by A. J. Aalto
Felix' eyes fluttered closed. When he opened them, he cleared his throat and nodded, and I knew he was back with me.
He moved my arm closer to his face to read and made a long, thoughtful noise. “I see. What is... bremalanotide?”
My lips puckered sourly and my thighs squinched together. My little white “vitamins,” which weren’t vitamins at all; they kept my libido high, and Harry had given them to me to convince the Overlord that I was being sexually serviced properly by my Cold Company to maintain an intimate connection, necessary for the Bond and my ability to draw power through it. The pills made me hornier than strictly necessary, and had been the source of my desperate and often embarrassing enthusiasm for the male form for years. Once Harry and I took things to the next level in our relationship, we didn’t need them as much. I explained this to the black witch staring at me expectantly and he hmmmmnnned at me.
“But the damage had been done,” Felix said. “This was during the time you first encountered, erm, Sticky McBonerface?”
It was. “I wasn’t prepared for that kind of unexpected chemistry, and I was vulnerable. I had needs that were not being met.”
“So did he,” Felix suggested. “The perfect storm. I doubt he expected it either.”
“And now I’m obsessed with him.” It felt both relieving and shameful to admit, but Batten was definitely a weakness that I had not yet learned to resist. “It’s a sickness. I can’t seem to shake it.”
“It’s more than sexual, and it’s entirely mutual,” Felix said, not a question. “That’s why it endangers your current Bond. It went too far, and when he was human, that wasn’t a danger; now he’s also a candidate for the same Bond you share with Harry. The hex has fixated on this opportunity and will use it.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I swallowed thickly. “So? Now what?”
“Now we spring the trap,” he said. “You’re going to love him. Hard. With everything you have. You’re going to give in to it completely and utterly. You’ll fall. It’ll be like jumping out of a penthouse window.”
“But we make it stop, right?”
“It stops when you embrace it and the hex is fulfilled,” Felix said. “Then we very quickly begin to purge it. We allow it to spill open and then dump it right back out before it can damage your relationship with your companion.”
“And where do we dump years of pent up, exploding love, lust, and obsession?” I asked, dreading the answer.
One side of Felix’s mouth crooked up smugly. “You’re gonna love this part.”
“I think you've been huffing too many nightshade fumes.”
Felix plunked one thick forefinger on my Moleskine.
“I tried keeping a diary, if that’s what you’re suggesting. It didn’t do diddly-squat for me.”
“Not exactly. Take this. Put your left hand here.” He opened his grimoire to a page with symbols and indecipherable writing. I sat in the vinyl chair, getting comfortable, took his fancy pen, admired it. Then I opened my Moleskine to a fresh page.
Felix placed my left hand on the symbols in his spell book, and touched my right hand until the pen hit the paper. “This is going to be… awkward at first. If you trust me, I will guide you through it.”
I consulted my Talents and everything inside me said that this would be extraordinarily beneficial in ways I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. I’d never had such a positive reaction to a person before; Felix might have a temper, but he also had a firm grasp of his magic, and if I were going to trust a black witch ever, with anything, it would be this one. I Felt no deception here; his methods weren’t clean, but he was using them to do what he felt was the capital-R Right thing for me.
“Okay,” I squeaked.
Felix’s right hand settled on the back of my bald head and bent it forward. He began speaking to the source of his intuitive automatic writing, at the same time mixing in words in a language I’d never heard before, as though he were having two completely different conversations simultaneously. My left hand grew warmer while my right hand began moving the pen across the paper. My eyelids felt heavy and I didn’t fight it, letting them sink closed, letting my mind be pulled into Felix’s rapid spell work.
Memories were the first assault; our first time, two bodies heaving desperately against a door, on a table, on the floor. Drunkenly begging him for sex at the Starlight Dreams motel and his demurring until morning. Sneaking into his office for secret sweaty fun behind his desk at the Preternatural Crimes Unit. Trying to behave ourselves in the elevator at work, failing badly, and almost getting caught. Celebrating his new house purchase by buffing the floors with our naked asses.
The feelings came next, and when they came, they hit hard; heart-sickening jealousy about Danika, and trying to understand one another after her attack; Jerkface guarding Harry while I worked; fighting in the Valley View hospital in Glenwood Springs after we’d been quarantined with Dr. Murakami’s dead body; flirting via Skype while I was away in Canada hunting ghosts; both of us quitting at the same time and secretly for the same reasons; Batten’s betrayal in Ireland and Svikheimslending; mourning him; discovering him not-quite-dead and processing what the hell that meant going forward; hearing him call me Snickerdoodle, saying he still loved me; missing him, wanting him; it was agony. It was worse than I’d thought it would be – not just opening old wounds with the delicate scalpel of nostalgia or the blunt crowbar of self-recrimination, this was a howitzer, a flamethrower, a tactical nuke bouncing down memory lane like a skipped stone, detonating along the way.
Flooded by need, I poured it into my right hand, directing it into the words flowing from the pen. I didn’t have a clue what those words were, but it didn’t matter; the floodwaters receded, the fire burned out, the ache dissipated, and I was left with a dull, hammering throb between my legs that was much more manageable. Until it wasn’t.
Heat lit in my crotch like a tongue had suddenly lapped me greedily. My first fear was Asmodeus, but Felix’s hand tightened against my scalp and my left hand felt like it was on fire. Lust demon. Made sense. This was no little imp or scampering spirit at play. The first shock of orgasm slid through my groin without my expecting it; I tipped over the brink with a breathy cry, clenching my eyes shut and swallowing my pride, unable to stop it. It didn’t let up, growing and growing in intensity until I dropped the pen to clutch at the table, rocked by waves of pleasure. On the table, Bob Brownie shot up out of his sleep with a chattering complaint and darted off the table. Bob the Cat pounced out of my dark bedroom and chased him under the fridge, bell ringing.
Felix removed his hand from me, backing away from the table silently. I whisked my left hand away from his grimoire, clapping it to my chest as though I could tame my thundering heart beneath it. My cheeks flushed hotly and I left my eyes closed, embarrassed.
After a moment, Felix cleared his throat and said softly, “If you’ll just glance at what you’ve written…”
I read the title, staring in blank, stunned confusion at the words, trying to make sense of them, mouth gaping. “Oh. Holy. Fuck.”
He leaned over my shoulder. “In the end, that’s not the title you went with. But it would fit.”
I stared for a long time at a loss for words. Finally, I asked, “I wrote a story?”
“You wrote erotica,” he said. “Nice pen name.”
“Monster Carnival D*ck Parade by Mona Bangs?”
“See,” he said brightly, “you’re Mona Bangs.”
“I got that part.” I blinked in disbelief. “Did the word ‘dick’ really need a star for the letter ‘i?’ It’s pretty obvious what it is.”
“You made a stylistic choice. I like it. And this is your Mary Sue character,” he explained, “whom you cleverly named… Mary Sue. Well, you can change that later if you want to.”
I cut my eyes over my shoulder at him. “Did this actually remove the hex? I purged my feelings into a story?”
“All writers do that,” he said, as if I should know th
is. “The hex has been sprung, you fell in love, you accepted your feelings, and you completed a project. The best part is: you can continue to do it anytime you feel that the risk of your temptations outweighs the benefits.”
“But I can’t write porn!” I cried. “I’m not a writer!”
“You’ll be fine,” he said, collecting up his pen from where it had rolled onto the floor.
“Are you kidding me? Listen to this shit!” I flipped to the first page, not remembering that I had even turned pages while writing under the spell. I read aloud in horror, “My character said, ‘Fill my dirty little mouth with your clown load, Greasepaint Daddy.’ Holy hell, she’s banging a clown! And she calls him Greasepaint Daddy. Why, why, why?” I skimmed further, wailing anew and flapping my hands as if I could swat away the horror of it. “Oh, no! He’s a troll. A troll clown!”
“Well, to be fair, it’s a monster carnival,” Felix said. “Says so right in the title.”
“And—ack! Listen to this! She has a threesome with an invisible man and I wrote, ‘His clear curves and fine, invisible ass were the stuff of Mona’s dreams. Probably.’ Probably?” Dismay gave over to astonished laughter. I slapped both hands over my eyes and exploded, tears of horrified glee instantly forming. All the strain and sadness of the day melted away. I repeated, “His probably fine ass. Probably,” and wept, laughing into my hands. “Probably!”
Felix joined my laughter, pleased. He sat hard in the seat across from me. We dissolved together into mortified giggles, sprawling across the table. “Well, I didn’t say you were a good writer.”
“This can’t be the cure,” I gasp-chortled.
Felix’s face went serious but he could only manage it for a split second to say, “Oh, it is.”
I wiped my tears. “Have you used this method before?”
“Write, little pervert,” Felix said in place of answering. “Go proudly forth and write monster carnival porn like your future depends on it. Write what truly sets your loins on fire. Write what’s in your heart.” He reconsidered, reading across the table before I slapped the book shut. “Or maybe not. Clown porn’s kinda weird.”
“Felix! There’s no clown sex in my heart!”
“There must be, but hey, no judgment here. We all have our kinks. You do you.” He chuckled. “A word of advice for someone in the public eye like you are: guard your pen name like your reputation depends on it.”
“No one can ever know I’m Mona Bangs,” I said, eyes wide and horrified.
Felix understood. “I’ll keep your secret. But make sure you publish it. That’ll help with the purging aspect of the act. Get it off your lap and into someone else’s, so to speak.”
“Tell me your pen name,” I said. “You know mine. Mutually assured destruction.”
“Fair enough. I self-publish erotica under the name...” He cleared his throat again and then confessed, “Trixie Loinburger.”
“You do not!” I accused, but a guilty grin lit up his face and his laughter returned, good-natured and honest. The Blue Sense danced around the room reporting all good things: comfort and care and the very best of wishes for my future happiness and the strength of my current Bond. He’d used a demon, and he’d manipulated my feelings, and he’d facilitated … if not the fastest, certainly the weirdest orgasm of my life, but he’d done it for the right reasons. He wasn’t remotely getting off on it. There was no self-interest besides earning his right to claim Ruby’s grimoire.
I took one more peek at my purge writing. “Holy hell,” I whispered. “I wrote that the troll clown was ‘ramming her like a floppy-shoed jackhammer.’ That’s not right.”
“Mostly because jackhammers don’t wear shoes. Be sure you get a good freelance editor. Oh, hey.” He brought out his wallet from his back pocket and flipped me a card. “Call mine.”
I put my gloves on before I picked it up to look at it. “I’m not having someone named Dirk Wigglestick on my payroll. Does he work like you do, while possessed by demons?”
“It never occurred to me to ask, but the guy's good, and, more importantly, he doesn't care how freaky your characters get. Anyway, it’s time for me to go,” he said, reluctantly heading for the front hall. “I look forward to hearing from you regarding your decision about the petitions.”
“So the hex is… gone? For sure?”
He smiled. “It is. You faced it very well. It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It was pretty bad,” I said. “And now I’m Mona Bangs, monsterotica writer.”
“Maybe Trixie and Mona can collaborate sometime,” Felix suggested, tugging his beard a little. “A crossover type thing. I’ll talk to my people.”
I watched him go, thinking I should really burn that notebook; if it wasn’t one of my beloved Moleskines, I might have chucked it in the woodstove immediately. Or read the whole story first and then burn it. Or maybe fill it with stories just one time and then burn it. “Yes, that’s what Mona will do.” I fought a return of the giggles, surprised at this turn of events, and put my gloves back on. “Come on, Mona,” I told myself. “Let’s have second breakfast before Blanche gets here.”
I figured hobbits would eat buttered bread and marmalade for second breakfast, so I toasted a couple slices and slathered them liberally while I made myself a cup of tea. I felt some dead guy type stirring from below, and some discomfort, and knew Wes was fighting his rest today. I’d just finished noshing when Blanche let herself in the front door without so much as a how-do-you-do.
“I get a weird vibe from you,” I said, pushing away from the kitchen table to stand and greet her. “Don’t sex-murder me, okay? Don’t regular-murder me, either.”
“Regular-murder?” She kicked off her boots.
“That’s murdering me with your pants on.”
“I’d never do that.”
I turned my face slightly so I could give her proper side-eye. “But the first part is a maybe?”
Blanche tried not to smirk and failed. “You’re weird. You should keep the grimoire and join our coven. These other idiots are boring.”
“Uh, do you even know my morning?” I said, slapping my bald head. “Boring? I lost all my hair, wrote dirty clown porn, fell in and out of love with a Jerkface, and woke a translocated brownie out of a coma with a noisy, spontaneous orgasm in my kitchen. The cat chased him under the fridge.” I shielded my mouth with one gloved hand and lowered my voice to whisper, “I think he’s still there.”
Blanche didn’t seem to know what to say to all that and landed on, “Oh my,” as her safest bet.
“It’s not even eleven o’clock, Blanche! Boring is not the word I’d use to describe your cohorts.”
My statement of the time made her jolt guiltily and glance at the clock on the wall, which was running slowly from a battery that was getting old. The time made her uncomfortable, and the Blue Sense told me she felt unfairly burdened by something.
It’s too early for her, but why? “Shall we get started?” I asked.
Blanche drew her grimoire out of her backpack and dropped it on the table with a slam. “So! I specialize in hexes and curses. Who do you want to punish?”
“Yammering yaknoodles, you black witches and your hexes.” I sighed. “I don’t want to muck around with cursing people. Sounds risky.”
“Too risky?” she asked, and I Felt her back down respectfully. I liked it. Despite her earlier outburst and her enthusiasm, she also showed restraint. I jotted that in my Moleskine and tossed the book on the table.
“All right,” she said, scrounging in her mental files for something else. She withdrew a small black orb from her backpack next. “How about this? I can give you a peek inside someone’s mind. It won’t last but a minute or so, and it might be a bit confused, especially if they’re asleep and dreaming.”
“Will I be able to see through their eyes?”
“I can’t promise that,” she said. “The connection isn’t always strong enough. But you’ll be privy to their thoughts, so if they’
re thinking about what they’re seeing, it may give you clues.”
I could get a glimpse into Batten’s mind. That might make finding him easier. “Would you also witness it?”
“I can remain uninvolved if you wish it,” she said.
I wished Wesley was here to give me an idea of her thoughts, because the Blue Sense was being unfortunately quiet about it. Her face gave me no clues.
“Would they know I was prying?”
“Nope,” she said a little smugly.
“And you just need a name?” I asked, reluctant to even say Batten’s name aloud, as if the very mention of him could alert Sarokhanian across the miles. There’s an idea, choose Sarokhanian himself so you know what he’s planning, where he’s going, and why. But that also sounded like a tripwire-laden journey, and delving into the mind of a primeval revenant did not sound like a pleasant way to spend the next few minutes. “Any name?”
“Full name would be best,” she said.
“What if I don’t know the person’s middle or last name?”
“As long as I have something to guide me, a picture or familiarity with the person,” she said, nodding, flipping pages, “I should be able to direct the spell.”
“Okay.” The name popped out of my mouth without much thought behind it. “Lavinia. Don’t know her last name, or her real name, even. But I believe you’re familiar with her.”
Blanche’s color drained. “I can’t show you Lavinia.”
“Scared, Blanche?” I asked.
Blanche’s mouth popped open but she continued, dry-mouthed with surprise. “I — yes, to be honest.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” I said. “Will you try?”
She sighed, glancing once more at the clock. “Bitch, I hope you know what you’re doing. Place your hand on the crystal ball, under mine.”
“Your ass is welcome to hitch a ride with me on this one.”