by Kezzy Sparks
Smiryl saunters back inside but isn’t long in returning. He must be a feared father for we don’t hear any protests. He locks the front door.
We go round to the back. The heaviness in the air that I felt yesterday has subsided a lot, meaning the gator is dead and not coming back to threaten anyone. The wind here, though, smells a little fetid. Slaughtered familiars decompose faster and can release unpleasant smells, which makes it more urgent that Butch must follow our instructions to burn the gator.
“You’re going to cremate your familiar, so light up the furnace,” I command once more.
For a reason I initially can’t guess, Mr. Smiryl keeps an incinerator close by the barn. Later, I imagine he used it mostly to burn up any leftovers of the meats he fed his gator familiar. That hid the evidence from his visitors more than composting alone would have done.
The incinerator is too small to take the dead monstrosity in one feed. It’s not my problem, however, and the command must be carried out.
“How did you survive such a thing?” Zed still shakes his head, while making notes. Guild guidelines are that familiars aren’t to be photographed, but written descriptions can be entered into a journal.
“We had to do our best.”
While this goes on, I already am thinking of a just Pendle. I don’t necessarily need to consult anyone as to its severity and can set it to anything, and then it will be up to the Witch Court to uphold or vary. Since Zed is here however, it might be nice to hear his thoughts.
Butch delays burning up his monster.
“Don’t waste our time,” I order again.
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Cut it up. You kept it, so you get rid of it.”
“Can’t I call animal disposal?”
“No,” I say. “Unless you want to be fined for keeping an illegal dangerous pet.” Then I add, “And you know it’s not allowed to just let anyone see this.”
“Fetch an axe.” Zed interjects. “You’re a farmer; you have tools.”
Flustered by our rigidity, Butch leaves us and trundles to another shack. He comes back with a short but sharp hatchet. The dead gator is sprawled near the barn. He dismembers the legs first, and then the tail.
“Cut me a bit of that, for evidence’s sake.” I point to the tail.
Butch does as told, and then a small, slimy bit is thrown at me. I will keep it to dry and then take it to Witch Court at the appointed date.
Chopping up and burning all the pieces might take him all night. The incinerator, though, is red hot. Its fan croons, sucking air out of the firebox and dumping it at a height in the atmosphere.
Now sweating, Butch opens the hatch and uses a shovel to carry parts of the gator before dumping them into the flaming box. While he does that, I think to let Zed know of the Pendle I have in mind.
“What do you think of five years of extreme sleep deprivation?” I say. “And horrendous nightmares for those times he is ever able to get some.”
“You mean chronic insomnia?”
“Yes, perfectly.” I nod. “And each time he catches any sleep, he wakes up immediately, tearing himself with fright.”
“That should be just,” says Zed. “But we will hear what the courts have to say.”
I didn’t complete my lawyer education, but it’s in moments like these that I get my vindication. Law enforcement is not just one thing, and our job here is to serve justice to the highest degree.
I get ready to declare, and wave to Butch, who is perspiring lakes even though it’s cold. “Make a moment for a word.”
He stops and then walks to us. Zed takes more notes as we stand.
“By the powers vested in me by the bureau,” I say, “I hand you the just rewards for the malicious injustices you have been perpetrating against the innocent.”
In mind, I have the horror I saw on Clyde’s face, and I also imagine the trouble his whole family went through, not to mention how the asset loss would impact them. “You are going to miss the joys and comforts of normal sleep for a period of five years, and in addition, you will experience untold horror each time you’re able to catch any.”
“But that’s too harsh, huntress. I scarcely had any control over that gator in the last few weeks.”
“You’ll be free to say that in court,” I say, “which date I will confirm to you by phone at the earliest possible time.”
“And if I choose not to come.”
“Then the sentence takes effect on the court date,” I say. “Now goodbye, we have to go.”
“And finish the dirty job of burning your gator,” adds Zed. “You know what happens if you don’t.”
Happy with what we have done, we pace back to his Honda, making an effort not to breathe any of the smoke from the burning evil. Cross contamination is a big risk, but we make it to the car without any telltale wheezing.
Thirty-nine
Sunday is a day many people will go to church, but The Mage is not given to such practices. She is no Christian, never was, and never will be. She agrees, though, with the bible wielders who decreed that Sunday is the first day of the week, and so she naturally will use it to look at what’s coming ahead. Planning, planning, planning, everyone needs it: witch or no witch, mage or no mage.
This week I must start to kick butt, she vows.
Indeed such tough action is needed because there are people out there who have been taking her power for granted, and she’d better show them who the real McCoy is.
Take, for example, that upstart called The Breaker. She is a pest who must be eliminated. The Mage has been getting vibes that the upstart is using something to track her. And The Mage has physical evidence of the trailing, too—last Thursday they almost met at the strip mall on Broadway. The Mage wasn’t prepared for a fight that day, and wonders what could have happened had they clashed. This week she will launch a surprise attack of her own.
And not to be forgotten of course are those who raided her home. The Boss and the client. They did it in a humiliatingly spectacular fashion, and they got away with what didn’t belong to them—for which they must pay.
She thinks about it more. With regards to Client E, though, The Mage can at least say the scheming minnow has already taken some physical punishment. She got herself thoroughly whipped. She screamed in pain for forgiveness, and The Mage eventually felt sorry for her, but truth to tell, E still has a good debt to pay and isn’t off the hook yet.
Now turning to the Boss, the bigger half of the burglary duo. Anger constricts The Mage’s throat as she recalls the affront. What a treacherous fellow. He gets recruited by a minor and accepts. He finds this place locked and then uses his door-opening magic, proceeding to harass and beat up her familiars. What kind of betrayal is that? In fact, when The Mage thinks about it, it wasn’t about helping the client at all. It was all about The Boss showing how powerful he now is, and that he is taking over the coven.
Honest to Jove, how is such disloyalty to be punished?
Another bout of rage twists the Mage’s face. The Boss must be dealt with even sooner, like today honestly. He lives in Medina, and later this morning, The Mage must drive there to crush him permanently. It’s a done deal.
Last night she spent a good amount of time at the Union Cemetery, and she recharged her magic arsenal that way. The Boss certainly won’t be able to stand.
Ready to roll, she rises from her bed. The time is eight o’clock, perhaps way too early to be up by her usual standard, but then this isn’t a typical day anymore. She walks over to a window and draws her curtains. It was cold and dreary at night in the cemetery, but the rain has long since stopped. Which is good, although the weather doesn’t count because a great Mage does herself justice in any conditions.
The tree Ratan likes to live in stands in the backyard. The Boss used demon-suppressant magic to prevent Ratan joining the felines in fighting to foil the robbery. What a wicked man, this burglar—for with Ratan’s sharp horn and ability to blow poisonous gusts, there was no w
ay The Boss and the client could have stood against the demon. Someone must pay for that.
She cracks a window open then drags in a big breath. The air out is fresh, but the greatest thing is that the war drums are beating. The Mage has never felt this worked up, and so really, why is she delaying things? She must rush to put everything into action, and the first step in preparing for any epic clash is to prime her felines by preparing a special battle meal.
She scampers downstairs. “Milyn, excuse me.”
“Sure thing, Madam.” Milyn was doing some cleaning but stops at once.
The Mage doesn’t want her maid to see her prepare the war broth. Not that Milyn could copy recipes—just that when anything magical is being brewed, there has to be some secrecy.
She mixes milk into two bowls then adds a little wheat flour. Next, she sprinkles in some powerful herbs and spices while chanting a war song in Quimglich. After that, she adds eggs and ground beef. Anything with a bit of blood in it makes a powerful ingredient for battle magic.
Upstairs the two felines are playing in the prayer room.
“Tyrese, Wheeler, we are going to war,” she says in Quimglich. “And to prepare, here is some gravy.”
The felines meow their acknowledgement. She understands. The two are very upset with the beating they got from The Boss and the client, and any mention of revenge teases them to frenzy.
“Today you get your turn to smash the bastard,” she adds.
Fire comes to their eyes, an angry, teary red. It’s good that way.
As the two dip their mouths into the soup, The Mage jumps on to the next thing, which is to call Fred and get the transport part in place.
He doesn’t take long to come.
“This is going to be a decisive day,” she says. “Someone is going to have their guts spilled.”
An icy fear glazes Fred’s face, like he is dead-scared it’s him who is spoken of.
“Come on, it’s not you I talk of.” She chides him.
“I knew you’d never hurt me, Mage.” Relief colors his voice, but that doesn’t soothe The Mage’s temper too much.
She glares at him, then turns to address the subject of the force they are carrying. “We are to bring my two warriors.”
The felines should normally be kept hidden, but Fred, being a coven member, is permitted to see certain magic things. The mystified follower looks around in case there are persons he doesn’t see.
“Felines, come down; it’s time to go.” The Mage calls, again in that language.
Tyrese and Wheeler yowl fiercely as they race down the banister. The company marches out.
“Onto seats.” She opens a back door for Tyrese, while Fred does the same for Wheeler. She takes the front seat with him.
Medina is just a little northeast of Clarence. Because it’s all magical, this attack perhaps ought to have been done at night, but now there is no going back. They head east on Broadway, then on Alleghany Road, they turn left. They follow Alleghany, past the Darien Lake Resort, and then all the way till it changes name and becomes South Gravel. The Boss lives alone in the rural outskirts of Medina, right on that road.
South Gravel is going to see something it has never seen.
The warlock’s red Mercury Cougar is parked in the long driveway of his wood-sided den. Magical defenses are up, and The Mage can see the subtle rays in the air. When did The Boss deploy those wards? Obviously he must have imagined the Mage might want for some action, and if he thought that, he is damn right.
The door is locked, but since the Cougar is here, the burglar warlock has to be in. From her bag, the Mage grabs a door opener: hers is in the form of an iron disc with a key like protrusion. She only feels a tingling sensation as the wards radiate their disabling power toward her, but she is strong; that’s why she is called extraordinaire. An ordinary witch would have been howling on the ground, poisoned by those rays, but certainly not her.
“Open the car so my cats can come out,” she orders Fred.
He does as told. While the felines jump out, The Mage brings the iron disc to the lock, with the protrusion pointing at the keyhole. She whispers an incantation and the door swings open.
Her rage peaks again as she scans inside. She can smell The Boss and wants to demolish him. She is a careful strategist, though, and takes a good look first in case her anger causes her to take false steps that would lead to peril.
As they enter, something aims toward them.
“Careful, Fred, wards,” she shouts. “Don’t take part in this.”
Truly this ward type of The Boss’s is different; it flies like an insect, and those are the most dangerous. The magic thing wasn’t gunning for Fred, but he jumps aside.
In an instant, the ward, having failed to strike a human target, hits the wall and bursts to produce an odorous red mist.
“Don’t breathe,” she holds her nose, and then fishes from her bag a defender magic of her own. She launches it to the floor, where it cracks and produces a gray haze. The haze starts to eat the mist. She drops her bag down in readiness.
“We get deeper in,” she commands the felines. “Fred, stay away.”
The red mist is now completely suppressed by the defender haze. The whole home’s interior turns gray, and The Mage now finds it easier to breathe, though it won’t help her rage.
“Come out, bastard, and surrender,” she yells, “or you die.”
Undaunted, The Boss races down from upstairs dressed all in black, as if he were a dark warrior. Truth to tell, he is prepared for this attack. He brandishes a copper sword in his hand, one almost blackened with oxide, and that makes it magical.
“Go away from here,” he growls.
She draws a magic from thin air by mouthing a chant. It forms a shield in front of her. Should The Boss try to rush through, he will be stopped in his tracks. The sword he wields remains dangerous, though, and can pierce the shield because it’s a magic one. However, its bite will be have been reduced somewhat.
The Boss hurls himself at the shield with his sword aimed. The Mage responds with a side dive. The sword catches her on the arm but doesn’t pierce, only leaving behind a graze that later will simmer with blood.
Responding, she summons another black mist from outside. It fans out like a spider’s web and throws itself at the boss, and that pushes him back. His sword clutters to the floor.
“Did you raid may house?” She stamps the floor in rage. The cats meow fiercely beside her, creating a din. Their eyes flash a dangerous flaming yellow and that puts even more fire into The Mage’s heart.
The Boss trembles and attempts to back away.
Seeing that, the felines charge. One grabs one foot, and the other does the same, and they struggle to drag him apart. Seizing the same opportunity, The Mage springs at him so to crash him. The Boss, though, is strong and parries her with his hands. She staggers backward, but she tells herself to stand, never to fall, and she doesn’t.
Meanwhile the felines attack relentlessly, yet can’t subdue the warlock. He moans with pain but fights to remain on his two legs.
“Give up now,” cries the Mage.
“You are nothing to me,” the Boss’s whimper is actually a growl.
Suddenly, from outside comes rushing in a coyote—whose eyes glow green. It’s his familiar coming to help, and it launches itself on Tyrese. The feline yelps as teeth sink into its skin. Wheeler releases hold of The Boss’s leg and rushes to Tyrese’s aid.
This is going to head to the wire. The Mage decides to finish fast. The Boss is growling and lunging at her. She summons the mist again, and like a blast it aims at his chest. This time, The Boss is struck harder and crashes to the ground. She gathers from the air another blow that pummels the coyote. It whimpers and then limps away.
“Now get him,” she instructs the felines to tear at the fallen Boss. “Revenge yourselves to the death.”
The felines attack and attack. By the time their anger has subsided, The Boss’s black garb is torn to shr
eds. There are scratches and bites all over his exposed body, and he is severely bleeding.
It’s a bloody mess, but it’s the only thing that can equate to her rage.
Forty
Today is Sunday, but even though it’s my usual day off, I am already out of bed early and getting things done. I can’t quit work because the wedding is this afternoon and a solution is critically needed.
Realizing that, some time ago at dawn I already put out the dropper to charge, and by now it should be ready. I must do one last locate before the big event of this afternoon. And what better time to start than right now.
I go out to get the dropper. Just as I reach the backyard, however, my phone rings. Surprise, surprise, it’s Butch.
“Why are you calling me?” My voice is colder than the Arctic.
“I want to take you out for lunch.” He is warm but tentative.
I don’t even have to think about this; I can’t agree. Here is a man who caused so much carnage in Clarence, and he wants to buy me food.
“Butch, you know you and I don’t do deals,” I say.
“I know that very well,” he counters. “But I have a confession to make, and you should hear it.” His voice strains as he pleads, but I don’t want to budge. I saw those cows of farmer Clyde’s, and the visions still induce nightmares in me.
“You belong to the other side, Butch. You damn well know there’s nothing in common between us.”
“Yes, I understand that very well,” he says. “But there is a side to my story you must know.”
Anger flashes at the edge of my being. “If you freakin’ have anything to say, do so at court,” I bark. “They do a fucking good job of listening.”
“No, it’s nothing to do with the courts.” He pleads again. “I just need to make a confession to you. Let’s meet over lunch.”
Smiryl has a problem, so I finally think to meet him. Yet if he imagines I will reverse the Pendle Curse, he’s fooling himself. I can never do that; no, not for the likes of him.
“Alright, I will meet you,” I say. “But you aren’t buying me lunch—okay.” I can’t bring myself to sup with a warlock who wreaked so much evil on innocent people. “I have my own clean money.” I add for good measure.
