by L. J. Longo
The wolf manhandled the soldier toward the door. Ramsay fought him off so he could walk through on his own. He snatched his dinner back, then settled his uniform.
He said, rather crossly to Emaula, “I don’t give a damn about the wolf, but he was guiding several families with small children with him. If they are holed up somewhere unsafe, do let me know. You shall have the full force I have with me here, if necessary.”
“Get inside, you self-important shit,” Half-Ear snarled.
With Ramsay glaring, they both went inside.
“I always tell the boys he means well, but Ramsay is a total shit,” Porter muttered.
“He’s a cursed man,” Emaula remarked, but then before Porter could question, she said, “But let’s focus on … your friend. Tell me what your previous witches would do?”
“The birds … uh, the witches from before…” How to describe it? The dark pit, the circle around him, their hands on his naked flesh, their power channeling through him and out the door The Munawn asked him to open. “They’d all touch me. Then their magic would kind of all come together, and … I don’t know, shoot out?”
Emaula nodded. “A prism. I understand.”
She removed her gloves, then looked at her hands nervously. “Actually, this isn’t a good idea. I … I need to touch your skin, Porter.”
“That’s okay.” Porter tugged the tunic over his head. The chilling rain blew against his chest.
“No, I mean … it might—” She stared at the ground and confessed, “It will hurt.”
Oh right, because she was poisonous. Her magic nearly put Nav through a wall when he touched her. “But we’ll find Sock?”
“In no time.”
“Then, I can survive, if it’s not deadly.”
Emaula laughed. “It’s not like that. It’s just pain. No lingering effect. And the spell to find him is easy.”
“Okay.” Porter situated himself in the chair and closed his eyes, relaxing into the emptiness of his mind, bracing for pain. “I’m ready.”
She hesitated, then pressed her palms on his shoulders.
Fire and glass cut into his skin. Slicing and searing at the same time. He wanted to push her away, to jolt out of the chair, but he also felt her magic channeling into him.
And his real room. Emaula was bringing him there. So, he helped her along. He knew the way, after all. The pain in his shoulders went away as he left his body behind.
“Oh!” Emaula exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could … your mind is quite slippery, Porter.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“For our purposes, yes.” Emaula was behind him looking at the doors and radiating magic. “What did those witches do with you?”
Their voices were too close, their doors perilously near. “Let’s focus on Sock.”
And as soon as Porter brought the name to his mind, Sock was before him. But Sock was also on the river edge, the one with the stone bridge. The little wolf sat in the driver’s seat of a horse cart, smoking his long pipe. Safe, warm, and dry as he glared out at the river.
“Oi! Sock, hi!” Porter called.
Sock lifted his head and squinted at Porter. He peered over the rims of his spectacles. “Well, that’s not how I expected help to come.”
“Huh?”
“I expected you all to come after an hour or so. I’ve listened for howling. I did not expect you to … what is this? Astral projection. That witch with you?”
“Yes, I am. Hello, Mr. Sock,” Emaula said.
He scowled unhappily at this turn of events, then called over his shoulder to the guests. “Everyone, get ready to go.”
Porter studied the vague shapes on the river bank. “Why did you stop?”
“The river washed out the bridge. I didn’t want to try fording the river in the dark and the rain, not without help.”
“Okay.”
The families gathered together. Brighter spots of light in the shadowy world. He heard the horses nicker and the wagons creak, but he couldn’t make out more than their silhouettes. “But how are you going to get across now?”
“And you all call me blind.” Sock pointed. “Your witch is rebuilding the bridge.”
Sparks of bright purple magic lit up the gloom. They came together like threads … no, like brickwork.
“Focus on Mr. Sock, please, Porter,” Emaula said.
Porter snapped his attention back to Sock.
The little wolf squinted around in confusion, then settled on him again. “Ah, there you are. Say, did Half-Ear make it up all right?”
“Yeah,” Porter nodded. “With half the militia.”
“Fuck.” Sock sneered. “We’re rained in with Ramsay?”
“Not for longer than a day or so,” Porter said. “You know how the mountain is the first day or so of the monsoon.”
Sock snorted, unappeased.
“The bridge is done,” Emaula said. “We can head back now, Porter.”
“Let me just see them get across.” This river was only over a couple hills. Sock wouldn’t have any trouble from here on out.
“Right. See you at home. Gonna get roaring drunk tonight if you fellows leave me anything to drink. Rained in with those militia bastards. Bet on Half-Ear for me when he starts fighting, yeah?”
Porter chuckled.
Sock tucked his pipe away and called over his shoulder to the people Porter couldn’t see. Sock gathered the reins and clucked the horse forward. The beast nervously obeyed. Porter watched as Sock and the cart and the horse floated over the river on the purple threads of magic. Then they faded into the greyness of his real room.
“Porter, what is this place?” Emaula’s hands on his shoulders no longer hurt, and the softness of her palms made him want to turn and touch her.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Porter eyed the doors. “I always call it my real place.”
“Real place?” Emaula ran her hand down his arm and then slipped her palm into his. “But everything here is … unreal.”
Porter thrilled because she held his hand. Though she seemed uninterested in him as she studied the room, the floor, the ceiling, the doors. “Yeah, but I spent most of my life in the unreal, so it feels more real to me here. What do witches call it? The Munawn never told me.”
Emaula debated. “I’ve heard it called The Grey and The Astral Plane. Dream-land, that’s an innocuous one. My mother never approved of this sort of thing.”
“Why not?” Porter wondered.
Emaula walked with him though they never got any nearer to the doors. She twined her fingers through his. “I suspect because she’s not very good at it. She’s a master of illusions in the real world, but she lacks the patience to build in a place like this. When she put me through my ordeals, I noticed the worlds are often incomplete.”
Porter glanced around at this room. “Not this one.”
“No.” Emaula marveled at the room. “This one is rather solid. So, um, how do we leave?”
“Oh.” That’s why she held his hand. Nothing affectionate about it. She just needed him to open a door. “Sorry. Um…”
He fumbled for the key and then thought better of it and created a new door. Back to the porch and the rain and…
The pain. Fucking Hell. The cutting, burning, crushing pain of her magic. Worse than a bite. He sprang away, lashed out at the source—remembering too late the source was Emaula. The witch gave a cry and fell onto the porch.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Porter reached to help her rise.
Emaula looked at his hand, then up at his face miserably.
“Right.” He’d hit her because her magic hurt him. No touching. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and moved away from her.
She seemed weak and unsteady.
He felt wicked and guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”
“Oh, it’s not…” Emaula protested. “I’m sure being knocked off my—what I mean to say is that it’s not your fault. That kind of magic
takes a lot out of me.”
“The mind stuff?”
“No. Building the bridge at this distance.” Emaula put her gloves back on. “I’ve lived quite happily in dream worlds, though I usually get there with potions…”
Like the one she’d given him when they first met. He listened patiently. Maybe she’d talk about that at long last.
“There’s something unpleasant about—” Emaula sat down next to him and stopped herself. “Well, I don’t want to bore you with talk of my studies.”
“The birds called it mind-forcing,” Porter suggested.
“How charming,” Emaula said. “We call it an astral interruption.”
Porter settled in his chair and looked out to the hills were Sock would arrive. He felt much calmer now. He ought to thank Emaula while they sat quietly together.
“But they’re not wrong. It’s forcing your will on the world, and…” She paused, then admitted passionately. “It’s wrong. So wrong. Just makes my soul shrink away, you know?”
Maybe that’s why she’d never come to him in dreams again. It hurt her soul. Maybe it was her magic that wanted him and not her at all. Maybe Emaula never talked about that time because that disgusted her. “Do … does using potions make you feel bad, too?”
“No. When I use healing ones or spoken spells. Those don’t feel like its breaking things.” Emaula sank deeper into a chair. “Mother’s coven is particularly fond of powerful magic that breaks the laws of the world. I don’t care for it.”
“I’m glad. If someone has that kind of power, it’s good for them to not want it. That’s what The Munawn wanted to teach her birds … her witches.”
Emaula blushed and said nothing.
They watched the rain. The jungle sang in the downpour. The wind gentled, but every leaf on every tree danced in the splash.
Even as he watched the rain’s blustering show, Porter drifted elsewhere. He began to see their faces in the misty air. Maybe the witches felt the magic that had been done through him and were investigating. Maybe he imagined things.
Emaula said, “Sock will be able to get home safely then?”
“No doubt.” Porter felt the instinct to wag his tail. “He’s just over those hills now. We’re so grateful.”
“Good,” Emaula said, then added quickly. “I mean, good he’ll be safe not that—you’re welcome.”
Porter smiled at her, then looked out into the rain. It was a little chilly, but his tunic would be too stuffy. That was monsoon. Could never get comfortable until it was halfway over when the cold came.
It’d be a miserable time to be an animal alone in the forest, but it was a wonderful thing to be a man sitting on a porch with a woman.
When he glanced over at her, she was looking at him. Specifically, at his chest, though her gaze wandered while he watched her.
He glanced at his tunic. He really ought to put that back on. Instead, he looked back to the jungle, so as not to discourage or embarrass her. The now familiar scent of her lust mingled with the rain and the lusciousness of the forest. It excited him. He’d bear the cold for that.
Porter would have liked to kiss her. Or better, to lift the hem of her skirt while she sat in that chair and kneel between her legs. Show her his gratitude.
He could imagine the sound of her happy coos muffled by her hand and drowned in the rain’s patter. The way she’d squirm and push him away with embarrassment. How could he be so bold to lick and touch her with all those people just inside? Her sex would have the most delicious flavor.
When Emaula moved, Porter returned from his daydream. She stood. “It occurs to me, no one has told poor Nav and Half-Ear that Sock is all right. I’ll be in the kitchen if … well, let me know if he’s not here when … you expect him. Have a well, um, bye.”
Her face flushed as she swept past him and into the dining hall. He watched her go and smiled a little to himself. He put his tunic back on and touched his shoulders where her magic had bitten him. Then reached out and picked up the meal she’d made for him. Tasted good. Not as good as she would, but…
Well, he’d find out soon. She was going to visit him again. Probably any day now. He wondered if she’d try to pin it on another witch again or if she’d be more honest this time.
****
Not ten minutes later, Sock arrived with the three families. Before Porter could even howl for Half-Ear, the youngest men in the militia poured from the trading post. Sock seemed a bit dazed by their speed as they helped the families inside, kept the children dry, then stabled the animals. Before Sock could even finish yelling at Captain Ramsay for interfering, it was over. Then just to tease the wolves, Ramsay “made up for it” by buying them a round of beers.
Porter didn’t care anymore about Ramsay being an insufferable trouble-causing ass because the pack was all safe and sound. And because the pack was safe and sound, the drinking began in earnest.
And soon, Porter was getting very drunk.
Jasprite had locked up the good booze and opened cheap casks of wine to sell at a discount. Very quickly, between the nagas singing about the rain, and the merchants delighting in good food and company, and the soldiers celebrating cheap wine, the place had become as cheerful as any gambling den.
Porter—getting very drunk—kept losing at cards. Probably because the people he played with made him drink more. But Sock was one of them, and he had Porter’s best interests at heart. Ramsay was there, too, and though he didn’t have anyone’s best interests at heart, Porter had lost all track of malice toward him by his fourth cup of wine.
Emaula made a pie with coconut and sugar, and it was wonderful. Everything, everything was wonderful.
Somewhere in the hall, Nav laughed. Half-Ear was fighting, but the good kind of fight where he won money and no one got badly hurt.
Lots of laughter and cheers and everything wonderful.
Porter didn’t know what happened, but Sock took his cards away. He’d been too silly, and he was out of money and Sock wouldn’t allow him to bet any more.
So, Porter sat on the porch, in the rain, and the witches watched him through the haze. He vaguely remembered once in his life he’d sung with nagas on this porch. Then when a naga refilled his cup, Porter realized it had just happened. But time was strange.
The nagas chatted about their wives and lovers. One asked about Porter.
“My … my special person?” Porter focused hard because all the doors in his head lit up. The birds all listened. He was much too drunk, but even so, it was wonderful. “Oh no … she’s not far away. She’s here.”
“Well, who is she?” The naga laughed. “Bring her over, and we’ll toast to her health.”
Porter glanced around to make sure the pack was out of earshot. “I don’t think she’d like that. She’s very shy.”
The nagas laughed. Porter felt awful because all the nagas looked alike to him. All scaly and green. Another—he thought it was another—said, “Well, it’s not the Lady then.”
Before Porter could parse out what the naga meant, another prompted him. “Shy, you say?”
“Yeah, really shy, but very kind. She has the most bluest eyes and golden hair.” Porter leaned on his hand and thought about Emaula smiling at him while they cooked together and how quickly she’d come to Sock’s aid today.
“Does he mean the chef? Go fetch the human woman with the scarf who made the food,” the leader of the nagas said.
Porter rose, obeying the command on instinct. The nagas laughed and pulled him back to his chair. They spoke more about the rain and its power to cleanse. Porter half listened, fading into his own world where Emaula swished down the stairs to kiss him. Her beautiful silk robes billowed around her, the headscarf falling off her shoulders because he could touch her hair now. He could kiss her, and she would smile and not be embarrassed to desire him.
One of the naga’s servants left, and Porter watched him wander through the dining hall, moving around the card tables. He should go inside and play ca
rds with Sock and Ramsay again. They were mean to each other, and it was hilarious.
“Mr. Wolf, you were telling us about your special one?”
“Oh, Emaula?” Porter grinned again at her name. “She is so, so wonderful. You’d think when she came, it would be weird because I’d been the cook and now she is, but she was so nice, and I never felt bad about it. Not once. She’s … you know, it’s funny, because I’ve been with a ton of women. Like, it might be in the … no, probably not in the hundreds.”
Porter paused to consider, then realized the nagas hissed with laughter because they didn’t believe him. He felt the blood rush to his face, humiliated that they misunderstood. He wasn’t bragging. “No. Not in a good way. I mean… It’s why the witches made me, so don’t laugh. It’s true. But this one. This witch.”
Porter had lost track of what he’d been saying. “She’s … she’s not like the others. She’s … she’s shy.”
The naga nearest to him, who might have been a female because she wore the robe differently than the others, leaned nearer on her elbows. “We’ll toast to her health, and then you shall kiss, and the rain will bless you.”
Porter heard the command and briefly thought it was a bad idea for some reason to obey. Nav told him often he didn’t have to obey every single command. He could not listen to the ones that sounded like a bad idea.
But Nav was silly. Inside, he held a chess piece out of Jasprite’s reach and laughed. And nagas were wise, even when they teased him.
And kissing Emaula would be nice. He thought about it often. She certainly wanted him. He could smell it whenever he stepped into the room with her, could see it in her darting glances and the way she bit her lip. Why hadn’t he even kissed her yet? Remember the scent of her lust, it seemed very silly to him that he hadn’t—
“Right! Her magic hates me. I can’t kiss her in real life, but I love her. And I’m gonna marry her, and also she’s a good cook.”
Two of the nagas looked at each other with confusion. One said, “In real life?”
“Yeah, yeah. She comes to me in dreams.” The door opened behind him, someone bringing more wine. “That’s not important. What’s important is that she’s shy, but I love her, and someday we’re gonna get married, and then we’re gonna have little golden-headed … not puppies—hold on.”