Witchy Wishes

by Nic Saint

  “Yeah, if this keeps up they’re going to make a movie about you guys next,” said Fonzie. He threw us a dozen air kisses in quick succession. “I love America so much!”

  I was shaking my head, as I watched more footage of women dressed up as the Slasher, waving rubber knives and urging us to go out and ‘destroy the sick bastards!’

  “A lot of pent-up aggression,” Stien commented. She then turned to Fonzie. “Oh, and I can’t thank you enough, Fonzie. For bailing us out.”

  The prince waved a deprecating hand. “Don’t mention it. It’s the least I could do for my personal heroes.”

  “You bailed us out?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yeah. Spear needed to find the million bucks and find it quick, so…”

  “A million dollars?!”

  Fonzie cocked a finger at me and gave me a goofy look. “A million smackeroos to free my favorite superheroes. So don’t you go and skip town on me now, you hear?”

  “We wouldn’t think of skipping town,” I assured him. A million dollars? Crazy!

  “I think maybe we should exploit this,” Strel now said. “I mean—we’re suddenly famous. We should hire a PR guy and milk this for all it’s worth.”

  “Are you crazy?” I asked. “We’re not going to exploit being framed as killers!”

  “Why not? You know how long it’s been since I wanted to be a star? That stuff is hard, Edie. And now suddenly stardom is being thrown into our laps! We’d be crazy to ignore it.”

  “But we’re not the Slasher!”

  “You guys,” said Helmut with a laugh. “I’m loving this sisterly rival thing you’ve got going here. But please, don’t pretend for my sake. You’re the Slasher—embrace it!”

  “Embrace it, Edie!” Strel echoed.

  “But we’re not the Slasher, though,” Stien said.

  The three men shared a look of understanding. “I know we said some harsh things about the murders,” said Jerome. “But I want you to know we’re fully on board now. If you want us to hold your knives or something while you go on one of your killing sprees, we’d be honored. We could even help you select your next victim. I have a couple in mind…”

  “No, we’re not going to murder Mega-Pharma’s CEO, Jerome,” I said.

  His face sagged. “Too bad. That man is evil. Evil personified!”

  “You know,” said Helmut. “There’s this one music critic who writes some truly bad stuff about me. If you don’t mind traveling to Belgium and expanding your killing ground…”

  I turned to Fonzie, starting to feel a little feverish now. “And who do you want killed, Fonzie? I mean—as long as we’re doing this, let’s go all the way! Any cousins or uncles to slay? A high school bully who made your life miserable to carve up into little, tiny pieces?”

  The prince stuffed the Butterfinger into his mouth. “I’ve got my firing squad so I’m good. But thanks for the offer.”

  Helmut made a bowing movement in our direction. “I’m in the presence of greatness. Thank you, Slasher.”

  Jerome put in the final word. “Best. Airbnb. Ever!”

  Chapter 42

  We paid another visit to the hospital, to check up on Gran, and ended up staying at her bedside until the sun had dropped well below the horizon, and darkness had descended upon the city. Gran’s condition was stable, but she wasn’t awake, and she looked nothing like the forceful and proud woman we knew.

  I ignored several phone calls from Sam.

  “Why don’t you pick up?” Strel finally asked when my phone tinkled yet again.

  “He doesn’t believe me!” I said. “He thinks I’m the Slasher. How can he think that?”

  “Everybody thinks we’re the Slasher,” said Stien, who was staring out the window into the night, the city below greeting her with a myriad of twinkling lights. “Even Spear thinks we’re the Slasher. I could tell from the way he was looking at me. With a mix of fear and excitement.” She shook her head. “All this time I wanted him to pay attention to me, and now that I’ve got his full attention, it’s for all the wrong reasons.” She turned to face us. “Why are guys so fascinated with serial killers? Spear was actually… exhilarated. As if he suddenly saw me in a different light. Like the female Hannibal Lecter or something.”

  “It’s not just guys,” said Strel. “Look at all those women dressing up as the Slasher. You would think they’d be scared of a knife-wielding murdering maniac but no—they think we’re super cool. They want to start a fan club and maybe even erect a statue.”

  I cast a glance at the television bolted to the ceiling that was muted and displaying scenes from the exact phenomenon Strel was describing. People donning Slasher masks, wielding Slasher knives, holding Slasher-themed parties. The Slasher was everywhere.

  Finally, visiting hours were over, and we were ushered out by a nervous-looking nurse. The same one who’d seen the snakes. If we’d said ‘Boo’ she’d run off screaming.

  “We’re not famous—we’re infamous,” I said.

  “Who cares?” asked Strel, still on her fame trip. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. I think we can make this work for us. And who doesn’t want an actual statue?”

  Ugh. The world had gone mad.

  On our way back to the house, I thought about Gran, and how brittle and vulnerable she looked. We were all she had at this point—and we’d failed her by allowing Lashanda to steal the Book of Secrets and frame us for the Slasher killings. At this point I frankly had no idea how we were going to get out of this mess.

  The taxi driver glanced back at us and said, “So who’s your next victim?” When his question was met with silence, he cleared his throat. “You know—I’ve got a brother-in-law who’s a real pain in the neck. And I know where he’s going to be for the next couple hours.”

  Ugh. Mad, mad, mad.

  We ignored the few tenacious reporters camped out on the porch, and trudged up the stairs to the house. Inside, the lights were doused, and the house was completely dark.

  “Looks like the guys turned in for the night,” said Strel.

  “Weird. It’s not even ten o’clock.” Then I remembered that Jerome had that thing at Erick and Flavio’s. He was probably soaking in the Jacuzzi by now. And Helmut had a habit of hitting the town and soaking up as much of the music scene as possible. But at least Fonzie should be home, and he wasn’t one to hit the sack before midnight, preferring to conk out in front of the TV and channel surf between Kimmel, Colbert, Fallon and the others.

  We let ourselves in and decided to hold another crisis meeting. We needed to figure out what to do about Lashanda and how to claw our book back from the woman’s talons.

  We entered the living room, and were met with a disturbing scene: Jerome, Fonzie and Helmut were tied up on the sofa, and Lashanda sat patiently waiting in the armchair, flipping channels in the dark. When we entered, the men started shouting something, but the gags in their mouths made it pretty much impossible to make out what they were saying.

  Lashanda flicked on the light, and I saw she was smiling endearingly, looking like sweetness personified.

  I took a menacing step in her direction, but she whipped out a knife and said, “Tsk-tsk-tsk. Don’t tempt me, Edelie. As you know full well I’m quite handy with a knife.”

  “So you are the Slasher,” said Stien. “I knew it!”

  “Of course I’m the Slasher. I thought you would have guessed by now.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked, darting worried glances at the three men. As far as I could see, they hadn’t been cut up or anything, and they looked pretty much unharmed.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want the house. I want Fallon’s stuff. I want everything.”

  “You’re Lashanda Kerrighen, aren’t you? Fallon’s greatest rival.”

  The woman laughed. “You’re not very smart, are you? Lashanda lived a long time ago—just like Fallon Safflower did. So how could I possibly be Lashanda Kerrighen?”

  “Then who are you?” Strel deman
ded.

  The woman rose from the armchair with surprising agility, and I saw that she was dressed in black from head to toe, just like the Slasher. Suddenly she wasn’t holding one knife, but two—presumably to better coordinate her cutting endeavors.

  “I guess you deserve to know who bested you,” she said with a smirk.

  And before our very eyes, she suddenly seemed to grow taller and slimmer, slowly morphing from an old lady into a gorgeous blonde. Her figure tucked in at the waste and expanded at the bust, the white cotton candy hair cascaded down into a mass of blond curls, and her face narrowed, skin smoothed and cheekbones drew up until she looked like a model, albeit one with an evil look in her gray eyes and a cruel tilt to her narrow lips. The black sweater and slacks had changed into a gorgeous little black dress, and the comfortable tennis shoes into a pair of slingbacks that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a catwalk.

  “You’re a model,” Strel gasped.

  The woman threw her head back and produced a tinkling laugh. “Why, thanks, Estrella,” she said, and I noticed she spoke with a slight lisp now. “Coming from you that’s high praise indeed. But for your information, I’m not a model. I am the owner of a modeling agency, though, so I do know a thing or two about the fashion industry—an industry I thought I’d be working in for the remainder of my career until I happened upon an ancient book tucked away amongst my mother’s old stuff. A book I’m sure she’d forgotten about.”

  “You’re Lashanda Kerrighen’s heir,” I said.

  She pointed a well-manicured finger at me. “Bingo. A fact I wasn’t aware of until after my mother’s funeral, when I was cleaning out her apartment. The book contained an introduction into the life and times of my great and illustrious ancestor. It also contained a spell to awaken the powers of that formidable witch, and imbue myself with the witchcraft that was always my legacy. I performed the spell, and here I am—finishing what Lashanda started all those years ago.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Why kill those men?”

  “To set you up, of course.” She shrugged. “And I have to confess cutting up men like Gus Brown or Carl Rove gives me a degree of satisfaction.” She hesitated. “My own father was just like them—in fact he was so busy having fun with his minor harem that he decided to skip the funeral. Did you know he was the Slasher’s first victim? Of course the police will never know. I made sure not to leave any witnesses—or messages implicating the watch.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said.

  “Of course I have to do this. This feud has been raging for generations. Dormant for a few of them, granted, but very much active now that I’m in control of my destiny. I already have the Book of Secrets—but it will take your precious grandmother kicking the bucket to unlock its full potential. One more snake attack should do the trick, don’t you think?”

  The three of us surged forward as one, before Lashanda—or whatever her name was—made a quick movement with her wrist, and suddenly it was as if I were moving through molasses and then, to my horror, I couldn’t even move at all!

  “Just a small sample of my powers,” said the woman smugly. “If I wanted to, I could snap your necks like that.” Instead of our necks, she merely snapped her fingers, but it was enough to curdle the blood in my veins.

  “You leave our grandmother alone,” Stien cried.

  “Or what? Three silly little girls are going to stop me? As if! You couldn’t stop me if you tried.” She idly flicked her thumb along the knife’s edge. “So it’s true that Cassie stripped you of your powers, huh? I wasn’t sure before, but now it’s obvious. You didn’t even fight me just now. I didn’t feel an ounce of resistance. That was probably the worst mistake Cassandra ever made. Thinking she could take me on all by herself. She should have made you her accomplices. Instead, she made you powerless and now you’ll suffer the consequences.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? The Slasher is going to stage one final performance.”

  She gestured at the three men, who were frantically tugging at their restraints.

  “Three victims. Three killers. By the time you leave prison, in fifty years or so, you’re going to look like me before I turned into my true form again. Oh, and by the way, you can thank Tisha for the snakes. She did a wonderful job employing the one skill I taught her.”

  “You’re not going to get away with this, Lashanda,” I growled.

  “Tabitha. My name is Tabitha Templeman. Like I said, Lashanda died a long time ago.”

  She took a firmer grip on the knives. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I have three bodies to carve up.” She grinned. “The Slasher’s name will go down in history as one of the greatest serial killers who ever lived.” She cocked her head. “Or, rather, your names, girls.”

  Chapter 43

  Tabitha approached the three men, clearly relishing in the prospect of ending their lives, and she’d just drawn back her arms in a stabbing motion when the door opened and she turned, an annoyed frown marring her smooth brow.

  “Now what?” she grunted.

  I couldn’t look back, or even turn my head, so I had no idea who it was. But then our unexpected visitor spoke.

  “Oh, hey, guys. Thought I’d drop by to see if you needed anything. I heard they sprang you from prison, so…”

  “Skip!” Strel shouted. “Watch out! She’s the Slasher!”

  “Huh?” I could hear Skip exclaim. “This hot babe?”

  “Yeah, this hot babe,” said Tabitha. “Better take a seat on the couch before I cut you up, Baker Boy.”

  “Have we met before?”

  “Yes, we have. When I slashed your uncle to ribbons, remember? Only I was wearing my mask that time, so maybe you don’t recognize me.”

  “You killed my uncle!”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.”

  There was a grunting sound, a whoosh, and suddenly Skip was plunked down next to Jerome, bound and gagged like the others, surprise clear in his eyes.

  “Right,” said Tabitha. “Now where was I?”

  She took a step closer to Jerome, whom she seemed to have singled out as her first victim of the night.

  Jerome wriggled desperately to get loose, but those restraints were probably witchcraft-induced, and no match for a regular non-witchy person.

  I was still straining to free myself, but Tabitha’s powers were clearly no match for mine either. I was stuck, like a bug in amber, soon to become the victim of the woman’s evil plans. All I could do was watch, helplessly, as she cut up my friends.

  Just then, there was another commotion behind us, and a loud voice called out, “Yoo-hoo? Anybody home? Jerome? Where are you, darling? Don’t you know it’s very rude to accept an invitation and then not show up? The Jacuzzi is getting cold, darling.”

  “Flavio! Get out!” I cried. “Get out now!”

  “Oh, dear,” said Tabitha. “This place is worse than Grand Central. Come on in, gentlemen. The party is in the living room!”

  “Oh, there you are, Jerome,” said Erick. “Naughty naughty.”

  “This looks like a fun game,” said Flavio with a chuckle. “I simply love all this BDSM stuff. So is this a Fifty Shades of Grey theme party? Can I be Christian Grey?”

  “You should have invited us, Jerome. Flavio and I dig the kinky stuff!”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sakes,” Tabitha groaned. “Will you two shut up already?”

  Two more bodies slammed into the couch, which was getting awfully crowded, and Erick and Flavio were silenced with gags and restrained by ropes. They seemed excited by the possibilities of this game, and when they saw me and my sisters, frozen in place, they probably thought we were playing a kinky version of Twister.

  Tabitha took a deep, steadying breath. “Right. Not what I’d envisioned, but I guess the more the merrier. For the newcomers—and I’m looking at you, Skip Brown. And you, Erick and Flavio—yes, you may not know me, but I know you. The itinerary for t
his evening is as follows. I cut you up until you are dead—yes, that is right, I’m the real Slasher. The one and only. Once you are very much dead, the cavalry arrives in the form of the NYPD. Your little friends over here, the Flummox sisters, will be taken into custody, thrown in jail with the proverbial key cast away so they may live unhappily ever after, taking the fall, as the vernacular goes, for my attempts to rid this town of some of its more noxious elements. Any questions? I didn’t think so. Then let’s move on to the fun part of the evening, shall we?”

  All the while, I’d been racking my brain, trying to conjure up a spell I could use—any spell! Unfortunately it appeared that along with our physical form, Tabitha had also affected our minds. It was as if my mental faculties simply refused to fire on all cylinders!

  Finally, a spell came to mind that I’d heard a dozen times, and I hollered, “Tornarioh!” As far as my feeble mind could recollect, it allowed Stien to return her glasses when she lost them—which happened at least once a week.

  Tabitha turned to me with an amused smile. “Oh, you remembered a spell. Nice one, Edelie. Now if only you could make it work, right?”

  “Tornarioh!” I repeated desperately. Nothing was happening, but I wasn’t ready to give up. Suddenly, there was a loud banging sound upstairs, as if something had hit the floor.

  Tabitha glanced up at the ceiling, but all remained quiet. “Oh, poor Edelie,” she said. “Looks like no one is going to come and save you. Now please be quiet while I finish this.”

  Suddenly, from around the corner, a bulky boom box came zooming in my direction. It was the boom box I’d been trying to find for weeks. I knew it was somewhere in my room, buried amongst the huge mess, and Stien’s nifty spell had finally managed to retrieve it.

  The boom box swept right past me, hit Tabitha in the head, and knocked her down. It then settled on the coffee table and started to blare, ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!’

  “Ouch,” Strel commented. “Hey, you guys! I can move!”

  And so we could. Tabitha groaned as she recovered from being hit in the head by my boom box and having to listen to Wham!, and at that moment she must have lost some of the control she held over us, for I could suddenly move freely, and so could Strel and Stien.