“I’m good here,” Thistle said. “You smell like you’ve been in that bed for a long time, and I’m afraid of bed bugs. They freak me out.”
The wolf was flummoxed. “But … I want to see you.”
“You’re not missing anything,” Thistle said, glancing around the makeshift sick room. “I look the same as I did the last time you saw me. I might be a little sweatier … and dirtier … but I’m pretty much the same.”
“I want to give you a hug,” the wolf said.
“I’m afraid of personal contact, so I’m going to have to pass on that,” Thistle said. “Hugs make me feel all wonky, like you’re trying to invade my personal space. I told you that last time I was here. Don’t you remember?”
“I … well … of course,” the wolf said. “It’s just that I like to hug.”
“You’ll survive,” Thistle said. “So, Grandma, what did you do today?”
“I … um … just laid in bed,” the wolf said. “That’s what I usually do.”
“No, you don’t,” Thistle said, embracing her role. “You usually knit for a few hours, and then you read some of those torrid bodice-rippers you love so much. Oh, and you like to shave your legs while you’re in bed, too. Can I see if you did that today?”
The wolf frowned. “I … no! What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Thistle asked. “You don’t look like the grandmother I usually visit. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would say you’re an imposter.”
“I’m not an imposter,” the wolf squeaked. “I’m your grandmother.”
Thistle arched an eyebrow. “Really? When’s my birthday?”
“I forgot.”
“What’s my mother’s name?”
“Mom?”
“Close,” Thistle said. “Try again.”
“Mommy?”
“Okay, enough is enough,” Landon said. “You’re wasting time. Kill it and let’s get going.”
“You always have to ruin my fun,” Thistle grumbled.
“You’re the only one having fun.”
“Oh, whatever.” Thistle whipped the fireplace poker from behind her back and brandished it in front of the wolf. “Where is Daniel?”
“Who is Daniel? What are you going to do with that?”
“I’m going to stab you with it,” Thistle replied.
“But … I’m your grandmother.”
“You’re a wolf in a nightgown,” Thistle said. “Who falls for this act, by the way?”
“Hey, this isn’t how this is supposed to go,” the wolf said, lapsing into a deeper voice and glancing around the room. “You’re supposed to come in and fall for my act. You’re supposed to comment on my eyes and nose … and I’m supposed to get more and more menacing … and then you’re supposed to scream while I eat you.”
“That’s not how the story ends,” Thistle said. “You get killed by … who does kill the wolf in that story? Is it the woodsman?”
“That sounds right,” I said. “I don’t remember.”
“This is all wrong,” the wolf said, shaking his head hard enough that the spectacles slipped down his snout. “You can’t change the story. That’s not how this works. You have to follow the script.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Thistle said. “This is my story. It became my story the second I put the cloak on. I can end it any way I want.”
“I want to see the author,” the wolf said, crossing his paws over his chest. “This is not the role I signed on for.”
“None of us signed on for this,” Thistle said, plunging the poker into the wolf’s chest. “We still have to play the game.”
The wolf howled the second the poker hit his chest. Instead of creating a wound, though, the poker detonated the wolf into a cloud of confetti over the bed. The cabin dissolved around us, and we were back on the yellow brick road.
“Wow,” Clove said. “That was cool.”
“It was also educational,” I said. “That wolf knew it was in a story.”
“We also found we can change the script,” Thistle said. “That means we should be able to work our way through these stories a lot faster than we have been. Every story book character we find we just have to kill.”
“I think that’s taking things a little far,” Landon said. “What if you could only kill the wolf because it was a villain?”
“Oh, good point,” Thistle said. “Okay, new plan. Every villain we come across we need to kill. Every hero we come across we need to ask a few questions and then keep going. Every victim we come across … I’m sorry Landon … we have to ignore them.”
I was worried Landon would disagree, but when I turned to him he was already nodding his head in agreement. “That’s the plan. Let’s move, people. There might finally be some light at the end of this tunnel.”
Never take candy from strangers. There’s probably something wrong with it. The only exception is a Snickers. Go ahead and take it then, but don’t eat it. Bring it back for me, and I’ll test it for you.
– Aunt Tillie’s Wonderful World of Stories to Make Little Girls Shut Up
Chapter 11
“I kind of miss the cloak,” Thistle said.
We’d been walking about twenty minutes, and instead of the pall that had been following us for what felt like hours, we were feeling markedly lighter.
“I miss food,” Clove said.
My stomach rumbled in agreement. “I do, too.”
“I’m guessing there’s no food in fairy land,” Landon said, rubbing his own stomach sadly. “I would kill for a bacon cheeseburger right now.”
“I wouldn’t trust the food here,” Thistle said. “We know the apples are poisonous.”
“Maybe it’s just the apples,” I suggested.
“Do you want to take that chance?”
She had a point. “I guess not.”
We walked on for a few minutes, silent. My stomach refused to quit growling, though, and Landon’s was starting to rumble in tandem with mine. “Now that Clove brought up food that’s all I can think about,” I said.
“Me, too,” Thistle said. “If you can believe it, I swear I smell pot roast.”
I sniffed the air, groaning when I realized her words carried the power of suggestion. “Now I can, too. Thanks so much.”
“You’re not the only one,” Sam said. “I think I can smell baked ham. It smells just like my mom’s kitchen. She used to make a big one for Sunday dinner once a month, and then we would have something to make sandwiches with for days. It was amazing.”
“I smell French fries,” Marcus said. “Not only can I smell the fries, I can smell the salt.”
I glanced at Landon. “Let me guess, you smell bacon?”
He smiled, rueful. “Am I that transparent?”
“You’re predictable in your love of bacon,” I said. “I think, if it came down to it, you’d choose bacon over me.”
“Never,” Landon said. “I would choose to have you wrap yourself in bacon, though.”
“You’re so sick.”
“You’re both sick,” Thistle said. “I … hey … what’s that?”
We moved to her side, our gazes sliding in the direction she pointed. What we saw was straight out of a fantasy – one we’d all been living in mere seconds before.
“Is that what I think it is?” Landon asked, leaning forward.
“It’s a cottage,” Clove said.
“I don’t care about the cottage,” Landon said. “I’m talking about the garden. It looks as if it’s made out of … food.”
“Let’s see,” Thistle said, skipping off the road and heading toward the cottage.
“Thistle, be careful,” Marcus warned. “This could be a trap.”
“Of course it’s a trap,” Thistle said. “It’s Hansel and Gretel’s story.”
I froze, her words bringing the old tale to focus. Of course.
“Hansel and Gretel were tempted by a cottage made of gingerbread and candy,” Clove said. �
��This is a cottage made of … oh, man, is that flower pot full of burritos? I love burritos!”
“This is still a cottage dreamed up by Aunt Tillie,” I said. “She likes candy, but she likes regular food more. This would be her idea of a dream getaway.”
“It’s my idea of a dream getaway, too,” Landon said, moving closer to the cottage. “Look, sweetie, there’s bacon big enough to wrap yourself in here.” He waggled an eyebrow suggestively.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Me, too.”
I followed him, keeping close. My eyes couldn’t help but widen as each new garden entrée came into view. All of Aunt Tillie’s favorites – and most of mine – were here.
“Oh, there’s pot roast and barbecue ribs and prime rib and a big Thanksgiving turkey,” Thistle said. “I need to eat!”
My mouth watered and my mind went fuzzy as I reached for a fried chicken leg, and then something sounded in the back of my brain. It was a warning. “Wait.”
No one listened. Landon’s hands reached for a pinwheel made of bacon slices. It was almost as if he couldn’t hear me.
“Wait!”
Everyone froze, hands outstretched, eyes glassy.
“The food is cursed,” I said. “We can’t eat it.”
“I’m not sure I care,” said Sam, rubbing his hands over the top of a glazed ham as though he was about to propose to it.
“You’re going to care if it prolongs how long we’re in here,” I said. “In the story the candy is drugged. That means this food is probably drugged. We can’t eat it.”
“I’m so hungry, though,” Clove whined.
“It’s not as though we’re starving here,” I said. “We ate at the inn a few hours ago. We stuffed ourselves silly. We can’t eat this.” I turned to Landon, pleading. “We can’t.”
Landon found the control he was missing and stepped away from the bacon. “Bay is right. We can’t eat this.”
“Speak for yourself,” Thistle said, reaching for a hamburger daisy and plucking it from the stem. “Aunt Tillie loves food. She’s not going to poison it … even in a book. She would consider that sacrilegious.”
“I’m with Thistle,” Marcus said, grabbing a bouquet of French fry posies and taking one from the center. “This is going to be good. It’s going to be fine.” He popped one of the fries in his mouth, chewing enthusiastically. “See.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Thistle said, biting into the hamburger. “I knew Aunt Tillie wouldn’t poison the food. Some things are forever, and that’s exactly what Aunt Tillie’s love of food is.”
Marcus reached for a second French fry, but before he could pop it into his mouth he tilted forward and crashed to the ground, his bouquet of fries scattering across the green grass.
Thistle swallowed hard, her gaze falling on Marcus. “What just happened? Did he pass out because he was so hungry?”
Thistle barely got the words out before she dropped her burger and fell to the ground next to Marcus.
I stormed over to them, checking them both to make sure they had a pulse, and then straightened. “Does anyone else want to eat the food?”
“I think I just lost my appetite,” Sam said.
“Me, too,” Clove said, horrified. “Are they alive?”
“They’re sleeping,” I said. I rubbed my forehead and glanced at Landon. “Are you okay?”
“You saved me,” he said, breaking into a wide grin. “Maybe you’re the prince.”
“That’s going to make our sex life really creepy,” I pointed out.
“You’re right,” Landon conceded. “You can be a modern princess. I’d especially like it if you ditched the frilly dresses and embraced latex.”
I couldn’t help but smile. It didn’t last long, but it felt good. “We have a new problem obviously,” I said, gesturing toward Marcus and Thistle’s prone bodies. “Now we have to solve this story to get those two back on their feet.”
“I don’t know what I remember about this story,” Landon said. “My mother wasn’t big on fairy tales. Doesn’t a witch live in that cottage?”
“Yes. She drugs the candy – or in this case burgers and fries – and then captures the children so she can eat them.”
“Nice,” Landon said. “If I hadn’t already lost my appetite, that would have pretty much killed it.”
“How does the witch in the story die?” Sam asked.
“The kids turn the tables on her when she’s not looking and push her in the oven and roast her alive,” I said.
“Have you ever considered how violent these stories are?” Clove asked, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, think about it. The wolf tries to eat Little Red Riding Hood. The witch poisons Snow White. This witch tries to eat children. It’s really pretty … awful.”
“It is,” I agreed. “We don’t have time to talk about that now, though. If you want to debate the merits of fairy tales, I’ll be happy to do it for hours on end – over pizza and chocolate martinis – once we’re back in the guesthouse.”
“We have to go in the cottage, right?” Landon asked.
“We do,” I said.
“Are we all going?” Clove was nervous again. “I think that only two of us should go. That way someone will be out here to watch Marcus and Thistle and, if the first couple fails, there will be another couple to save them.”
She was so transparent. “I’m guessing you want to be the one to watch over Thistle and Marcus.”
“I’m more nurturing, so that probably makes sense.”
I rolled my eyes until they landed on Landon. “Do you want to kill a witch with me?”
“Sure,” he said. “It might be a nice way to get out some of my aggression so I don’t really murder Aunt Tillie when we get out of here.”
“Let’s go,” I said, gesturing toward the door. “I want to get this over with … mainly because I want to make sure Thistle admits I was right and she was wrong.”
“That’s a beautiful trait, sweetie,” Landon said, pressing his hand against the small of my back as he ushered me toward the cottage. “It really turns me on.”
“Are you joking?”
“Actually I’m not,” Landon said. “If you toss in a little dance while you do the ‘I’m right’ song I’ll reward you with a romantic dinner at the seafood restaurant of your choice when we get out of this.”
“Really?”
“All the crab legs you can eat.”
“I really do love that you get me,” I said.
He kissed my cheek quickly. “Me, too. Come on. Let’s fry a witch.” He snorted. “We should start making a list of the things I say tonight. They could make a really funny book.”
“I’ll try to remember.” I raised my hand to knock and then thought better of it. “I’m thinking we should use the element of surprise here. What do you think?”
“Let’s break the law, baby.”
I turned the handle quietly, carefully pushing the door open. A cursory glance around the room told me that this witch had horrible taste. It was as though she had a subscription to Better Homes and Gardens and instead of picking one theme she picked every theme and crammed it into the same room. This witch was a crazy hoarder. At least I didn’t see one hundred cats. That would have only made the situation worse.
“This is unbelievably tacky,” Landon said.
“Shouldn’t you have been tipped off by the potluck yard?”
“That was beautiful.”
The sound of footsteps on hardwood floors grabbed our attention. The woman who walked into the room was dressed in a hideous floor-length Victorian gown, a high lace neck covering her throat. Her gray hair was piled on top of her head, and other than some unnaturally saggy skin she looked relatively normal.
“You must be … .” Landon broke off, unsure. “Do I just call you Mrs. Witch?”
“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
I couldn’t contain my surprise when I recognized the woman. It had been
years since I had seen her. The last time was at a summer camp when she came to pick up her nasty granddaughter, Rosemary. That was fourteen years ago, though. It just couldn’t be. “Aunt Willa?”
“Do I know you?” The woman seemed surprised by my recognition.
“Who is she?” Landon asked.
“She’s Aunt Tillie’s sister.”
“I thought your grandmother was Aunt Tillie’s sister.”
“She had two sisters,” I said.
“What happened to the second one? Did she die, too?”
“No,” I said. “She was just kind of … banished from the family.” I forced a tight smile onto my face as I regarded my great-aunt, who was, if you can believe it, even worse than the great-aunt who cursed us into a book of children’s stories. “How are you, Aunt Willa?”
“I don’t know you,” Aunt Willa said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why do you keep speaking to me as if you know me?”
“She’s not real, Bay,” Landon said. “She’s not your aunt.”
He was right. Instinctively I knew it. It was so surreal to think about. I cleared my throat. “You bear a resemblance to someone I know,” I said. “I’m sorry for the mistake.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re in my house,” Aunt Willa said. “When you enter someone’s house you’re supposed to knock. There wasn’t any knocking. I would have heard it.”
“We’re sorry,” Landon said. “We got lost in the woods. We’re looking for a … phone.”
“A what?”
“There are no phones here,” I said. “Actually, we’re looking for a glass of water. We’re really thirsty.”
“You expect me to reward you for breaking into my house?”
She may have been a figment of Aunt Tillie’s colorful imagination, but she was exactly as I remembered her. I’d hated her visits when I was a child – and not only because she always brought my second cousin Rosemary with her. Rosemary was such an awful person. Aunt Willa taught Rosemary how to be evil, and Rosemary had nothing on her beloved grandmother.
“You’re right,” I said. “We don’t deserve water.” I glanced around the cottage, my eyes falling on a heavy-looking book.
Witchy Tales Page 10
