by A. J. Aalto
As I thought, Harry’s pleasure rolled through the Bond, tickling me as he made overtures of friendship to what he considered his first guest of the day; he offered breakfast, though this was politely declined from the sound of the voice in the kitchen, and he offered tea or coffee, which was graciously accepted. I pinpointed the voice as belonging to the young man with dark hair almost as long as my own Rapunzel-like locks. Wymon, I remembered. I felt Harry’s sartorial approval, too, and knew the guest had dressed up. Too bad for him, impressing Harry probably wasn't going to help, and as long as his personal bits weren't on display, I didn't have it in me to care one way or the other.
When I came into the kitchen, Harry was producing a top hat of his own for the young man’s inspection, looking like a magician assuring his audience there was no white rabbit within. Wymon sat at my old Formica table with an admiring smile and an elaborately patterned leather book which I assumed was his grimoire. Beside it, Harry had left me a navy blue pair of leather gloves, a matching blue Moleskine notebook, and a pencil to record my thoughts and impressions. Wymon stood when I entered the room.
“Ah,” Harry said with a stage-acting sort of delight, “there is my precious pipistrelle, come now to add light and music to our lives. How does my Own?”
I made a sleepy sound like mrf and stared at Wymon. “I’m going to need to do some things before we muck around with whatever you have planned.”
“Whatever you want,” Wymon said, inclining his head slightly.
“Would ya get a load of this guy?” I said, grinning lewdly at Harry. I waggled my eyebrows. “Whatever I want.”
Harry clucked of his tongue. “Mustn’t taunt the lad, now. He’s only young, and, having fewer psychic defenses built against the lure of incorrigible women, doubtless could not resist the boundless bounty of your charms.”
I blinked once at him. “You rarely have a problem with that.”
“I’ve had centuries of practice to have prepared for a woman like you, Dearheart,” Harry teased, dropping me a wink before turning to make my espresso. “Also, I knew your grandmother,” he added, with enough emphasis on “knew” to drive his point home, so to speak.
I didn’t buy what he was selling for a second, but shrugged at Wymon. When Harry put my cup in front of me, I used my bare fingertips to steal the caffeine jolt using the Vestalia spell again, mostly for practice, then drained the now-decaffeinated espresso shot in one gulp, winking thanks at my Cold Company. Pulling on my gloves, I announced, “I’ll be in my office. I need fifteen minutes.”
“May I watch you prepare?” Wymon asked, and the Blue Sense tremulously suggested that he was interested in checking out any magical defenses I might be erecting. I didn’t think it would matter much, and nodded.
“Don’t get in my way,” I warned, turning to the fridge to grab a plastic bag of greens from the crisper drawer. I plodded tiredly into my office, kicking the rag rug off the white pentagram painted on my floor. I pulled a wooden bowl out of my herb cabinet, several glass flasks, and a bag of premixed herbs. Placing white votive candles at each point on the pentacle, I laid the bowl in the center and knelt beside it.
“So how did you get into black magic?” I asked as I placed the greens in the bowl.
Wymon shrugged this off as though it was unimportant, but my Talents told me differently; he saw himself as a martyr of sorts, and he took this very seriously. “Same way as anyone else does, I suppose. Necessity, convenience. Curiosity.”
“You started on the right hand path, I’m guessing?”
He didn’t answer, instead asking, “What’s all this?”
“Well, if you knew anything at all about white magic, smartypants, you’d know I’m protecting myself against your bad mojo,” I said crisply.
“By making a salad?”
“It’s not a salad,” I scoffed, looking down at the bowl of greens critically. “Okay, it is a salad. But it’s a magical salad.” I made booga-booga witchy fingers in his general direction and let out a drawn-out OoooOOoo sound. He didn’t look convinced.
“Gonna salt that?”
“Obviously,” I retorted. “Can’t have a good protection salad without salt.”
He picked a spiky, limp leaf out of the bowl and waggled it at me. “What is the arugula meant to protect against?”
I sighed and felt my shoulders slump with surrender. “When you eat it under a waxing moon, you gain insights into your investments. And since I am investing in one of you people, I want to know that the petitioner I am considering is the very best choice I can make. For all the good that’ll do me.” I lowered my voice to barely a murmur. “Also, arugula tastes good.”
“Are you giving up hope before we begin?” he asked. “You haven’t entertained the nature of my petition yet.”
“Well, you don’t even know about mystical-ass salad greens, pal,” I said. “I suspect there’s no hope for you.”
He drew himself up, puffing his meager chest out like a juvenile primate learning how to thump it. I was meant to be impressed, but I'd lived through enough posturing to not be. “I respectfully request that you hear out my suggestion and witness my testimony before giving up on me.”
I dusted the dried rosemary off my gloved hands with a few swift brushes and gave them a rub down on my jeans. “Fair enough. What have you got for me?”
He clasped his long, narrow hands in front of him and said, “I can cure your ghost hair.”
My jaw dropped and I scrambled to my feet. “You’re sure?”
“I’m positive,” he said. After drawing a bit of psi, I could tell he was confident in his abilities, though he also thought it was a useless endeavor; while he had long hair, too, I guessed he had no idea what a pain in the ass it was to have to chop off your tangled, matted ghost hair every day. My cabin only had a couple of second story bedrooms and a linen closet, never mind a Widow's Walk or anything like a proper tower where I could get my Rapunzel on.
“I’ve tried everything.” I flapped meaningfully at my closed laptop. “I’ve been all over the place looking for information. As far as I know, ghost hair isn’t even a real thing, so how can you cure it?”
His lips curled into a sly half-smile. “Are you interested in submitting to my spell, Dr. Baranuik?”
Ugh. A belly-deep quiver of disgust ran through me. “Please don’t call me that. The last dude who did subjected me to illegal and immoral experiments. It was gross.”
His smile fell off and he nodded once, sharply. “I won’t forget. Shall I get my bag and get started?”
“Fetch your things,” I said. “I’ll finish my spell.”
He paused in the threshold of the room and tossed me a conciliatory smile. “You should add bay leaf. Protects against hexes. And it tastes good.”
“Cheeky,” I accused ruefully.
I was starting to like this guy, and if he could cure my ghost hair… Oh, man. I imagined life without having my black and blue hair choke me in my sleep if I forgot to trim it. I remembered my natural blonde hair with fondness, wondered how weird it would be to look in the mirror and not have that unruly turquoise curl always covering one eye. Would I miss it, though, this reminder of Brittney Wyatt’s ghost? I grabbed my cell phone and snapped a selfie for posterity, quelling the urge to make sexy faces at the camera. I looked tired, so I snapped a few more, trying to widen my eyes a bit, and ended up looking like I was being goosed. If only I’d been able to sleep last night, or had time to relax. If only I had more espresso-time. Or at least more Vestalia time with the bag of coffee. These witches were exhausting me already.
Wymon returned, extending a pale, thin hand in my direction in a manner that reminded me of my Cold Company. “If you’re ready?”
“Where are we going?” I clenched one gloved fist until the leather creaked reassuringly; I wasn’t eager to hold hands with a dark witch.
“I’ve arranged what I need on the lawn,” he said. “This sort of thing really shouldn’t be done indoors; I don’t
think your companion would enjoy it.”
Warily, I followed him outside without taking his proffered hand, though he did so again once we were out in the yard. In the center of the dew-slick grass, Wymon had lit a fire in a large, round copper pot, which spat and smelled reassuringly of sage. When I got closer, I could see a salt circle around it, which was also reassuring.
“Come dance with me about the cauldron,” he said, wiggling his fingers at me meaningfully. His smile made his black mustache quirk up at the edges. “You can keep the gloves on.”
I was reminded of an old German song Harry liked to hum, the lyrics I’d translated to tell a story of a man who offered wine and warmth, and the replies of the woman he was wooing, who wanted dancing and kisses, their coy negotiation one of the oldest between the sexes. I considered Wymon’s hand, wondered how well he’d manage dancing without the walking stick, though his young face betrayed no concern.
My hand left my side but hesitated short of his. “What dance shall we do? I’ve been practicing my Running Man.” I showed him, and when he didn’t look impressed, I switched it up to The Carlton from Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
“Just…” He shook his head, words not sufficient. Scooping up my gloved left hand, he tossed something into the cauldron and the flames jumped high, flashing blue and white. “Follow my steps. Ready? Nice and slow to start.”
He bowed at the waist then proceeded to bring his right foot behind his left, crossed to the front, crossed, and repeated. I followed carefully, and once I had the hang of it, he changed it up a bit until we were circling the cauldron in a slow one-two, one-two-three, causing me to skip a bit here and there, fumble until I had the rhythm. Once I was comfortable, he pulled me along after him, faster and faster, a mischievous smile settling on his lips. It wasn’t too long before we were joined by tiny, familiar bodies, and I Felt their happy, playful spirits before I caught sight of the flickering green, spindly arms and legs of my resident spriggans, flailing joyfully in and out of our circle. Chattering maniacs, they flung their little bodies into the dance with us. The fire cast shadows under Wymon’s chin, hollowing his severe cheekbones and drawing exaggerated lash shadows upward from his dark, glittering eyes. I quickly fell under the spell of his steps, whirling faster, saw him wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, and he began to speak softly to the flames, never letting go of my gaze.
“Fall behind me, Dark Lady, for about me shines the star of the All-Father, within me burns the eternal Black Flame of His vital knowledge,” Wymon told the lifting dawn sky as the cauldron spat sparks. It must have been my imagination that the sky darkened back to night, but I couldn’t deny the sensation of being in the presence of something, Wymon having caught its attentions.
Faster and faster we went.
“Behold,” he said, never lifting his voice beyond a confident murmur, “by the carnal laws of man come I, to call the Angel of the Gate, Samael; to call the Angel of the Flame, Azazel; to call the Angel of Light, Lucifer; to Call the Angel of Indulgence, my Dark Prince; to call the Angel of The Deep, Leviathan!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This little putz was going full-cadre demonologist on me. Worse, he was trying to summon Demon Kings, and he wasn’t done. Suddenly I wanted to call a full stop. The fire leaping in his fanatical eyes wasn’t the only thing disturbing me; I was uncomfortably certain, judging by the hard tweaking at my left nipple and the intense heat in the burn scar around my throat, that we now had Asmodeus’s full attention, and that particular Demon King did not share His pets. Beneath His influence, I felt the thudding step of a bigger problem; demons of equivalent size and terrifying clout had arrived to sniff out this impudent young man who dared attempt to summon Them. I knew Their opinion; we humans were soft and weak and beneath Their notice for the most part, until we dangled our pride in Their faces. Wymon was playing a very dangerous game, but he seemed to know it; he felt Them, too, and grinned as if to dare me to chicken out.
I was fully prepared to do just that. I’m no fool; I’ve done some naïve and stupid things, and I make mistakes on the daily, but this was beyond what I’d considered participating in when I’d first taken his hand. Had it only been a few minutes?
“Above, below.” Wymon’s voice had dropped, but to my amazement, I felt the demons lumbering closer to our plane of existence to hear him. The vibration under my feet began to take on a heat of its own, and the skin on my legs prickled warningly with sweat and goosebumps, a feverish wash. “Above and below, the might and glory of the Self. And so, too, the manifestation of glory is at my right hand. Deliver her from false beliefs and self-deceit, here before Your witness, a beast of the field, a beast of the flesh, a sister of carnal nature, before all the old gods of Outer Darkness, part Your path and make way. Hail Baphomet, Angel of Intellect.”
My lungs filled to bursting with a heat I’d never known, like breathing in a dry sauna with the dial set to blast furnace. The spriggans bolted, squeaking and rustling back to the sprawling honeysuckle at the fence.
I tried to speak but my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, and all I could do was plead with my eyes at Wymon. His answer was another victorious grin. He snatched up my free hand and positioned me directly before the cauldron opposite him. Then, almost delicately, he reached up with his left hand and lifted a bit of hair at my forelock, where turquoise and black met. With a single, sharp tug, he yanked out a healthy amount; I squeaked in protest, my eyes prickling with tears of pain. I blinked them away as he dropped the lock of hair in the cauldron’s fire.
Wymon stepped back, grabbing his top hat and cane. He tossed the hat high in the air and caught it on the end of his walking stick, where it spun in tight circles, seemingly to the rhythm of my hammering pulse. He lowered it slowly until the spinning hat was pointed directly at me. My eyes whirled, trying to follow around and around, until I was entranced by its simple motion and the padding sound of old felt through the air. I felt the worry melt out of my shoulders, my body softening to limp, forgetting about the demons and Wymon, hooked on the sight of that spinning hat.
“All right, boys,” Wymon whispered, just loud enough to catch my mesmerized ear. “Who wants her?”
A thousand shrieks from the Gates of Hell filled my mind and I yelped, spell broken; I performed a clumsy duck-and-cover, which was really more a stop-drop-and-roll if I were completely honest about it. These were the voices of lesser demons, tiny ones, really, minions of the Demon Kings who had lost interest upon being offered some strands of hair and nothing more by the brash, young demonologist. Lesser demons, however, were quite nasty enough, thank you very much indeed. Invisible, molten hot fingers snatched at me. I was secure inside the salt circle, but they were close enough to cause a searing, swirling breeze; I felt something in my scalp give way, flesh shrinking as if it could escape, and then it had a voice, too, a female voice raised in terror, getting quieter until finally it disappeared. I gasped, clapped one hand to the top of my head like I was holding on a wig, for that’s what it felt like, and stared up at Wymon.
He stood still, one hand on his walking stick, hat back on his head, looking pleased with himself. He then commanded, “Begone, rodents of the dark corners! Begone, insolent wretches! I banish thee now, with words and will, back to the circle from whence you came.”
The lesser demon voices cut off abruptly, leaving my ears ringing with silence. Dizzy, I whipped off my gloves, tossed them aside, lowered both hands to the earth, and clutched at the grass, feeling the cool, green strands with my naked fingertips, breathing deeply through my nose until I was sure I wasn’t going to throw up.
I unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth and said huskily, “What the ever-living fuck was that? Are you trying to kill me?”
Wymon gave a displeased jolt, but recovered quickly. He strolled around the cauldron and knelt, favoring his leg again. “Hold still, one more moment, please,” he said pleasantly. “I think that’s done it.”
“Done what? Given me a bloody co
ronary?”
“She was very determined to stay, your spirit,” Wymon informed me, brushing something off my right shoulder. “Goodness, was she ever. After all the crazy things you’ve shown her, she still hadn’t left you?”
Hair slid in front of my face in a dusting, strand by strand, tickling my nose. Wymon pushed the rest of it back from my face helpfully; unfortunately for me, it all fell out. All my hair. Off my head. Out of my scalp in a shower of black and blue strands.
I slapped a palm to my bare scalp. Shock drove a meep from my throat. Sliding my fingertips around my entire head to make sure I was judging the situation correctly, I found not a single hair left.
“I’m bald,” I told him. “Bald, Wymon.”
“Yes, a roaring success!” he said happily. “Your clinging spirit has left you. Scared off by several legions of demons, as I suspected she would be. I was hoping one of the bigger ones would come, but it’s probably best that—”
“Wymon!” I roared in his face, causing him to blink rapidly against the force of my rage. “I’m bald!”
“Well, how did you think I was going to get rid of the ghost hair?”
“Is it going to grow back?” I demanded, grabbing him by the shirt front, caring less about psychic impressions and more about shaking him silly.
“The ghost hair won’t return.” He brushed my clutching hands off of him imperiously; the Blue Sense said he was proud of his accomplishment and dismayed by my lack of appreciation. “The spirit has left you.”
Brittney Wyatt’s ghost. That’s what I felt peeling away from me. “Will my own hair come back?”
He considered that, probably for the first time. “I suppose anything’s possible.”
I struggled to my feet, pausing to give him a swift kick in his good leg before scooping up my gloves and marching past him to the cabin. He went urf and tried to hobble after me. I spun and pointed at him. “Don’t.”