by A. J. Aalto
The Jerkface said, “It’s ‘we’ now?” with a quirk of one dark eyebrow. “Is that thing in her brain doing damage? Is it killing brain cells? We need it out. Now.”
I tried to stop what came out next, but the being squirming in my brain was quite insistent, and delighted in declaring, “You can do nothing to stop us. Neither of you can do a thing. You waste your time. We are not yours. We are mine.” It huffed through my nostrils aggressively, like some sort of bull shaking furiously and snot-attacking. Both men made ew-gross faces and pulled back. “You will give us what we want or step aside.”
“And what is it that you want, Nameless One?” the elegant one asked with seeming politeness that I saw through, and so did the spriggan; the little creature was bonding with my emotional center and picking up little things I knew about the elegant man, searching for tricks.
“Do not play with me,” my visitor shouted, hard enough to hurt my throat. It hissed hot breath through my teeth for a moment then snarled, “You will give us nothing we need!”
“I think you should find that is demonstrably fallacious,” the elegant dead one declared, drawing himself up to full height. “I have always supplied my pet with anything her heart should desire, and I see no reason to stop that now. Search through our Bond, if you can, Nameless One, and witness: how perfect is my devotion?”
At mention of the Bond, the spriggan was taken aback, and my molars clacked shut.
A hand slapped my shoulder forcefully and spun me around. Wes. He took my hands, took my gloves by the fingertips, and yanked. I couldn’t comprehend what he was doing, and the spriggan certainly had no idea; when he placed my bare palms on his face, right on his cheeks, the rush of dizziness in my head made no sense at first, until the familiarity of the Blue Sense sent a jolt through my skull. Rattled by the spriggan, the visions were blurry and disjointed, but the spriggan leaped at the opportunity to learn what was happening, and its finger-like tendrils crawled through my mind until it found exactly the right buttons to press; it stumbled through Talents and revenants and DaySitters and witchcraft and the full range of knowledge I had about the subjects, filtered through the mess until it stumbled across my own unique skill set. (Powers.)
“Powers. Magic.”
I felt a cold, damp, joint-aching rush as my psychometry Talent blended with Wes’s powers. “Telepath,” the monster whispered with my mouth.
“Yes, Marnie,” Wesley said, nodding, and his cold hands patted the back of mine. “Focus. What is a spriggan and what can we do?”
“Spread,” it said.
“Noooooo,” the Jerkface spoke up. “I’ve seen this fucker spread. Can't allow that.”
“Fuck your jerk face!” my visitor howled again, and I felt a wave of panic as it fought to cloud me further.
Wes shouted, “Don’t anger her.”
The Jerkface also raised his voice. “Don’t tell me what to—“
“Out!” I shouted.
“Out!” Wes seconded, a growl snagging in the back of his throat. Through my palms, I felt a subtle shift as my brother (yes, my brother, my kin, I told the spriggan, wondering if it knew that concept) slowly rolled over from dead human to full-on monster; his control of this shift had become more masterful in the last few months, as he practiced doing just that.
Together, Wes and I glared at the Jerkface. I knew without looking that Wes’s eyes had gone from bright, Husky-dog blue to wilted violet. The elegant dead one (My companion! My Cold Company! Harry! my memory insisted, and the spriggan allowed me to associate the name with the plain, pale face and the slightly receding sandy hair) spoke placidly, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
“Come, my hunter.” He touched the Jerkface on the forearm, a companionable tap. “We shall get you a beer and retire to the kitchen to bake scones whilst my MJ’s brother sorts this out. It seems we have worn out our welcome. I trust you have this in hand, lad?”
“Uh, sure,” Wes said, letting out a soft heh heh. “I think so. But she doesn’t want you here. Neither of her… uh, bits. Pieces. Halves?” He patted my hands again. “Is that right, Marnie?”
The spriggan let me nod.
“Hold on, sis,” Wes said softly as the elegant one shut the door behind them. “I’ve got you.” He frowned. “I’ve got you both. Can you tell me…”
He stared into my eyes and I felt something new: my brother had never pushed his revenant mind control into my head this way. I hadn’t known he was capable of quite such an advanced power yet, not so early after is turning, but in typical Baranuik fashion, Wes was stubborn, determined, pushy, and — unlike me — fearless. In the recent past, he’d been shown how to turn into a bat, had leaped off the barn roof to fly after the Harry. Oh, how the spriggan was fascinated by that memory as I played it back for both of us — and Wes would not be dissuaded by the “fact” that he was too early de la tomb to master his telepathy. Wes had been told not to push it, but he was already developing the ability to sift through and control human thoughts at a frightening speed; I was both proud and terrified at the same time. I wondered if Harry knew he could do this. The spriggan released its hold on more of my mind again, like opening a fist and letting thread unspool, and I nearly went limp with relief as more of myself returned.
“Can you tell me her name?” Wes asked. “Before we go any further, I think we need to know who and what she is.”
I shook my head. “Power.” The spriggan had wants and needs. It showed me in bright, green, vivid flashes: spreading vines, vigorous life, warm sun, a drenching rain, and power, sweet power. The startled flutter of birds as they fled the honeysuckle-home. It plunged back into my mind to search for how I might help it.
But what I wanted to know was… her? I stared at Wes and he nodded. “Yes, this being is female,” he said. “Hey, listen, spriggan, can I give you some friendly advice? You don’t want to be inside her. She’s the worst. She’s bad at everything.”
I swatted at him but he dodged my hand. I wrestled with the concept of the female creature in my brain. Yes, that made sense. (“Pollinate me!” I had yelled at the scowling Jerkface.)
Wes chuckled. “Whoa. Glad he didn’t take you up on that one. Or… did he?”
I glared at him.
“Just asking.” The scarred side of his mouth turned up in a smirk gone horrifyingly wrong, puckering lip revealing too much tooth. “The last thing this world needs is a mini Marnie running around, especially with a daddy who teaches her how to stake dead guys.”
He steered me by my shoulders until we were in right up to the herb shelves, where there were jars and bags and boxes and books. There were two grimoires within: I recognized my own leather book, and showed my visitor the old, nasty, yellowish one once owned by Ruby Valli, a murderous old bitch who had died on my dock by the fangs of her own starving revenant, Gregori Nazaire; Gregori’s ashes resided in a Kermit the Frog cookie jar on top of my fridge. The spriggan did not understand the ashes, or the concept of a fridge or a cookie jar, or why I would keep the remains of something I destroyed; she sought the answer, though I struggled to block my feelings about it. I didn’t think teaching the spriggan about murdering revenants was a good idea, since I lived with two of them. Guarding that knowledge was the hardest thing I’d done all day, and Wes felt my struggle.
“No, don’t fight her, Marnie,” he said. “Let her see everything.”
I felt my eyes widen and I shook my head rapidly.
“Trust me on this one,” my baby brother told me.
My eyes darted at the grimoires.
“Yes, that. In a minute. First, let her see. Let her know us.”
I closed my eyes tightly, hoping this wasn’t a gigantic mistake, and opened myself completely to the creature who was very happily taking over control of who and what I was. I dropped my guard and exposed all my secrets, letting her run unchecked in all my darkest corners. She discovered my deep, ridiculous obsession with the Jerkfaced one in all his naked, sexytimes glory, and the human i
deas of pollinating-but-not-for-realsies, pollinating-for-practice, pollinating-for-spanks-and-giggles. She explored my metaphysical Bond with Harry, and how DaySitters were made and how they functioned and how they were destroyed, and how their revenants were created and destroyed, too. She probed me about kinship and my brother, and all my sisters, and my parents, and my hopes and dreams, my love of frogs and Jean-Luc Picard and coffee and brownies, my accomplishments and my secret shames and everything I was capable of. She danced around my shortcomings, and I felt her connect there, deeper than before; she didn’t like that I had flaws, she didn’t like it any more than I did, but she also wanted to help me fix those things in a way I that I found rather hysterical. When I let out a surprised “Ha!” we both started, which startled Wes, who was trying to follow along with his in-and-out telepathy.
“She likes you,” he divined.
I nodded. Oddly enough, now that I wasn’t fighting the spriggan, I kinda liked her, too. Her clear-eyed view of the world was comfortingly simple: nourish and spread, nourish and spread.
“Take another step back, control-wise,” Wes suggested. “Let her do whatever she wants with your body.”
He said it like I had a whole lot of control over that in the first place, but whatever small bit I still commanded I gave up, freely and trustingly, letting all my muscles relax. The spriggan toyed with my grey matter, moving me like a marionette on her strings, lifting one hand and then the other, patting Wesley’s pale cheek, brushing aside his long blond bangs to reveal the scars he kept hidden; the spriggan wanted to know how it had happened, so I showed her in painful detail the memory of the Prior savaging Wes with holy water, taking his left eye out and most of that side of his face.
She didn’t like that; I felt a surge of protective rage that echoed my own. She was connecting that attack with the damage the brawny Jerkface had tried to do to her honeysuckle bush.
“How did she get into that bush?” Wes wanted to know, reading her home in my mind.
The spriggan didn’t know, didn’t understand, but ached to return to it. It was her place. She would not release me until she was allowed to return to it, safe and sound, and she would make me protect her.
Understanding dawned across Wesley’s scarred face. “Your turn, Marnie.”
I showed a mental picture of my grimoire and some spell-making to the spriggan, who was curious enough to bring us closer to the book. Together, we managed to make me pick the grimoire up, put it on my desk, and flip through it.
“Got something for this?” Wes wanted to know. “You know, like a, uh, Plant-Monster-Be-Gone?”
The spriggan and I gave him our best no, dumbass frown.
I stopped on a page about banishing. It didn’t seem to serve my purpose exactly, of course, but a witch who knows her shit can alter at the altar, neato-presto, no problemo. I tapped the page, thinking reassuring thoughts at my brother and my little green passenger.
Wes flipped into minion mode, reminding me a little of my Irish ex-assistant, Dr. Declan Edgar, the dhampir. I shared fond memories of Declan with the spriggan while Wes fetched herbs and candles and oils for me, checking the ingredients list, allowing himself to be redirected with a point of my finger at different things. I swapped out mild snapdragon for a bold yellow toadflax because it was also an invasive species, very hard to uproot; and rowan, which I don’t keep, for black pepper, which complimented and boosted the masculine gender and fire element of the toadflax.
Pulling the throw rug in my office to one side, I revealed the large painting my sister Carrie had done on the floorboards for me: a spreading tree with three white snowy owls, surrounded by a white pentagram six feet in diameter adorned with symbols for the Watchtowers and the spirit. Wes fetched my mortar and pestle and began stirring dried toadflax; I corrected his technique, showing him how to grind rather than clumsily flail things around. The spriggan wasn’t so sure about using the plants, but I pointed out that, much like Wes and the elegant one, they were already dead. We would give their sacrifice meaning by putting them to good use.
I jabbed a finger at the next page, where Wes read which candle colors I’d need (yellow, blue, and grey), and the mix of liquids that he would have to blend. In his hurry, he whipped open the other side of my herb cabinet hard enough to rattle the beakers and test tubes in their racks. The spriggan and I made an annoyed huff.
“Sorry, sorry. Uh, Four Thieves vinegar? I don’t see that anywhere…” He moved bottles around, seeking with his hands in the back of the cabinet.
I directed him to my bottle, which I had labeled as Marseilles vinegar.
He said uncertainly, “Crossroads dirt?”
I nodded and shook my hands at him to indicate that I’d take care of it, then pointed outside. I grabbed a bottle of rotgut I kept in that section of the cabinet and eyeballed it at about five ounces, enough to make my head swirly. Disorienting my own mind would help encourage my stowaway to bail, hopefully. I took down a five hundred milliliter beaker and mixed the vinegar and the booze in equal measures. It wasn't going to be a particularly tasty cocktail, but when one is drinking for the effects, compromises have to be made. I just hoped it wouldn't burn off whatever was left of my nose hair. Maybe the fumes would drive her out all on their own.
“Dump the potion in with the herbs?” Wes asked, and I put my hand over the beaker to indicate no. He paused to check the grimoire again. “Oh, I see. Next: do we have strawberries?”
I indicated the kitchen, and he went to the door; when he opened it, the Jerkface had his ear pressed against the other side. The elegant one had on his red apron dusted with flour, and was standing at the kitchen table with a large mixing bowl cradled in his arm, stirring with a wooden spoon. It was clear he was just as obviously listening in with his preternatural hearing from across the room.
Wes sighed. “Oh, thanks. This is how much you trust me to handle shit? Fuck you both.”
The spriggan and I crossed my arms over my chest and gave the pair of them the stink-eye.
Harry straightened, gave the front of his immaculate shirt an unnecessary brush for stray lint, and ran a smoothing finger over his eyebrow. “Good heavens. It seems a man can’t even eavesdrop in his own home these days.”
Jerkface snort-laughed, but had nothing to say. It seemed to the spriggan that his replies were noises of derision more often than not, and he wasn’t the most helpful sort; I told her she was right, and we both found it privately amusing. For a moment, I thoroughly enjoyed having my visitor. She was a tiny, green ally in my battle against reality. It occurred to me that if the price wasn’t as high and scary as possible brain damage and a variable level of outright possession, I wouldn’t mind having her stick around. I could name her Absinthe, the Green Fairy, and call her Abby. It'd be bitchin'. Asmodeus would plotz. Or maybe he'd enjoy having another voyeur on board when the sexytimes with Harry happened. That wouldn't surprise me, either. I could just imagine him making all kinds of terrible gardening innuendos and threatening to pollinate me with some kind of infernal ragweed. Pazuzu's Kudzu sounded pretty tenacious, and would make an awesome name for a vegan heavy metal band.
Wes returned with a few strawberries, and I smiled at him. Now, I appealed to the spriggan to return enough of my self-control for me to speak directly to the others. Despite our tentative friendship, she was reluctant to do so, and wasn’t entirely thrilled about my attempts to do magic. On the latter, she was willing to watch and see; she was a clever creature and her curiosity was overruling some of her misgivings.
I imagined what I needed next, and Wesley nodded at me. “Okay. Batten, you’re up.”
Batten, that’s right. They call him Kill-Notch, I thought, and the spriggan reluctantly allowed me to remember the Jerkface’s name, though I didn’t elaborate on the source of his nickname.
He did not look encouraged. “What are we going to do about my yard?”
“Not we, you. Go back to the house and dig up that plant. Get as much of it as you can, and
try not to break anything. It won’t resist you now. Bring it here.”
“Seriously?”
“Are you fucking dense? That plant is its home. Pick it up and bring it here, and it doesn't go back to devouring your yard when we get the thing out of Marnie's head,” Wes said.
“How do we know it’s my MJ you’re getting these orders from?” Harry asked Wes.
I stamped my foot and tried to squawk, but all I got out was a throaty gurgle.
Wes translated. “Marnie says, ‘I’m gonna clunk your heads together like Moe, you dick-wiggling fuckbagels. Get your hot ass moving and hump that fucking shrub over here.’” Wes grimaced. “Did you really need to say that about his ass? Jeez.”
I started to think about what it looked like without his jeans on in the mirror of a hotel bathroom, and Wes slapped one hand over his forehead, as if that would block his telepathy.
“That was totally uncool.” His eyes widened. “No, I don't want you picturing Harry's, either, what the fuck,” he squawked.
I grinned.
“That’s her, all right,” Batten said.
Harry agreed, smirking. “Indubitably.”
I flapped my hands at everyone to get their collective, non-naked butts in gear. I picked up the candles, berries, potion beaker, and the powder, and pointed at the driveway with my chin.
“Wait for me to get back,” Batten suggested.
I tried to flip him the bird but my gloved hands were full, so all I managed was a derisive shrug and an I-don’t-need-you scowl. I had to start the spell during twilight and cast as dusk transitioned to night; that change was crucial. A lot of this depended on how much control she was going to let me have over my own mind. Since she wasn’t budging on releasing my ability to speak, I was going to have to force that, if I could. I thought I had a Plan B if she needed a bribe, but I’d hold that back as a last resort. I wondered if I was blocking her from knowing what I was thinking as effectively as I hoped.
The grass was still wet from the day’s showers. I strode out to the spot where my driveway met the road and kicked up a little dirt to check the state of it – soggy but not sodden, good for transplanting. The Jerkface, behind me, stomped out to his SUV. Part of me thought he sometimes drove something else, and I couldn’t imagine why that was important, but it nagged at me. I stepped to the side so he could drive past me, tires crunching as my stone drive met the dirty, pothole-riddled swath that was Shaw’s Fist Road.
