The Incompetent Witch and the Very Big O

by DC Thome

  The crow jumped back. I recognized him. His name was Cameron, and he and his wife had visited my office about six weeks earlier. He clambered onto the wall. “I wasn’t going to eat him, Dr. Pru. I was checking to see if he was all right.”

  Uh-huh.

  I picked Paul up; he didn’t look good.

  Camille shouted directly into my ear, “Do something, Prudenzia!”

  “I really think it would be better if we waited for”—I held back a gag—“Brigid.”

  “But he already looks dead!” Camille dashed down my arm to my palm and wept. “It’s all my fault! I should never have suggested position number thirty-eight.”

  Lizards have more than one sex position?

  “He was enjoying it so much, though.” Camille’s voice cracked. “So was I. It was the best sex ever. And then there was a pink flash, and everything went dark.”

  A pink flash?

  “Had you two been drinking?”

  She looked horrified. “Absolutely not! Every now and then we take a little sip from the coasters filled with beer that people put out to kill slugs. But it was morning; we hadn’t even left our little crack.” She looked over her shoulder toward a moss-covered crevice between two stones.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “These things happen.” Almost never.

  Lavender smoke puffed into view on the other side of the wall, heralding the arrival of Brigid de la Glace, the so-called “competent” Healer of Douchecanoe. Okay, so-called because she literally was competent. She did not approve of me. Some of it had to do with my legendary horniness—Brigid was reputedly a prude—but mostly it was because I had so little red hair mixed in with the black that she refused to acknowledge I had any healing abilities at all. That, she had stated many times, made her better than me.

  I wasn’t all that fond of her, either. Partly because of her innate healing powers. Partly because of how she smelled as if someone had sucked an entire pack of strawberry Jolly Ranchers and then barfed. And partly because of her traditionally witchy body: lean and sexy, with gently curving hips, full lips, enchanting violet eyes, made-for-a-centerfold—fake!—tatas.

  Fuck you, Frigid Brigid.

  And please help out poor little Paul.

  I held out my hand as Brigid floated over the wall and studied the sad scene.

  “So,” she said, “the skills that so ably qualify you to hold the title of Town Whore were of little use in a situation like this. Again.”

  Camille sobbed.

  “You’re not helping,” I snapped. “She’s already convinced she killed him.”

  “There, there,” Brigid said. “Paul was a good man. And a good lizard.”

  Camille’s rotating eyes nearly popped out of her head. In different directions. “Was?”

  “And will continue to be,” the Ice Queen said. “But if I had arrived one minute later, no healer could have saved him. Not even a good one.”

  She aimed her last words at me, but I kept my cool. It wasn’t the time nor the place to spar with this skank. “You’ve been here thirty seconds,” I said, “so maybe you should shut your yap and fucking do something.”

  A crowd of shifters was gathering, all of them, including the crow, morphing into humans. Brigid scanned my outfit. “Your butt-ugly dog contacted me; he said you were at work.”

  “My dog is a cat—and a she.” And butts are not ugly.

  “I was under the impression your ‘work’ had something to do with counseling. Your wardrobe suggests a different profession. A much older one.”

  She wore the full-length lavender gown she always wears because she thinks it makes her look “witchier” than me. I think it makes her look like a washed-out Prince impersonator.

  “The jacket makes this outfit perfectly suitable for work,” I said. “Now stop fucking around and heal Paul.”

  “Yes,” Camille begged, “please, please heal Paul.”

  “There, there, Camille,” Brigid said, “I would never allow anything bad to happen to your fellah.” She touched his belly, and my palm buzzed as his waning life force rebounded. I lowered Camille and Paul to the grass. His eyes opened, and together he and Camille transformed into a perfectly formed, naked young human couple with smooth skin, lithe bodies and regular eyes. She showered him with kisses, and he petted her flowing green-tinged hair. Being au naturel in a crowd never bothers shifters.

  The crowd broke into cheers, and everyone took turns thanking and congratulating Brigid. She looked at me with one eyebrow raised in a fuck-you sort of way. Yeah, I was a little jealous. Dozens of marriages I’ve saved, but never once have I been the subject of a hip-hip-hooray.

  Now I simply observed from the back of the crowd, the forgotten woman. I have to admit it was nice to see a couple getting along so well. And thank Goddess Brigid had not arrived one minute later.

  But whatever happened to Paul was strange…yet strangely familiar.

  La petite mort, sure. But no one should actually die having an orgasm.

  The courtroom had grown quiet. The Inquisiwads had calmed down and started paying attention. Except for No. 2, still feet-up on the floor. I’m not taking the fall if he’s dead.

  Some of the shifters blotted tears from their eyes. Camille and Paul were there, very pretty as a human couple with their bright eyes, embarrassed smiles and matching skinny jeans. She put a hand on his knee; he put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Well, Miss La Strega,” the Lord High Douchefart said, “it seems you’ve finally reached a part of the story that’s relevant to this court’s business. Please, continue.”

  Chapter 3

  I couldn’t dwell on the pink mystery all day. I had appointments. The docket included a vampire couple having problems over his drinking habits, and two canine shifters who needed a good ass-chewing because she was upset that her husband got a little too familiar with a cute poodle’s backside at the beach.

  Me: “In dog form, or human form?”

  She: “Dog.”

  He: “I wasn’t trying to start anything. We were just introducing ourselves.”

  Me: “You do, realize, Lady, that butt-sniffing is how dogs get to know each other.” I called her Lady because that literally was her name.

  She: “I know, but—”

  Me: “No buts! Is he doing it doggy-style with anyone else?”

  She: “No.”

  Me: “Then get with the program. Just because he’s married to you doesn’t mean he can’t fucking even talk to another female!” Then I turned to her pal—whose name was Pal. “And you, keep it short and sweet. You don’t have to bury your snout in her to find out what you need to know. You’re saying ‘hi,’ not trading life stories.”

  I was worn out by the time stood at the front door of the broken-down Victorian I called home, half a block from Douchecanoe’s town square. The house looks like crap from the outside—as do all the buildings here. It used to have bright paint, with filigree details in a rainbow of colors, but now the paint is peeling and the wood rotting, because that’s how we fool mortals into not dropping in as they pass through. They call the town “haunted,” but they’re idiots because the inside of every home, business and government building puts every HGTV “after” picture to shame.

  At this time of year, light streams into my parlor well past dinnertime and brightens even the walls I had painted black. I collapsed onto my brothelesque velvet-tufted Design Toscano settee and rested my feet on my traditionally ornate, hand-carved mahogany Benetti’s Italia coffee table—I love mixing furniture designers that way—and put a cold washcloth over my eyes.

  And saw pink flashes. What the holy hell?

  I yanked off the washcloth just as Abigail padded in and made a glass of iced tea materialize on a Venetian silver platter that had belonged to my great-grandmother, Dona Lola La Strega, healer of Santa Nicola, Italy. She was a real healer, with tongues of red hair shooting from her head like fire. She wouldn’t have taken shit from a minor-leaguer like
Frigid Brigid. She never took shit from anyone. I wanted to be like Dona Lola. She would be disappointed if she knew how much I wasn’t.

  Abigail scratched my leg.

  “What?”

  “Would it be okay if I sat on your lap?”

  I took a sip of tea. “Asking permission is a dog thing,” I said. “You’re a cat; you’re supposed to not give a fuck if I want you to or not.”

  Abigail just sat there, making puppy eyes at me.

  “I hate when you do that. How am I supposed to—arghhh.” I put the glass back on the platter and pulled her up. She twisted around to expose her neck. After letting her tongue loll for a minute or two, she ruffed. Or, more accurately, said, “Rough day?”

  I nodded.

  “I know,” Abigail said. “It’s always a rough day when you have to deal with Brigid. Now scratch my tummy.”

  She shoved her nose under my arm, forcing me to comply. I sighed and scratched. “Fuck Brigid,” I said. “Dealing with Paul was worse.” I paused, then added thoughtfully, “Camille said something about pink flashes when she and Paul were doing it.”

  “Fucking lizards. Scales. No hair. And those eyes…so creepy!” Abigail shivered. “Such freaky animals.”

  Ignoring her, I said, “I keep seeing images in my head, like faint memories. Were you on Sabbat Hill last night?”

  Abigail’s foot involuntarily kicked my arm. “Absolutely not.”

  “You lie. You’re always watching me when I’m with men.”

  “I am a voyeur,” she admitted, “but when you drink seven beers too many, then go up to the most powerful mountain on the second most powerful night of the year to do unspeakable things, you’re on your own.”

  “First of all, it was only two beers—”

  “And a shot of Loopie Luna.”

  Well, that could explain something. Tequila always makes me crazy. “Anejo?”

  “Anejo Primero.”

  Yes, that explains something. Not sure what, though. “You’re supposed to be my helper,” I said.

  “Did you need help?”

  “Drinking seven beers too many and doing shots of Loopie Luna before going up to the most powerful mountain on the second most powerful night of the year to do unspeakable things sounds like the very definition of a time when I would need help.”

  “You seemed to be getting plenty from that idiot boyfriend of yours and his bro.”

  Spur is kind of an idiot. “Not quite clear on the concept of ‘help,’ Abigail.”

  “I was helping you learn lessons. The hard way.”

  I put the washcloth back onto my forehead. “I was in control of the situation all the way until—ugh, this thing is useless.” I whipped off the washcloth, and the sun stung my eyes. I pressed them shut and…

  OMGoddess!

  All I could see was pink.

  “Until what, your lusciousness?” Abigail said. “And scratch a little lower.”

  I sat forward to get my eyes out of the light, dumping Abigail onto the floor. “I was really, really aroused…right on the brink…and then—”

  Spur. Hunter. The stars. Pink.

  And then what?

  I closed my eyes and saw, in the pink, a dark shape towering over me—and moving toward me menacingly.

  “Hello!” Abigail interrupted. “You can’t scratch jack shit if I’m down here!”

  “Not now, Abby. I’m thinking.”

  “Great. Now you’re thinking.” She rolled over and licked her lady parts.

  I closed my eyes. Concentrate, for Goddess’ sake. Concentrate.

  The dark shape resisted becoming any clearer.

  Suddenly, Abigail jerked to her feet, skittered to the door and emitted a series of clucks and squawks that she, I’m sure, was convinced sounded like a dog barking. I opened the door to find Frigid Brigid in her lavender gown, surrounded by a puff of lavender smoke and reeking of strawberries.

  “It’s happened again,” she said. “You must come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Brigid hissed, “the victims are clients of yours.”

  ***

  We teleported to a spot under a three-hundred-year-old oak that spread a lattice of gnarled branches across the sunset. Even with Brigid’s stupid smoke in my eyes, there was no missing the circle of dark-clad figures near the oak’s trunk. Brigid led me to the center of the circle, where a woman wearing a billowy negligee held in her lap the head of a naked man whose entire body was drained of color. He was breathing, though, in rhythmic gasps.

  Brigid pointed to the couple. “Do you recognize them?”

  “Of course. It’s Cameron Crow—and his wife, Cheryl! I just saw him this morning. He was a bird at the time, but still.”

  Cheryl looked up at me. Her hair was jet-black, her eyes and aquiline nose flushed with panic. “Yes, he went to the aid of Paul the wall lizard shifter,” she said. “My husband. His name is Cameron.”

  I feared how she would answer my next question, but I had to ask. In private. I raised my arm and fired off a quick incantation:

  Goddess help me put this bird at ease

  And make all around momentarily freeze.

  Everyone froze. Thanks, Goddess. I owe you one.

  “Cheryl, tell me how it happened.”

  “We were making love.”

  “In animal form?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you remember seeing anything strange?”

  “There was a flash of pink.”

  Brigid cleared her throat. I spun around. “What the hell? I froze everyone.”

  “And you assumed you were powerful enough to have that include me.” Brigid shook her head. “Oh, Slutdenzia, I want to hate you, but that would be wrong. You’re so pathetic.”

  I had to fight to prevent gold sparks from jumping off my fingers. “I would like a few more moments with my client.”

  Brigid sneered. “This is all scintillating conversation, but I have serious business to conduct regarding the pale fellow lying on his back.”

  I’d learned what I needed to know. I raised my hand, snapped my fingers and set time in motion again. Brigid elbowed me aside, bent over Cameron Crow and whispered an incantation.

  Within seconds, he sputtered and shook. Color returned to his flesh. Cheryl took his face in her hands. He looked at her, rubbed the negligee and said, “Wow! You should wear that thing more often.”

  The lady crow tapped his cheek. “Oh, you.”

  A big cheer went up. For Brigid, of course.

  But then Cameron tried to get up and fell back with a moan. Cheryl blanched. The crowd went silent. Brigid smoothed her pretentious gown. “Cameron, dear, your injury was quite severe,” she said. “You may have to rest for several days to get back to full strength. Also—and I feel bad about having to say this—during your recovery, it’s best you refrain from carnal activities.”

  Cheryl and Cameron gasped in unison. So did everyone else.

  I stepped away into the gathering darkness. This is getting serious. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure the image that had been building in my mind before Brigid rang my bell. Pink everywhere. But in the middle, darkness. Someone—or something—on top of me. Spur? I shut my eyes tighter and tried to focus. A hand reaching out and—

  The touch of long, sharp fingernails made me almost jump out of my skin. “Goddess fucking hell, Brigid, what is your prob—”

  But it wasn’t Brigid.

  It was a stocky man who had beady eyes, silver-streaked hair and horrible B.O., wearing nothing but a peek-a-boo bra and black panties that had a delicate red bow in front. He was a wolverine shifter who’d been in with his wife for a round of couple’s therapy.

  “Mitch Egan?”

  “Yes, Dr. Pru. I was looking for the healer who knows what she’s doing? Something terrible has happened to Anne.”

  ***

  Anne lay flat on her back on the floor of a fieldstone cabin with her hind legs splayed and a stupid look on her face.
Considering what I’d seen so far today—and having been fucked silly more than a few times—I had a pretty good idea about the source of her grin.

  As Brigid went to work on her, I tried to get info out of Mitch.

  “First of all,” I said, “when you came to my office your wife was named Jackie.”

  “That’s right. Jackie Hugeman.”

  “This woman’s name is Anne.”

  “Correct. Anne Arbour.”

  Okay…“What were you and Anne Arbour doing when this happened?”

  “Well, it’s summer.”

  I waited for more, but he seemed to be finished. I snapped his bra strap. “A little more specific, please.”

  He adjusted the bra strap as though it was completely normal for a man who looked like Danny Devito on steroids to be wearing an outfit he’d found on clearance at Bare Necessities. “Wolverines mate in summer.”

  Here we go. “Did anything unusual happen?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Again: details.”

  “I got my wives mixed up and did the cross-dressing thing, but Anne was so horny, she didn’t mind.”

  “How many wives do you have?”

  “Three.” He said it like, duh.

  Right: Wolverines mate for life, but the males are polygamists. The smelly bastards.

  “Wife number one is the one who likes me in women’s clothing.”

  “What’s number one’s name?”

  “Jackie, of course.”

  “And Anne is…”

  “Number three.”

  “Who’s number two?”

  “Veronica.”

  “Okay, so—”

  “Or maybe Veronica is three and Anne is…hmmm.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, it matters to Anne.”

  “Are you sure that’s Anne lying over there?”

  Mitch bent in close. “Yes, I’m sure. Pretty sure, at least.”

  “Let’s move on. You and Anne were having sex and…”

  “And we were pretending I’m a bear and she’s a salmon swimming upstream.”

  “A bear in women’s underwear?”