by A. J. Aalto
“But I’m on your side. I’ve always been on your side, don’t you know—”
“Just you wait until I tell my diary about this,” I clipped at him. “I’m going to use the worst words I know.”
“You’re going to mention me in your diary?” He sounded hopeful. “Let me come in and—”
“You seem a little unclear on the concept of 'fuck off,' so I'll try to make it more obvious. I don’t wanna see you again until I absolutely have to, and even then, I won't want to. So unless you want two bad legs, stay the fuck away from me.”
I stormed into the house, leaving Wymon on my lawn, shaking his top hat and cursing my ungrateful ass to the dim sky. Slamming the door, I opened my mouth to cry out for Harry, but he was already lounging in the threshold of the kitchen, one well-shined Oxford crossed in front of the other, immaculate red apron tied neatly about his waist, smile pinched back, watching me expectantly with cool, grey eyes.
Without a word, I stabbed a finger pointedly at my bald head.
Harry smiled, all innocence. “Well, my angel? How did it go with your first petitioner?”
I made a whooooonk noise like an elephant stepping on a Lego.
“Flames and ether, what a fuss you do make,” he admonished, pushing away from the wall and strolling closer for a better look. “Whatever is the matter now?”
“Harry!” I cried.
“Yes, my dove,” he soothed with a low chuckle, “I see, I see. Come sit at the table and your advocate will make you something to nosh.”
He took me by the shoulders. I let him steer me bodily into the kitchen and into a vinyl chair at the table in front of my Moleskine. Slapping my gloves on the table, I slumped, exhausted, grabbing the pencil to record my findings of the first petition. Dear Diary: Wymon is smug and annoying. “I guess he did do what he promised.”
“That he did,” Harry agreed. “What a clever lad Our Wymon is.”
I flinched at his Our Wymon but was too tired to rise to the bait. “He says my regular old hair might grow back.”
“I’m sure I’ll adore you either way,” Harry lied smoothly, turning away to the counter to rinse my espresso cup and begin anew. His shoulders shook with silent mirth. He pressed two shots of his hot, imported black magic and reached for the cinnamon sifter.
“Wow!” Wes said behind me, sidling in from the dark pantry. “That’s some serious devotion to Mad Max cosplay, Furiosa.”
I let my head fall back to observe my brother in all his stained t-shirt and saggy khaki glory. He knew damn well the baldness hadn’t been on purpose; his smirk said as much.
“Bite me, you slipper-humping vermin,” I said, smiling sweetly. “You know what? I can rock this look. I have the cheekbones to pull this off.”
While Harry doctored my espresso, Wes came to study my scalp up close, tilting my head this way and that with his cool fingertips under the light. I swatted madly at my brother’s hands without making connection, and then put my gloves back on just in case I needed to further assault him.
“I mean, really,” Wes said, “you do have a nicely shaped skull. This could be a new look for you. Punk Marnie. Maybe you could jazz it up a little with some bitchin’ scalp tats.”
“I’m not getting bitchin’ scalp tats,” I told him tiredly. When Harry handed me my drink, he shot his cuff to not-so-subtly display my name tattooed in curling black script on his wrist. We exchanged brief affectionate looks, cut short by another knock on the front door.
Fuckanut. I slapped my notebook shut. “I can’t do this yet. Wes, can you grab that? I need this espresso first, and maybe half a dozen cookies.” Or half a dozen boxes of cookies. I can have as many as I want, now that Batten is undead.
“I could draw on the scalp tats with permanent marker? You know, for practice before you get inked for real,” Wes called from the hall, but he dropped it when I didn’t reply. Probably, he read the image of an extended middle finger in my mind. A moment later, he called, “It’s a Chick Witch!”
I called back, “Chick Witch isn’t a thing. Unless you mean someone delivered a chicken sandwich, in which case, I’ll take it in here.”
Wes returned leading Eunice, cuddliest of all the black witches, adorably fluffy in a lavender cashmere cardigan buttoned up and a beige tweed skirt reaching her argyle knee-socks. Smiling her charming smile, which plumped her pink cheeks pleasantly around a pair of dimples, she nodded first to Wes and then to Harry. I felt relief at seeing her; I didn’t see demons dancing at this one’s summons. What she had to show me, I wasn’t sure, but I was certain it would be more enjoyable than what Wymon had done.
She stopped short, her bow lips pursing at the sight of my bald head. “Oh! Did Wymon do that?”
I leveled a pleading gaze at her. “You’ll be kinder in your petition, yes? Because I’m really not thrilled so far.”
“Oh, I—” Her lashes fluttered. “Darn. I was going to offer to cure your ghost hair. He stole my idea. Frig him.”
“Mind your language,” I drawled. “Another outburst like that and I may faint dead away.”
Eunice’s worry melted and the Blue Sense offered me a shaky surge of her confidence returning. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to think of something else. I can do many things, I really can. Wymon doesn’t seem to notice, but I’m just as powerful a black witch as he is. Really, he is too much.” She pouted, and I could see the wheels quickly turning in her mind. “Okay, I’ve got it.” She scanned the room for a moment, looking from one revenant to the next, never quite meeting their eyes for fear of immortal influence. “I’ll give you what you really want. One wish. One item or object. Your heart’s desire.”
“Yikes!” Wes piped up, plunking himself at the kitchen table.
She ignored him. “Just ask for it and I’ll produce it from my pocket.”
I studied the tiny pocket in her cardigan and estimated she wasn’t going to be able to pull a hunky naked fireman out of there, so looked around the kitchen for something pocket-sized that I was lacking. “I could go for a yummy brownie.”
“A yummy brownie?”
“The yummiest,” I said seriously.
“I can do that.” Her eyes lit with excitement. “It won’t take long, I promise.”
Wes slouched in his chair. “Marnie says I’m not allowed to have brownies.”
“Are you submitting to my spell, then?” Eunice asked me, and as it had with Wymon, it sounded ominously official.
I nodded, playing with my pencil, tapping it on the table like an old friend used to do when he was nervous. “Shouldn’t I be involved in the spell directly?”
A little titter escaped her. “Oh, you white witches, always doing things by the books. No. If I cast on you, I don’t need your involvement. Really, I don’t need your permission, either, but we’re to be on our best behavior on this mission, so I’m asking to be polite.”
Urk. Just like that, Eunice didn’t seem so cute after all. “Isn’t that nice. Do you, uh, cast on people often without their permission or involvement?”
“Often without their knowledge,” she said, and the tittering came back, like I was a silly goose for even wondering. It made my skin crawl.
“And you don’t suffer any repercussions from this?” I asked. “No bad karma, no returns-on-you-threefold stuff?”
“That’s a very modern idea, you know,” she said. “Our coven follows an older, more authentic path.”
“I see. More authentic,” I repeated, nodding to show I wasn’t offended. “However, the act of casting with good intentions, as white witches do, releases a reward of good feelings in the caster, whereas casting with bad intentions causes guilt, regret, shame, remorse… unless, of course, you have no conscience.”
“You’re awfully smug.” Her lips tightened and the dimples disappeared. “I suppose you’ll tell me you’ve never cast dark. Your two feet are firmly on the right hand path, never to stray, is that it?” Her eyes narrowed in on my face like a searchlight and latched onto some
thing. The Blue Sense rattled through me, drawing my guilt out without my permission. “Ah, I smell a hypocrite.” Eunice cocked her head as though reading specific details. “Mushrooms growing from a man’s scalp? Ring any bells?”
The Prior who threw holy water in Wesley’s face. I swallowed hard. “Oh. That. Yeah. Well, I was mad.”
“Yes, it’s amazing how easy it is to justify tiptoeing into the shadows when it serves one’s purpose, and then slink back to the righteous light and wag your finger at us when you’re done being naughty.” She nailed me with a glare. “Don’t you dare judge me, Marnie Baranuik. I know every single spell you’ve ever cast, right this second. It’s all around you. Every herb, every salt circle, every calling of the Watchtowers, every surge of—” Her lashes fluttered wildly. “Oh my.” She looked me up and down, and she laughed with delighted incredulity. “Death magic. Killing for power. The ultimate borrow, never to be repaid. Oh, you are really something, sitting there in your judge’s mantle, your own crimes swept under the bench.”
The birds. I’d sapped them completely to gain the power to throw scissors into Mitch Dunlop’s fleeing ass. She was right. Shame flushed my cheeks and stole my words.
I struggled with multiple attempts to find words to defend myself, mouth opening stupidly only to shut again, back teeth clacking. In the end, all I could say is, “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. My one defense is: I’m trying to do better, I’m trying to be good. To return to doing the capital-R Right thing. But I’m in no position to judge you or your choices. I can’t even say I’m doing it for your own good out of worry for your soul, because quite frankly, I don’t know you, so if you wanna fuck up your karma, who am I to say no? Maybe you save it for people who deserve, I dunno—”
“A sharp pair of scissors in the ass?” she supplied.
Wes and Harry went quiet and still; I felt the weight of their gaze. Dear Sweet Mother, this woman does see everything. How does she do that?
And instantly, a papery whisper: I bet you could, too, if you take another peek inside me.
I shot a glare at my office behind me, specifically in the direction of the herb cabinet. “Shut up, in there. I know that’s you!”
She made an interested murmur. “It’s been communicating directly with you?”
“That’s a bad sign, right?”
“No, it’s wonderful,” she said, and for a moment, she was lost in her own thoughts, a dreamy smile growing on her lips. “Is it Ruby’s own voice? Can you hear her?”
I shook my head. “It sounds like pages turning, soft and whispery. It used to be difficult to understand but it’s become clearer in the past six months.”
Eunice clapped her hands and entwined her sausage-like fingers. “Very well, shall we get started?”
I cast my focus to the pentagram in my office, where the protection spell still hummed with energy; drawing on it gently, I wrapped it around me like a cloak, for all the good it would do me, sitting across from two immortals and their infernal influence and receiving the effects of dark magic. Not enough arugula. Please, Dark Lady, I thought hopelessly, don't make me have to shop for kale or pumpkin spice, too.
Eunice began to whisper under her breath, weaving words together, no pause between each, just one long thread twisting under her command. Her fingers started twitching, then her arms, then her shoulders were engaged in a funny, jerking motion. I could hear the word brownie mixed into the spell, and when her arms and shoulders jittered, her grimoire seemed to twitch against the turquoise Formica. I started to see a wispy tendril of steam blowing from between her lips as the words stretched out, curling over the table like it was piping from a kettle. The steam had almost formed a letter in the air when she went silent abruptly.
“If you bake for me now, I’m not going to be too impressed,” I informed her.
“There will be no baking,” she assured me, hands plunging into her pockets to rustle around. She started pulling things out; lint, maggots, butterscotch candies in golden wrappers, three nickels, a dead scorpion, a dried rosebud, two sprigs of lemon balm, a bus pass, a hair tie, a small brown toad, and a stumpy green golf pencil. Finally, she dug around and drew something out in her closed hand. She laid it carefully on the Formica table and stepped back.
The thing on the table was sleeping. Snoring, even. Both revenants took a step forward to peer at it, and I heard the cat’s bell jingle as Bob crept into the room in slinky Hunter Mode.
“What the musty-ass hell is this?” I blinked. “It’s a goddamn brownie.”
Eunice seemed equally shocked but summoned a confident smile. “You asked for a brownie.”
“I asked for a yummy, edible brownie!”
Her mouth worked furiously and she settled on, “Maybe he’s delicious?”
I recognized the I-meant-to-do-that face she was making; I’d made the post fuck-up face so many times that it was my fallback position. Resting Oops Face.
“Hey!” Wes craned forward. “It’s my li’l guy. He’s back.”
“It’s not the same brownie,” I said, “and we’re not keeping this one, either.”
“You have to keep him,” Eunice assured me. “I wouldn’t have the faintest clue where to return him.”
“Oh, goodness, but he’s a marvelous little chap,” Harry crooned.
“We’re not keeping him,” I snarled.
“You said that last time, and I warned you that it was bad luck to remove a brownie once in residence. Do you recall what happened when you did have him shipped away, my pet?” He gave me the disapproving eyebrow treatment.
“What?” I scoffed. “Nothing bad happened.”
“A blackguardly, hoodwinking ne’er-do-well appeared on our back porch and you shot him in the hindquarters.” He sniffed. “I had to dig that bullet out, if you will kindly remember. Odd's bodkins, my love, but a more loathsome task I cannot recall.”
“Oh no, you had to look at some hot, sexy man-ass,” I drawled. “Poor you!”
A glimmer of revenge brightened Harry’s eyes. “I am glad that we’re in agreement about the depth of my personal suffering.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Harry—”
“Well, then, Wesley, what shall we name him?” The elder revenant challenged me to disagree with a slight lift of his chin.
I had enough experience with my Cold Company to know I wasn’t going to win this one; he’d dug in his heels and needed a victory, however minor. We were keeping Eunice’s brownie and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I glared at her as she collected her butterscotch candies, her nickels, her lint, her various flora and fauna, alive and dead.
“Just don’t name him Bob,” I told Harry. “We’ve already got one of those.”
“Bob it is!” Harry announced with a grand swoop of one pale hand. “Bob Brownie. A most splendid name.”
“I said not Bob.”
“And I said Bob,” Harry insisted.
Wesley looked back and forth between us. “You guys might benefit from some couples therapy.”
“Shut it, batface,” I snapped. “I’m not calling him Bob.”
“Then you will be summoning him by the incorrect name,” Harry said crisply.
“Pretty sure that Beauregard P. Diddlesworth the Third will not know the difference.” Grabbing my notebook and pencil, I jotted Welcomed the brownie named Beauregard P. Diddlesworth III into our home for my records, and the results of Eunice’s spell with the date and time, and how she’d been able to spot my past spell casting, plucking my history out of the air; that, I had to admit, had been incredible work.
Eunice smoothed the front of her cashmere cardigan. “I suppose this wasn’t exactly a roaring success, but I do hope you’ll consider me for the grimoire’s next owner.” She hovered uncertainly. “Would you like me to try another spell? I could try to put your hair back?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Eunice,” I said, rubbing a gloved hand over my bald pate. “Though I don’t trust you black
witches with my hair anymore, and you’ve given me a new resident to deal with, at this point you’re miles ahead of Wymon.”
“Oh, thank you. I swear I meant to… I mean, I could have pulled a…” She struggled with words then gave up. “Felix and Gus should be here soon. I’ll leave you to your reporting.”
The front door slammed behind her; she was really bookin’ it. I wondered if the witches had taken up residence at the Ten Springs Motor Inn. Tt was the closest motel to Shaw’s Fist. I tried not to think about what had happened in Room Four, and was successful at keeping the memories at bay.
“I’m not missing any more of this,” Wesley decided, planting his ass at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. He blew on the steam. “Hair fallin’ out, brownies everywhere, what’s next?”
I smiled sourly and made a fist, to which he rolled his eyes.
“I, too, am quite curious as to what adventure the twins will lead you on,” Harry said, doctoring up a warm cup of O-negative in his favorite goblet. He paused at the cupboard to select a box of crackers. He withdrew one and broke it in half before setting the pieces before Bob Brownie. The brownie didn’t stir. Under the kitchen table, Bob the Cat growled unhappily at the new addition and swatted punishingly at Harry’s ankle. Harry shook him off and sat beside Wesley.
The twins arrived moments later, still wearing their robes, bearded Felix in green and smooth-cheeked Gus in beige. They both looked affronted as they walked in.
“What do you mean, Eunice just left? We were supposed to be the next ones, after Wymon,” Gus muttered.
Felix growled something that sounded an awful lot like, “Fairy fucking godmother, my sweetly-bleached asshole.”
After trying to get that mental image out of my head, I pointed out that I wasn't the one setting their schedule, so if they had a problem with the agenda, and certain witches' failure to adhere to it, they should take it up with Lavinia and the rest of their coven-mates. Harry loomed reassuringly behind me, though Wes kind of ruined our stern tableau by trying to tickle the brownie's tummy.