The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  That tiny squealing was absolutely precious.

  2.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  I did a lot of traveling back when I was an adventurous single girl, and one of my boyfriends was a spy named Nicos. We never talked about marriage, but we became very close. Nicos sold secrets to the highest bidder, regardless of the consequences. I helped him on a few of his assignments, just for the thrill of it. But it was a dangerous game, even by my extremely liberal standards. He was found disemboweled in the backroom of a French bakery. I later found the microfilm in a croissant.

  I learned a lot from him, and my efforts eventually turned from espionage to politics. I met and trysted with many powerful men, most of whom were married—and I kept records. A tiny camera was hidden in my loofah sponge.

  Ah, when it comes to romance, men of power are merely puppets. They can be weak, foolish. I went through a rather long phase where I delighted in pulling their strings. I wasn’t even using magic.

  These facts help explain why I do not pay taxes…why I do not need a passport to travel the world…why there are no public records of my marriages, or even of my birth. I am a woman of countless secrets. Even the address of my luxurious home is a secret. That particular secret was devised and maintained by the Vultaine’s. His family created a sort of visual labyrinth around the house—quite an achievement, when you consider that the building is bigger than most cathedrals.

  Of course, my friends all know how to find the House. Most also know how to keep quiet. Friends who become too loud…well, they learn to quiet down soon enough.

  I do want to stress that I don’t use magic every day. Months can go by without my even thinking about using it. I can be resourceful in my own right. I like solving problems and figuring out why people do the strange but interesting things they do.

  Of course, magic doesn’t give a person permission to do absolutely anything. There are limits. Magic is nothing more than a reality booster. I can’t tap an evil person on the shoulder and say, “You are now good.” I can’t just point up and say, “Let all the money in the world rain down upon me.” No, no, no. I must first find a way, set the wheels in motion, turn up the dial on the old booster—so to speak!—and then hope for the best. Nothing is absolutely certain for anyone.

  * * * *

  The guests—all pale, darkhaired chainsmokers—arrived on foot. They all had to leave their cars parked a mile away, inside an abandoned warehouse. Each guest received a glass of reddish-gold champagne upon entering the basalt immensity of the House of Vultaine. They mingled, laughing and gossiping, in the great hall. Overhead, a full moon shone through an enormous skylight. The window had been levered open to let in the night air.

  Vexina refreshed the plates of praku berries while her sister, Osmette, hefted a large platter of hors d’oeuvres. Osmette was a thick-waisted cherub with small dark teeth. She had no idea what sort of delicacies she carried, and had no desire to taste them.

  All eyes turned to the grand staircase as Mrs. Vultaine made her entrance. She still wore the silk blouse and pants, and her hair was piled high into a shining nimbus, with wispy tendrils snaking down along her slender neck.

  She circulated among her guests, listening to speculation regarding the golden display. “My dear Silhouetta,” she said to a sliver of a girl with limp black hair and nervous eyes. “So good to see you. Hope you’ve brought an appetite. You are eating these days…?” For six years, this wee girl had lived off of various ointments smeared onto her skin.

  Silhouetta snatched a brandied trilobite from a tray. “Afraid so. I found out the hard way that intestines, like muscles, need their exercise.”

  The widow spotted a tanned man with a white streak in his reddish-brown ponytail, and tapped him on the arm. He smiled enormously as he embraced her.

  “It’s been years, Erika,” he whispered into the pale shell of her ear. “Can’t we just send all these awful people home?”

  “Tinder, you are incorrigible,” she whispered back. “Imagine, flirting with a woman who will soon be gone.”

  Tinder gazed into her eyes, shocked. “What are you saying?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing less than the truth.” She put a finger under his chin and shut his gaping mouth. “Now come to dinner.”

  The silver-haired woman walked to the table, arms outstretched, beckoning with her fingers. The others followed instantly—even those whose backs had been turned to her.

  Mrs. Vultaine took her place at the head of the long table. Once the guests were seated, the servants brought out, per instructions, baskets of black bread and small bowls of grasshopper bisque. They filled the wine glasses with a vintage as clear as water.

  For a few minutes, the widow watched her guests dip chunks of bread into their soup.

  Silhouetta nodded toward the widow’s glass. “Look, she hasn’t touched her wine.” A reedy giggle fluttered from her lips. “Maybe she has brought us all here to poison us.”

  The old woman sighed. “I never hold a dinner party without an occasion. But mass murder is not on tonight’s agenda. I haven’t touched my wine because alcohol no longer thrills me.” She smiled alarmingly. “I have gathered you all here to say goodbye. Soon I will be gone. I will be done with this world, and this evening, I shall share my arrangements with you.”

  3.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  I remember something very unusual, and absolutely pivotal, that happened to me during my childhood. We were living on a outskirts of a small town, near a wooded area. My parents had gone off on some errand, and had left me alone. Back then, parents weren’t worried about things like ‘bad strangers.’ And it was the afternoon: bad stuff only happened at night in those days. At any rate, what happened to me wasn’t bad. It was meant to happen. Some men—or rather, manlike beings—came up to me while I was playing in the backyard.

  Based on what I have learned over the years, I now think they had once been human, but years and years of magical living had made them quite different. They told me that they could tell I was a very special young lady. I was flattered by this, but also a little scared. I saw one of them had a lump moving around under his skin, and I remember saying, “Oh, are you sick?”

  “Oh, no. We each have one. See? We gave them to each other.” And so I sat in the backyard, looking at the busy lumps as they moved around their arms and across their chests.

  They seemed very happy with their lumps. They then told me exactly what the lumps do. The explanation would be too hard to convey in words—their expressions told most of the story—but the entire experience can be summed up by saying: some gifts are more special than others.

  * * * *

  As Mrs. Vultaine enjoyed her bisque (with a spoon: no dipping and dripping for her), she noticed many of her guests casting small glances about the room, taking in the paintings, the statuettes on the side tables, even the chandelier of pale rose crystals and rubies. She didn’t mind.

  “I have one possession,” she stated, “that is exceedingly dear to me…one that should be bequeathed to a special someone. If any one of you can prove you are that someone, why then, you may have it.”

  “I cannot believe what I am hearing,” Tinder said.

  “Incredulity is the calling card of the simple-minded. Or so some say.” Mrs. Vultaine finished her last spoonful of creamy bisque, then deftly pointed a pinky toward her empty bowl. The servants cleared away the soup course. They began to bring out salads made from seven-pointed leaves and strands of pink seaweed.

  A young man with a round face and shaggy eyebrows turned in his seat toward Tinder. “Are we to assume you are more worthy of Erika’s affection than the rest of us?”

  Tinder flashed his large-toothed smile. “Erika and I know each other quite well, Moyan. You wouldn’t understand.”

 
The young man returned his smile. “Oh, but I would.”

  With a cry of outrage, Tinder grabbed a knife and sprang across the table, upsetting wine glasses and toppling salads. Moyan yawned, pulled a small pistol from a jacket pocket, and shot the toothy man in the left eye.

  At the widow’s sign, the servants cleared away the doomed salad, carted off the body, and presented petite servings of flavored ices.

  “After that unpleasantness,” Mrs. Vultaine said, “we must cleanse our palates.”

  More courses were served after that, and the guests took pains to compliment her at length on the selections. She simply nodded and observed.

  At one point, Osmette brought out a tray piled high with boxes wrapped in black. Vexina helped by setting one box in front of each guest. Many packages remained.

  “My servants also may take one each,” the old woman said. The maids and butlers moved quietly but eagerly to claim their gifts.

  “Now, unwrap! Unwrap!” Mrs. Vultaine clapped her hands like a delighted schoolgirl.

  Shreds of black paper sailed through the air. Box lids flew open. A few gasps were heard, then many screams.

  The widow continued to clap. She giggled as thumb-sized larvae with human faces and crablike pincers sprang forth to burrow into their recipients. The faces of these tiny creatures resembled that of Mrs. Vultaine in all but one detail: the silver-haired woman did not have the ringed, razor-fanged mouth of a lamprey.

  Chairs fell backwards and bodies toppled. Before Silhouetta slumped to the floor, she forced a wretched smile and cried “Thank you” to her hostess.

  “You’re welcome,” the widow said. She then tiptoed past the writhing bodies and out of the dining room.

  4.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  It makes me sad, whenever I meet some poor young woman who feels she will never be able to catch a man.

  Men! Men are notoriously indiscriminate. Given the right set of circumstances, men will link up with—you name it. Produce, household appliances…There are men who are desperately in love with hot water bottles. Marsupials. Cacti.

  Catching a man is about as hard as catching a cold. Let us look at how I caught some of my husbands:

  Mr. Finlay: At this time of my life, I was still a little too much like my mother—too needy, too man-hungry. I used sex to snare this one. I basically just tossed myself at him. We had a few good years, but then I started concentrating on magic and we grew apart. I still feel sad about—and yes, somewhat responsible for—the way he died. We’d had an argument, so I told him to go to Hell. I may have been using a little magic without realizing. And, he may have had a buried self-destructive streak, which I’d inadvertently unearthed. The next thing I knew, I looked out the bedroom window and saw he was pouring gasoline all over himself in the backyard. I shouted for him to stop, but that only caught the attention of our nosy next-door neighbor, who came over to see what was wrong. And she was a smoker.

  Mr. Pennywhistle: He was very handsome and very rich. I captured him with elegance and attitude. He was also very work-oriented, and spent a great deal of time at the office. We had servants, so I was able to concentrate on my own interests, and of course magic. He had no idea: he was wrapped up in meetings and reports and mergers and cocktail parties. I was his beautiful trophy wife, and he never knew that his trophy could work wonders. He had a terrible heart attack, and as he sat by his hospital window (he refused to stay in bed) dying, I told him everything about myself. He said, “Darling, don’t be silly,” and then he was gone. So I brought him back and kept him alive for a few seconds, just to show him a thing or two. That took some effort, but it was worth it.

  Mr. Nelstrom: He was a very serious fellow. He was a chef, and he taught me a great deal about the art of food preparation. One begins with the finest ingredients, and then works from there. Timing is also incredibly important. That flavor peak won’t last forever! But as the years passed, my Mr. Nelstrom began to miss a few dinners, and my eyes and ears in the community told me he was seeing a crude young thing with an enormous bosom and tiny brain. Can you imagine how that made me feel? My dining room gourmet was a bedroom gourmand. Unthinkable. So I told him in a very stern voice to go away. But, there was a problem much like the episode with Mr. Finlay. He walked away—and never stopped walking. Again, I must have tapped into some sad inner defect of his. Eventually I divorced him. I caught up with him on a road in Italy—he was just a scrawny thing, walking, always walking—and trotted by his side, holding the papers as he signed them.

  Those were my first three husbands, and I will admit, I had a small advantage since I am a person of magic. But really, every person—every living creature—has some degree of magic. They just have to learn to find it. To embrace it. And of course, to use it.

  * * * *

  Four hours later, Mrs. Vultaine came back into the dining room. She smoked a clove cigarette as she waited for her party to resume consciousness. When at last the guests returned to their chairs, she instructed five of her groggy servants to fetch the main course.

  “I had to prepare the entree myself,” she said, “and I don’t mind saying, it took a bit of doing.”

  Vexina leaned against a sideboard. She put a shaking hand to a raw, bloody hole below her collarbone. “What have you done to us?”

  “Oh, that,” the old woman said. “A little something to remember me by.”

  The maid pressed a finger tentatively against the wound. “Oh! I think it has healed up already.” She took a deep breath and said to her employer, “I’m frightened.”

  The widow laughed. “Fright is simply a symptom of ignorance. Note that I am not calling you ‘stupid.’ Rather, I am bringing to your attention the fact that there is much you do not know. You are young and inexperienced. You must learn to trust. Certainly you can trust me. I have no reason to destroy you. I am too jaded to do it for amusement! Therefore, if I do anything to or for you, it will probably help you. Do you see?”

  Vexina nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I do. I’m still scared, though.” Her eyebrows raised a little. “But please, don’t worry about me. The fear will go away eventually.”

  Mrs. Vultaine smiled warmly. “You are trying. Genuinely trying. I like that.” She then addressed her guests. “Next is the main course. The specialty of the house! After that, you may all take whatever of my gewgaws and trinkets you like. Load them in your cars. Call for trucks. Fight over them if you must.”

  “I must say, this is all very…” Silhouetta searched for a word. “…impromptu!”

  “For all of you, yes. But I have been planning this evening for quite some time,” the widow said. “I suppose I do have a weakness for springing surprises on others. And why not? I’ve had enough sprung on me over the years, and they’ve all made me a better person. And speaking of surprises: there is an utterly enormous safe in the basement. You will find the combination etched onto the handles of the dessert forks. For my treasure, dear ones, is your dessert. But first…”

  She clapped her hands lightly, and the servants brought out several covered trays, which they set at intervals on the tables.

  “Bon appetit,” whispered Mrs. Vultaine.

  The servants raised the tray lids, revealing large, steaming chunks of roasted meat. Vexina and Osmette began slicing at the savory mounds with curved knives.

  “As for my most cherished possession…” The widow studied her guests. “I still don’t know who should have it.”

  5.

  From The Fine Art of Living:

  So how did I catch my last two husbands—the magical ones?

  Mr. Wong: A very handsome, exotic man—half Chinese, one-fourth French, and the last fourth…! His grandmother on his mother’s side was a circus reptile woman. He had wonderfully sculpted features, and a slight greenish cast to his skin. He was al
ways hungry, so I captured him by making him wonderful things to eat. I will admit, most of the recipes were Mr. Nelstrom’s. Mr. Wong preferred raw meat, so I had to make a few adjustments.

  Mr. Wong showed me how to make animals understand human words, and also, he taught me to slow-dance. That second skill isn’t really magical, but no one had ever shown me how to do that before. It was fun. Sexy. It made me feel young.

  But in time, I tired of Mr. Wong. He became more reptilian with the years. He grew bigger—not fatter, just proportionally larger. He was still good-looking, but huge, and cold to the touch. Eventually, all he wanted to do was eat and bask. So we separated. I hear he now has a tail.

  Mr. Vultaine: Ah yes, Osbo! He was the only one who ever caught me! I met Osbo Vultaine at a film festival. He saw I was a woman of power and he simply had to have me. He was a fantastic man, and very handsome and virile for a fellow of three-hundred. When he showed up at my door with the Book of Thoth, I knew that he was the one for me. We traveled to lands which most people think are mythical, and met people who had no business being alive. Did you know there is a valley in Canada where everyone has yellow eyes, and a plateau in Argentina where the women have four breasts? They say technology is making the world smaller—don’t you believe it! It’s still big enough to have plenty of hidey-holes. Osbo and I had many exhilarating adventures. But best of all, we could talk, share concerns, figure things out—and laugh! We had seventeen marvelous years together. And then the Night-Birds came and carried him away.

  I tell people I’m a widow, but I’m still not sure. Someday, I will go to where the Night-Birds roost and see what I can discover. The thing is, that’s not the sort of place from which one can return. But for Osbo Vultaine, I would do anything. Even the impossible.

  * * * *

  A murmur arose among the guests. Suddenly Moyan stood up. “I have killed to prove my love for you! Your cherished possession should be mine.”