by Lila Dubois
“You’re going to Paris.”
Winnie kept her expression placid, but her stomach pirouetted like a ballerina. Shut the front door. Her task was in Paris?
Act like it’s no big deal. You’ve been to Paris before. Okay, you got there by zapping your own private plane into being and making a mess of international airspace, if you listened to air traffic control carry on about it, but it all turned out okay.
But holy shopping! Paris? Had Zelda gotten as lucky as she had?
Baba Yaga held up a set of shiny keys, glinting under the fading sun. “Take these.”
Winnie cocked her head. “Keys?” Did planes use keys to start them?
“What are stupid questions for one hundred, Alex? Yes. Keys, Winnifred. Take them,” she snapped, holding them out to Winnie and jiggling them under her nose.
She was all about being tested. In fact, she welcomed it if it meant she could get on with her life, but even Baba Yaga couldn’t expect her to drive to Paris without using her magic. “Do you need keys to start a plane?” she asked tentatively.
“Nope, but you need them to drive.”
Winnie laughed out loud, slapping her thighs. “You can’t drive to Paris, Baba Yaga. You’ve been around for centuries—did you miss that history lesson?”
Baba Yaga’s eyes narrowed, glittery and angry.
Ohhh. Bad Winnie. Hush before you end up in Cellblock X.
“I didn’t miss a thing, Winnifred. Literally or figuratively. The keys are for your car. See that rusty pink bubble with the Summer’s Eve advertisement on it?” She pointed all the way to the far end of the parking lot.
Winnie squinted into the setting sun, her stomach sinking. Indeed, there was a pink Pacer, professionally wrapped with a picture of an enormous feminine product on the side of it. “Yeah…”
“That’s your chariot, cookie. There’s a GPS system in there with the coordinates for Paris.”
She was obviously missing the boat here. You couldn’t drive to Paris, for seven hells’ sakes. Not even in a car with a big douche on the side of it.
Baba Yaga lobbed the keys at her with an evil grin slathered over her ageless lips. “Oh, and in case you’re wondering. That’s Paris, Texas. Not Eiffel-Tower, Champs-Élysées Paris,” she seemed to take great pleasure in sharing before she was gone in a puff of pink curtains and matching scrunchie.
Paris, Texas.
Yippee-ky-yay, motherfluffers.
Chapter 3
Yanking open the door of the Pacer, and ignoring the strange glances she was garnering from a stuffy-looking guy in a business suit, she climbed in and assessed her sweet, sweet ride.
Fuzzy green dice hung from the rearview mirror, swishing in the cold breeze while she used all her strength to pull the door shut. The interior was littered with crushed Schlitz Malt Liquor cans and smelled vaguely of Cool Ranch Doritos.
Determined to get on with this, Winnie settled into the seat, a hard spring poking her in the ass as she looked at the GPS mounted on the dashboard. Pressing on, she sat back and waited for her directions.
“Bonjour, Weenie! Please make yourself comfortable then turn right out of ze parking lot!” a French-accented, way-too-cheerful voice encouraged.
Funny. So funny. Not only wasn’t she going to the real Paris, she had a constant, painful reminder of Baba Yaga’s idea of a joke.
Winnie jammed the key into the ignition and turned it, listening to the clunky engine cough, sputter then finally turn over.
“Turn right out of ze parking lot, Weenie,” the GPS intrusively demanded again.
She glared at the navigations system, flicking it with her fingers. “I heard you the first time.”
“Tsk-Tsk, Weenie. Don’t be so crankeyyy!” the GPS chided.
“I get it, for Pete’s sake. Give me a minute to get situated, oui?”
“You don’t have a lot of minutes to spare, Winnie the Pooh,” a new voice said—definitely not a French one.
Her eyes went wide with fright and she froze momentarily. Voices. She was hearing them. No one had called her Winnie the Pooh in forever. Not since her mother had died…
It was stress. She was tired and worried about finding her way to Paris, Texas, in a pink Pacer with a product for douching plastered on the side. Her mother had been dead since she was four. She was just hearing things.
“Turn right out of ze parking lot, Weenie! Do eet now!”
“Winnie, listen to the man. Turn right out of the fucking parking lot or Jacques is gonna shit a croissant here,” a dry voice laced with sarcasm said.
She turned her head toward the sound of the voice—then cringed, trying to make herself small against the car door. She closed her eyes, scrunching them shut, blocking out what she’d just seen.
“Winnie?”
Pushing a fist in her mouth, Winnie fought a scream of hysteria.
“Oh, c’mon, Pooh Bear. It’s just me. You know, Icabod.”
Her breathing grew shallow as she fought off a wave of panic. “You’re not real.” You’renotrealyou’renotreal!
“I am, Weenie. Open your eyes and see.”
Gripping the steering wheel, her eyes grazed the passenger seat then slammed shut again. She gulped back her sheer terror. “What are you?”
“I’m your Cabbage Patch doll, Win. Don’t you remember me? Your mother gave me to you when you were four…”
Oh, she remembered. She fucking remembered all too well. But her mother hadn’t given her Icabod. This doll was the reason her mother had never come home again. Because she’d gone out in a blinding snowstorm to pick up her daughter’s Christmas gift, swerved on some ice into oncoming traffic and T-boned a tractor-trailer.
She’d overheard her father, Amos, tell her nana about the details of the accident, and even at the tender age of five, she’d understood. Her mother had found the doll Winnie had begged her for months to buy at a department store—she’d had a friend who’d worked there and had managed to get her hands on the elusive doll, tucking it away.
It was a Christmas present, and she’d told Amos there was no way, after all the hunting she’d done, that she was going to disappoint her Pooh Bear come Christmas morning. Winnie would have the doll to open if it killed her.
And it had—at least in Winnie’s small mind.
And when her mother was gone, all Winnie’s rage, all her sorrow, was directed at Icabod, the name her father had later given the doll as a joke.
If she were to pinpoint it that was probably when she could first remember experiencing the emotion anger. When she’d first struggled with her impulse to act out, knowing she’d be punished and not caring.
Sure, tears came, too, after a while; long nights of gulping sobs. But when she’d first heard her mother was never coming home again, and her father had given her the doll that sad Christmas morning, she’d been pissed off—so filled with rage—she’d blown up her Easy Bake Oven by snapping her fingers.
And then she’d turned that misplaced rage on the symbol of her mother’s death. Icabod became the reason she’d never have another tea party in her mother’s lavish gardens. So she’d torn her beloved Cabbage Patch doll’s head off.
Well, almost. Her father had caught her before she’d clawed the doll’s head off all the way, and she’d been rightfully punished for treating her toys like some budding serial killer, but she remembered how good it had felt to release that hurt.
How easy it was to take the pain and fear of losing her mother out on a token that represented their relationship and was a painful reminder of how much she missed her.
She’d stuffed the doll away when her dad had given it back to her, only to have him find it again when she was seventeen and packing for college.
He’d jokingly dubbed him Icabod, after the headless horseman, and told her to take it with her to school as a way to remember her mother and just how much she’d loved her. How proud she’d be that Winnie was fulfilling the dream her mother had always wished for her.
Am
os had handed her that doll as though he were handing her the last memory of her mother, his age-lined eyes watery, and she didn’t have the heart to refuse.
So she’d thrown it in the attic just before she’d left and never looked back.
And now it was here. In the passenger seat of this stupid, stupid fucking car, his head hanging crookedly to the left side, his single tuft of black, looped-yarn hair on top of his otherwise bald head tattered and ratty.
Talking to her.
Aw, hell no.
She reached over, now that she was beyond the horror of a talking doll from her past, and pushed his head up on his neck, leaving it only slightly sagging. Because it looked sad and reminded her of how out of control she’d once been.
His blue eyes stared blankly up at her, unblinking. “So, road trip, Weenie?”
She pressed her fingers to Icabod’s plastic mouth. “Say another word and it’s lights out for you. Not a single one or I’ll boot your semi-headless self outta here so fast, you’ll have blacktop in your plastic ass for decades. Now, buckle up, Trilogy of Terror.”
* * * *
Seven hours later—seven long hours of compressing her lips together to keep from asking Icabod how he’d come to be—and Jacques spoke up, breaking the silence between she and creepy doll. “Weenie! Make ze left off the Interstate!”
She turned her signal on and continued to ponder what was waiting for her in Paris, and what she’d have to do to get the hell out.
And she thought about Baba Yaga’s nephew Benjamin while stabbing pains of longing pierced her heart.
The son of a bitch.
Dark and gruff, he was the epitome of hard, chiseled edgy-hot. Six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pounds of solid, dusky muscle with a dimple in his chin, and from the moment she’d met him at some witch mixer Zelda had put together, she’d wanted him with a sharp ache.
And she’d gotten him, but not before she’d fallen deeply, madly in love with him. She’d done things the right way for the first time with Ben. No hijinks, no love potions, no games—complete honesty. Ben was responsible, hardworking and never used his magic for ill-gotten gains. Meaning, his successful business had been earned through elbow grease, and after hanging around a crowd of people who used their abilities to conjure cars and luxury trips, Winnie found him even more attractive.
It was the first time she’d wanted something more than endless parties and hiding from the Council, so they wouldn’t catch her turning abandoned buildings into luxury condos or buying a Jag with money she’d snapped into existence with her fingers.
In her attempts to impress Mr. Straight and Narrow, she’d set out to live a clean life, only using her magic for good, just like all White Witches were taught from birth.
She’d even gotten a job as a receptionist at a gynecologist’s office so she’d look like a real grownup with real responsibilities. She’d seen plenty of erroneous vagina by accident in her quest to impress Ben-effin’-Yaga.
They’d dated for three months before they’d done the hokey-pokey. Three long, excruciating, lust-filled months, and the result had been magical. The most magical night of her life, bar none. Hot, passionate, long overdue. They’d made love until she’d seen fireworks behind her eyelids.
And then it was over. He’d ended that incredible night with a tender kiss on her lips and the promise to call her the next day so they could set up a time to have lunch together.
But Ben never called.
In fact, he didn’t call and couldn’t be reached for almost three solid days. Wherein, she’d fretted and cried on Zelda’s shoulder until she couldn’t take it anymore.
She’d called his offices, lodged in a warehouse where he was the cofounder of a software company, and no one, not even his receptionist, would tell her anything.
Instantly, the insecure mess she was, she’d jumped to the conclusion everything Ben had told her that night before leaving was a lie and he was just avoiding her.
After two buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken drumsticks and a Frosty from Wendy’s, totally super-high on sugar and grease, she and Zelda had concocted a plan. A plan to show Benjamin Yagamawitz—the name he went under to keep his true Yaga identity a secret—what was what.
No one bed and shed Winnie Foster without hearing about it.
Winnie had gone to his warehouse, where she was sure he was hiding like the coward he was, only to run into Baba Yaga—who was not only surprised Ben was dating her, but also made her disapproval crystal clear.
And during their angry exchange, Winnie had blown up the warehouse.
She hadn’t exactly meant to blow up the entire warehouse. Only Baba Yaga’s stupid eighties collection.
But her rage had a life of its own, and she’d lost complete control of it.
And it was the last straw with the Council. She’d been before the Council before, and this time, like so many before, she was sure she could worm her way out of it. She’d smile, maybe give them her coy, misguided gaze with her big blue eyes, and everything would be fine.
But Baba Yaga, Benny’s aunt, had nixed that notion in the bud. Nobody messed with her nephew and her pile of ugly leg warmers and MC Hammer pants. Turned out, it wasn’t so fine.
“Thinking about Ben?”
Icabod startled her, dragging her from her thoughts. “I thought I told you to shut it the entire trip?”
“You don’t mean that,” he condescended.
“But I do mean that.”
“But aren’t you curious about why I’m here—now—after all these years in an attic at your father’s?”
Fair enough. Sure, she was curious. Creeped out but curious. “Fine. I’ll bite. Why are you suddenly here?”
“Not a fucking clue.”
“Good answer. Now can it.”
“But don’t you want to know how I know about Ben?”
Another fair question. “Last time I’m biting. How do you know about Ben?”
“I heard your father talk about him after you called to tell him you were in love. The insulation in your father’s house is shit. I can hear everything. He’s dating, you know. That nice Mrs. Lingenfelter down the road. She brings him pineapple upside-down cake—among other things.”
The suggestion in Icabod’s voice made her shudder. “Stop,” she gritted out. “No more.” Though she was happy to hear her dad was finally getting out, she didn’t want to hear about his love life.
“One more thing?”
“One more, then you zip it until we get to Texas.”
“Could you push my head back up on my shoulders? The view from here sucks. I’ve seen nothing for the last hundred miles but crushed Schlitz Malt Liquor cans and a package of beef jerky that’s turning green.”
Winnie used her fingertips to prop Icabod’s head up and went back to her driving, occasionally looking in the rearview mirror to watch the Pacer eat up the blacktop mile by mile.
“Hey, I know. Wanna sing ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall?”
“You’re a Cabbage Patch doll, what do you know about beer?” It was just this shy of indecent to hear this innocent doll from her childhood swear and talk about beer.
“Yeah,” he groused. “But I’m an old Cabbage Patch doll. I’ve been around the block.”
“You’ve been in an attic, not on a block.”
“In an attic in a house you lived in. You took me around the block, sister.”
Winnie winced. Her teenage years had been rough for all parties concerned. Mostly her dad, who, while he’d cried genuine tears when she’d left for college, had probably breathed a sigh of unbelievable relief when she’d moved out. He’d borne the brunt of her shenanigans for years. He deserved a break.
Choosing to ignore reliving her past through a Cabbage Patch doll, she reached for the sack of purchases she’d made at a convenience store.
Popping open a bag of pork rinds, she held it under Icabod’s nose. “Pork rind?”
“Jesus, that’s shitty.”
“Why?”
Icabod grumbled low, “I’m a damn plastic doll. I can’t eat, and you know it.”
Winnie eased back into the seat and pushed the pedal to the floor, trying to lose herself in the rhythm of the road beneath her.
“You can’t treat me like this, Pooh Bear. I won’t allow you to steal my last shred of dignity.”
Winnie reached over and flicked Icabod’s head back over to the left with two fingers. “Consider it stolen.”
* * * *
She arrived in Paris just after noon the following day, exhausted, in need of a shower, still in her orange jumpsuit.
As she pulled into a parking lot, her gaze traveled upward to Paris, Texas’, version of the Eiffel Tower. Topped with a red cowboy hat, it glowered down at her, mocking her in the stream of hot sunlight pushing through the windshield.
She was thankful the tower was deserted—no one to see her shame or her crazy talking doll. Her eyes went self-consciously to her prison clothing and her hair, greasy and clinging to her forehead with perspiration.
She needed bangs.
Right. Because that would make her look more presentable, rather than like some nutbag who’d managed to break free of the loony bin and steal a car.
“So we’re here, I presume?”
“Thank the goddesses.”
“Yeehaw!” Icabod exclaimed dryly, his head still sagging to the left.
“Yep. Me, my wrapped pink Pacer, and my creepy talking Cabbage Patch doll in Paris, Texas. Isn’t it romantic?”
“Why do you insist on calling me creepy? I’m hardly creepy. I’m a harmless doll who was tragically maimed in an act of catastrophic rage. So who’s the creepy one here?”
But Winnie wasn’t listening to him. She had a task to perform before Halloween, and she was damn well going to do it. Where to go from here?
Yanking on the door, she tried to push it open. She needed air, and space to think. But the door wouldn’t budge. Without thinking, she snapped her fingers, smiling at the sound of the door’s screech of metal as it opened.