.
Scanning the group of three carriages, Marilyn debated over which one she should choose. The first carriage was white and pulled by a white steed with flowers woven in its long, flowing mane. The horse pranced a little, arching its neck, as if it was straight out of a fairytale. Even the driver looked princely in his white tux.
The second carriage was pulled by a horse that was so shiny and black that Marilyn could see her own reflection in his sleek coat. The carriage matched, both in shininess and blackness, and the oversized wheels appeared to be made of gold and embedded with diamonds. The interior of the carriage sported seats covered in red velvet, and the driver held out a flute of bubbly champagne and greeted her with a smile that could only belong to a movie star.
What about the third carriage?
At first, Marilyn thought someone had spoken to her, but when she glanced around, she realized no one was there.
And look at that stud pulling it. You should really choose that carriage.
Chalking the thoughts up to some sort of mental illness, likely schizophrenia, Marilyn turned her attention to the third carriage.
Its sides were a dull brown and one of the wheels appeared crooked. The driver wore old-fashioned breeches and a white shirt--at least Marilyn assumed it was supposed to be white, the smudges of mustard on the collar and sweat stains drooping down under the armpits made it tough to know--and he resembled her uncle Frank, an ill-tempered drunk who always leered at her in a way that made her horribly uncomfortable.
Don’t put the cart and driver before the horse. Take a look at that bay stud. Wouldn’t you want a horse like that to sweep you off your feet?
Except for the broken spine incident, Marilyn really did adore horses. But she had to admit this one was pretty unremarkable. The horse was big and brawny, but his coat was a dull brown, and his mane looked more shaggy than flowing. “I don’t know. I prefer the other two,” Marilyn mumbled out loud to no one in particular.
Oh, come on. He’s a stud. Strong, masculine, and he’s hung like a horse.
Marilyn eyed the horse again. He was indeed hung like a…
Wait a minute.
She would never think something like that. It was unseemly. She wasn’t that type of witch. She was nice and upstanding and moral…
So if she wasn't thinking it, where was that voice in her head coming from?
Are you sure you're not thinking it?
“Yes. I'm sure.”
How are you sure?
“Wel
l, for one, I don't refer to myself in the second person, as in I don't call myself you. That's just odd.”
Like talking to yourself is odd?
“Yes. Wait, no! I'm not talking to myself.” Marilyn wrinkled her nose. “Am I?”
That's sort of a tough one to answer.
“That wasn't my thought. I'm sure of it. I don't think in a basso profundo voice.”
Ok. You caught me. Now look at the horse's junk again.
She snuck another peek and wondered if the horse’s blood flow--
What was wrong with her? Eyeing a horse’s package? Mulling questions about blood flow? These thoughts certainly were not coming from her. “How are you doing that?” she asked the voice in her head.
What?
“That?”
Just get in the carriage, and you’ll find out.
Marilyn didn’t want to ride in the horrible carriage pulled by the horse with the generous unit. She wanted to ride in the fairytale carriage or the diamond and gold one. But by the time she’d pulled her eyes away from the stallion, the other two carriages had been claimed.
“You distracted me until the other carriages left.”
“You talkin' to me?” the Uncle Frank driver said.
“Uh, no. Are you free right now?”
“Nope. But my rates are fair. Har har har har!”
The man wasn't laughing. He was actually saying har har har. It was creepy.
Still, it wasn't as if she'd made any decisions on her own for this entire story, so Marilyn let the creepy driver help her into a seat that smelled like H. McGlade’s burrito problems, and the crotch rocket horse set off, clipping and clopping down the winding path.
Marilyn sat back and took in the scenery. She was so caught up in the smell and her struggle to control her gag reflex that she jumped when the voice spoke to her again.
You’re supposed to be having an adventure, right? Soaking up the city magic?
“How do you know that?”
Every witch who visits New York does it for the same reasons. City magic, shopping, and Wicked on Broadway.
“How is Wicked?”
An assload better than Cats.
“My familiars loved Cats.”
Do they also love batting around bits of string, and pissing on your sofa?
“Point taken.” Marilyn frowned. “They also like licking themselves.”
Wouldn't you?
“That's a crude question. Would you?”
I plead the fifth.
Marilyn shook her head, trying to clear away this entire conversation with… herself, apparently. “What were we talking about?”
Mojo.
“Right. I haven’t heard of other witches having trouble with their mojo.”
Everyone has trouble with their mojo from time to time.
“I have trouble all the time.”
I can’t imagine that. Not as beautiful as you are.
Now Marilyn knew the voice was a joke. She could stand horrible smells and leering, drunken drivers, and an irrational need to stare at a horse’s horse-parts, but compliments? That she couldn’t abide. “Tell me who you are and why you’re doing this, or I’ll get out of this carriage right now.”
Don’t you believe you’re beautiful?
“Why are you mocking me?”
Mocking you?
“How can you be so cruel?”
Cruel?
Marilyn crossed her arms over her chest. Zelda and Jezebel were right. Having someone repeat the last thing you said really was annoying.
Annoying?
“Okay, quit that.”
Don’t you believe you’re beautiful, Marilyn? Because I do. I think you might be the most attractive woman I’ve ever met.
She let out a very un-beautiful guffaw. At least whoever was pulling this voice trick wasn’t making jokes about her overeating like H. McGlade or groping her like the warlocks in The Rack or saying mean things like Jezebel.
But somehow, that made it worse, because she found herself wanting to believe.
“I can’t be the most attractive woman you’ve ever met. We haven’t met. I have no idea who you are.”
I’m right in front of you.
Marilyn focused on what was in front of her. The park. The city. The driver.
Of course. That was why he’d insisted she take a ride through the park. She leaned to the side, trying to get a look at his face. Skinny. Kind of crusty looking. Definitely a drunken Uncle Frank. He could be a warlock, she supposed. He would fit right in with Baba Yaga’s crusty old warlock entourage.
“You’re the driver. Of course. And I can hear you through warlock magic.”
The driver turned and leered at her with all the charisma of a drunk at a bachelor party. “Wha? You talkin' to me?”
“So, you're not the driver?” Marilyn asked.
“Of course I'm the driver,” the driver said.
No, I'm not the driver.
“You're not?” Marilyn asked.
“I am,” the driver said. “Can't you see me driving?”
Stop talking to the driver, or this will go on for fifty more pages.
“Okay,” Marilyn said. “I'll stop talking to the driver.”
“You're weird,” the driver said, turning back around.
“So you're not the driver,” she said, quieter so the driver wouldn't hear.
Not the driver, not a warlock.
Marilyn scanned the tree-lined road ahead. The park was huge, acres and acres spread out before her, the city beyond, all of it technically in front of her. She’d heard horror stories of muggings in New York City. Even murders.
“You’re dead, aren’t you? A spirit talking to me.”
You’re a necromancer?
“I don’t think so.” She hadn’t heard a peep from the dead homeless person on the street, after all. But if the voice wasn’t dead and wasn’t the driver--
It's not the driver.
--then what did that leave? “The only other thing in front of me is the horse.”
Thing? I’m insulted.
“You’re the horse?”
I am, indeed, a horse.
Marilyn loved horses. But when she thought of her inappropriate, bordering-on-obsessive staring, she cringed and blushed. But not wanting to be rude, she introduced herself despite her embarrassment. “My name is Marilyn.”
Hello. I’m--
“Mr. Ed, right?”
Um, no. Mr. Pferd. But you can call me by my first name.
“Ed?”
No, Charley.
“You’ve got to be kidding. Charley Horse?”
Charley Pferd.
“So do you often talk to people as they’re riding in your carriage, Charley?”
We're not talking. Not technically. But we are communicating. Because you're special.
Marilyn couldn't remember ever feeling special. At least not in a good way. But she felt special now.
You feel special, because you are special.
“So you don't talk to others?”
Do you see my lips moving? We're not talking.
“So I'm reading your mind.”
Not exactly. You're feeling what I'm thinking, but not actually hearing my thoughts.
Marilyn frowned. “Now you’re not making sense.”
I’m not? Think about it. Are you actually hearing my voice right now?
Was she? She’d assumed so, but she really hadn’t thought about it that much. Marilyn concentrated. “Think something.”
You are amazing.
She didn’t hear anything. Nothing at all. And she didn’t see the words in her mind. She just… felt amazing. Could it be?
“You don’t think I’m whiney?” she asked.
Um, no.
“You don’t think I’m weak?”
You seem pretty robust…
“You don’t think I’m fat?”
I actually like a girl I can mount without fear of breaking her.
“I knew it.”<
br />
Knew what?
He must have heard about the incident when she was a teen. It was probably a well-known cautionary tale among the horsey set. Not a very happy birthday. And it didn't help that her parents sent pictures to all the relatives.
“You think I’m fat.”
Why are women so hung up about their weight?
“Because people judge each other on appearances.”
That's not even in my top five list.
“I don't believe you.”
Okay, here's Pferd's Top Five. Number five, a nice person.
“Fair enough. I'm nice. Too nice, most of the time.”
Number four, a sense of humor.
“I think I have one of those.”
Number three, fun to be around.
“Is this really your list? Or did you pull this from an old issue of Cosmo?”
Number two, easy to talk to.
“I never thought of that. It's so hard to talk to people.”
And Pferd's Number One Thing He Finds Attractive in Women...enthusiasm.
“Enthusiasm?”
Enthusiasm trumps a runway model any day of the week. Give me an eager lady who likes to be with me over some bulimic, self-obsessed prima donna any time.
Marilyn crossed her arms over her chest. “So are you saying I'm not enthusiastic?”
Okay, let’s start over. How did you feel when you first climbed into the carriage?
“Nauseated. I was trying to control my gag reflex. The smell...”
“Okay, bad example. How about thirty seconds ago, when you were focused on what I was feeling?”
“I was feeling good.” In fact, she’d been feeling good about herself for the first time in a very, very, very long while.
Why?
“I just had a makeover. And a new dress and jewelry.”
Were you thinking about your makeover and jewelry thirty seconds ago?
“Well, no. I was thinking about your top five list. And if it described me.”
Did you feel like it did?
She smiled. “Yes.”
So you could feel that I found you irresistible.
“It's not nice to tease.”
Actually, sometimes it is nice to tease. But I'm not teasing. Yet. Now I'm flirting. Can’t you tell?
“Honestly, I forgot what it feels like to flirt.”
I find that hard to believe. I'm having a hard time pulling this carriage because I keep wanting to turn around and stare at you.
Magic and Mayhem: The Seven Year Witch (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 3