by A. R. Miller
Okay, she knows I saw her the other night and is waiting for me to say something. I’m not going to; it’s none of my business. I know by giving her the raise I’ve kind of made it my business, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Yep, that’s it. Why don’t you take off, go study before you have to go to class.”
“Thank you, thank you so much, Keely.” She hugs me before practically running from the room.
I almost ask what happened to I’m not a touchy feely sort, but decide it’s not worth it. Waiting until I hear the click of the deadbolt I take a deep breath and wonder just how stupid I am. What if it had been The Collector, or a thief? And why didn’t I ask for help dragging in those boxes? With some reluctance, I turn back to why I’m here and shudder. Might as well get to it, it’s not going to happen on its own.
A vacuum hose at each station leads to a canister located under the vanity. The stylist is responsible for vacuuming the remnants of every cut and placing them into individual color–coded bags. A different color bag for each stylist.
Some clients choose to take their clippings with them. This is fine with me. It absolves me of the responsibility of disposal. The individual bags not taken are placed in the storeroom.
Instead of simply dumping them, I incinerate them in a barrel specially prepared for holding witchfire that stands in the center of the room. Unlike plain fire, witchfire burns cold, leaving nothing behind. Not even ash.
I learned this lovely trick from The Sisters. My grandmother and her sisters are triplets and have always been referred to as The Sisters. They have a tendency to speak in unison, as if they are one entity. Some of my childhood friends found it difficult to be around them. It’s disconcerting to have the same voice coming at you from three different directions. They are the only family I know. No one explained to me where my parents were. Most people just assumed they passed away. I stuck to the story, not wanting to admit I didn’t know where they were, or why they left. Someday, maybe Eliza, Matilda and Nicolina will explain what happened.
Until then, it’s back to burning hair. I can feel the bile rise in my throat and I try not to gag. I sort the bags by color, then carefully count and check the number with the services performed by the corresponding stylist. I count again, and then a third time.
There’s one missing. One of mine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“And just what are you supposed to do, call the police and report a missing bag of hair?” Dara reclines, a dark blot of disheveled black and red, across a white couch. Even just pulled from slumber, she looks like she should be gracing the pages of some fashion rag. Now that I’ve awakened her I’m feeling a bit guilty and a lot nervous, but I didn’t know what else to do.
“Hel’s Realm, Dara, I don’t know. All I know is one of the bags is gone.”
Most people would think, the world’s not going to end over the loss of one bag of hair, but I know better. Disposing of small pieces that seem like nothing to those who know zero about magic is probably the most important part of my job. Personal items can be used as tools, or weapons in magic. What can be more personal than hair, nails, skin and body fluids? Too many of our clients are powerful Ens, letting even the smallest bit of them fall into the wrong hands could be disastrous. Not just for business.
“Maybe it was moved out of sight. You said Jenny was in there when you came in, maybe she moved it, or it got tossed somewhere when you startled her. There is always the possibility that it was given to the client and you forgot to record it, it has happened to all of us at one time, or another.”
I nod, then the floor tilts beneath me.
“Dara, what if it was Karen’s?” The floor decides tilting isn’t enough, it drops.
Here I am, head between my knees, a vampire hovering over me telling me to relax. Not exactly a relaxing situation, even if the vamp is a friend.
“What if Jenny took the bag?”
“Keely, you have read enough of those detective novels to realize the most likely suspect is usually never the right one.”
“Yeah, but I live vicariously through those things, I don’t want them bleeding into real life. I think I need some air.”
Dara helps me to my feet.
“Yes, I believe you do. I did not think it possible for you to get any paler, but you look like the walking dead.”
Uns have mistaken me for a walking corpse because of my skin tone, but to have a walking corpse tell me, I must look ghastly.
“You should go upstairs and lie down. Better yet, have a long soak in the tub, relax. I will handle your appointments.”
I nod as she steers me toward the door. Luckily, tonight is a light appointment load and I have to admit I’m not up to dealing with the others, or clients. A long soak in the tub isn’t going to fix the problem, but it sure sounds like a good idea.
***
The scent of lavender lifts with the steam, a moist blanket of calm illuminated by the flickering glow of candlelight. Rich plum and cherry with undertones of chocolate and black pepper tantalize the taste buds. The book resting on the edge of the tub all, but forgotten as I slide deeper into a cocoon of warmth, letting today’s—hel, this week’s—woes drown in water and wine.
Deep down I know there’s a connection between the missing bag and The Collector. Call me naïve and possibly stupid, but I refuse to believe Jenny is that connection. The hooker wear of the other night aside, she’s a good kid. She’s good at her job and from my understanding does well in school.
Considering her background—having two Ens as parents and coming out an Un—maybe there’s a little confusion about where she fits in, possibly a little resentment. But I still don’t believe she’s helping, or gods forbid, is The Collector.
That little voice of reason comes a tap, tap, tapping at the back of my brain. Two and two make four. Nope, not going to listen, not going to think about it.
Mel’s admission of rumors alluding to the possibility of harnessing an En’s Talent is more terrifying than the loss of a bag of hair. Unless that bag of hair is how they gained control of the En in question.
Oh, Hel’s Realm, I need to stop thinking about this crap.
I take another sip of wine, letting it roll across my tongue. Stretching my neck and shoulders, I lean back, pulling in the spicy sweet smell of lavender, hold the breath and count to ten before slowly exhaling. Trading the glass for the book, forced relaxation and distraction, just what the doctor ordered.
Who am I kidding about trying to relax? There’s no use forcing myself to concentrate. Right now my life is mirroring fiction, minus the hunky hero and the kick ass heroine. Instead, we have a couple of suspicious hunks and a timid receptionist—the stereotypical character everyone assumes just couldn’t do it—who might be the big bad and me. There is no way I can hold a candle to any of these ladies. Not that I want to take on this big bad. I just want to go back to reading about things like this rather than living them. We all like to think we will do exactly what the heroes do, but until you’re thrown into the story, you have no idea.
Enough. I trade the book for the glass and finish the contents. A little deep breathing and clearing of the mind. Starting with my toes and working my way up I force my body to unwind. By the time I reach my face, my lids already feel like ten pound weights and I let them drift down. My jaw descends, releasing a yawn before I knew it was building. A few more moments soaking and then off to bed.
Moisture laden air no longer carries the scent of lavender, but the sickly sweet tang of decay that toys with my gag reflex. Like a dead mouse the cat grew tired of and hid in some unknown region. Raising my arm, I bury my face in my elbow and breathe through my mouth.
Good gods, it stinks and it’s dark. Too dark for me to make out the details of my surroundings. Extreme low light is not a problem, but anything less than moonlight is a challenge.
The ground makes a horrid sucking sound as I take a step and my stomach heaves. Slick and slimy it oozes between my toes with
each squelching step. I keep moving, fearful it will pull me under if I stay in one place too long. The way it’s crawling up my ankles, I’d swear it’s alive.
Yep, this stinking shit is alive. It’s making its way up my calves. Move faster? Yeah, there’s a thought. The mind and body are willing, but wallowing through creeping crud makes it a challenge. A heart–pounding, high–stepping, stomach–retching, stinking–to–high–heaven challenge.
By now, I’m up to my waist in compost. Struggling to keep my head above the slime and ooze, remembering to breathe through my mouth seems like an extravagance. Even though my clawing at the thick air doesn’t help—I’m not stupid, just panicked—I do it anyway.
Something about struggling in quicksand, making you sink faster tickles at the back of my brain. Reason and common sense get pushed out when in the middle of full blown panic. I start to wonder which is worse, drowning in muck, or my own vomit as I spit out a combination of the two.
Little Queen...
The gunk coating my ears muffles the voice, but I know it’s Einen.
Wake up. I’m dreaming. I must have fallen asleep.
Nothing is distinguishable, a hazy kaleidoscope of light and color. Herb–infused water laced with Merlot instead of decayed sludge replaces oxygen. Leaden limbs thrash and claw at the oppressive bonds determined to pull me under. The vinyl curtain bunches in my grasp, leverage lost as the fabric gives way covering my writhing body. A blinding flash of pain erupting as my head connects with porcelain.
That crack to the noggin clears a path through the panic. I’m in the tub, not a swampy marsh, or even a river, lake, or ocean—not like there are any oceans near Iowa—I refuse to go down like this. Drowning in my own tub with a cheap vinyl curtain as a shroud.
My curtain–tangled hand slides along the side, elbow cracking the bottom, wedging my arm between the tub and my body as I roll. The curtain rolls with me, freeing the other arm. Flinging that arm forward I manage to hook it over the side and pull myself upward. Hoisting myself over the edge of my watery prison, I land in a painful heap on the less than forgiving tile. Choking and heaving as oxygen–starved lungs purge themselves.
Eventually I gather enough strength to pull myself out of the spreading puddle of pink–tinged bile mingling with the contents of the toppled bottle. The shower curtain dangles from the final two and a half hooks floating across rose stained water. The wine glass didn’t stand a chance against my panicked thrashing. Various pieces of the bowl are scattered across the bottom. Still attached to the stem the base bobs at the foot of the tub. Evidently, wine isn’t the only thing staining the water.
Like that two year old who only notices the pain of a scraped knee when pointed out, I now feel the sting of a multitude of tiny slashes compounded by as many bruises. My stomach does a flipity–flop as my brain registers the possibility of bits of glass embedded in those cuts.
All I wanted was some quiet alone time, you know, scented candles, warm bath, glass of wine. Instead, I get something out of a horror flick, minus the screeching music. Calgon, take me away now has a whole new meaning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The bathroom looking less like a battlefield, wounds tended to the best of my ability, I shift gears. A little something to help me forget my trip down the stinky marshland road that nearly ended in a watery grave. Ice cream—ice cream fixes every problem, right?—and a movie. I’ll pass on action adventure, my life has enough of that, and romance is a no go on many levels. Maybe a comedy? I know someone, somewhere is laughing at me so if I can’t laugh along I may as well laugh at something else.
C.C. ambles alongside me into the kitchen. “You need a snack too?” Stupid question, but I still feel the need to ask.
Grabbing a bag of kitty treats and the special gallon of ice cream—Mel so thoughtfully made for me—I head back to the living room. Who needs a bowl when you’re the only one eating it?
It’s June and warm, but I still snatch up the afghan my grandmother crocheted and tuck it around myself. One of those comforting things therapists would assume is a crutch and blame on something from my childhood. Like I care. I just need the reassurance right now of something normal.
C.C. stands territorially over the pile of treats, munching away while I fumble with the lid of my own treat and the remote. Creamy, chocolaty, coffee goodness. If Moocha Java doesn’t make me feel better, I don’t know what will.
Between bites, I flip on the TV, rotating through the channels. Nothing, nothing, oh gods, something I’ve been trying to avoid. The anchorwoman lays out the deeds of our favorite psychopath in vivid Technicolor. I force myself to touch the channel button and fail, hitting the volume instead.
“The collection count rises, cascading fear throughout the Des Moines area. They are withholding the name of the latest victim along with details of the trophy taken. Both local officials and the NTF are working around the clock to put a stop to this grisly compilation. Channel 8 sources report an object found at the scene could lead to a major breakthrough. Stay tuned for updates.”
Gods, they’re calling the body parts trophies now. I hit the channel up button and stab my spoon into the bucket. My treat tastes more like a trick. Even that’s ruined.
There must be suspicions of both Un and En involvement for the police and the NTF to both work on the case. A soft breeze teases the shears and I pull the afghan tighter, I need sleep, but I know the only thing found in my bed will be nightmares. Looks like I have a date with the T.V. Maybe someone will be showing 2001 A Space Odyssey. That movie never fails to put me to sleep.
***
Jenny in her crazy hooker wear replaces the anchorwoman, Var Royd to her right, Alric Brand and his buddy to her left. Her laughter, the exaggerated, maniacal type lampooned in movies, is even more bizarre with her streetwalker appearance. The news desk covered in red cloth—no, blood, my blood—an altar to which my body is tied. Brand’s fangs exposed, red drool running down his pretty face, his friend—looking like a cross between Hollywood’s Wolfman and Anubis—sports some impressive blood–coated claws.
A star–like object, presumably torn from my ravaged torso, cradled in Jenny’s hands held aloft, then outward, an offering to Royd. Somehow, I know this is the very essence of my Talents, rooted so deeply, my destruction is the only way to remove them.
The shadowy figure of my childhood friend haunts the edge of the scene. Instead of his usual watching, holds his pale hands out toward me.
A horrendous yowling drowns out the laughter and stinging pain that shouldn’t be there—I’m dead, right?—rips across my cheek. I can’t breathe. Believable, considering my chest cavity lay open.
The ear splintering noise continues as the tingle of long unused limbs crawls along arms and legs. Something cold and wet presses against my lips, little puffs of air tickling then something akin to wet sandpaper rakes across my throbbing cheek leaving a damp trail.
I force sleep–crusted eyes open and meet golden green ones, the licking stops. A great ball of grey and white fur rumbles in satisfaction and I wrap my arms around him as I sit up. A dream, just a dream. I crush my savior until tiny pinpricks bite into me and he squirms free, the white fur on his head tinged pink. My cheek stings something awful as salty tears mingle with blood. I can’t be mad. He did what he had to, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting like hel. Thank the Gods C.C. needs me to feed him and clean his litter box.
He sits at the edge of the couch, watching me cry. I can’t help a teary smile as he lays a paw on my leg, his little toes flexing. I stroke his back and he moves onto my lap, reaches up, and pats my unmarked cheek. My throat feels like I swallowed a pincushion as I choke out a thank you and cradle him against me.
Afraid to go to bed, I’d fallen asleep on the couch. The TV unbearably loud as some health nut rambles about the benefits of the exercise machine they’re hawking. Fumbling for the remote, I flip it off. The Captain sits beside me watching for signs of instability.
“That was some
nightmare, thanks.” I gently touch my cheek.
His answer tangled up in a yawn, obviously satisfied I’m back to some sort of normality, stretches out closing his eyes. Lucky cat. There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep, might as well get a start on the day.
Coffee brewing, I check out the damage done to my cheek. Not deep, just enough to break the skin, bright blood against white skin. That dream was straight out of the Brothers Grimm. Unlike the modern day interpretations, there was no happy ending. C.C. deserves a special treat today, even if I will have to use a glamour to cover this up at work.
Wavering shades of grey gather around me, reflected in the mirror. Spinning around I find nothing, obviously leftover remnants of my dream. Turning I lean against the sink and stare at myself.
“It was just a dream, brought on by everything that’s been happening. The shadow figure is my imaginary friend from childhood, my subconscious fleeing to a safe place.”
Yeah, right, answers that little voice of reason as I open the cabinet, grabbing gauze and peroxide. The stinging pain as it touches the scratches is a small price to pay. That’s twice he’s brought me out of a nightmare. Maybe the little pig does care.
Peroxide splashes as my hand jerks. The burning itch of energy tumbles over my skin, signaling an attempted breach of the shields barring the entrance to my living quarters.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I know I turned the deadbolt. Only two people have a key, Dara and I. Neither of us would have set off the alarms.
The blood pulses in my ears. What if whoever it is makes it upstairs past the tangle of wards and spells? Instinct says run and hide in the closet. The inherent need to defend my territory, says barge on down and kick some invader ass.
Whoever is on the other side of that door is possibly strong enough to push through all the safeguards placed on the building. Commonsense says nothing good will come of going down there.
