Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  The defeated white witch was limp on the ground behind her, gone from this world and the task he’d been given. And the victor—this dark witch sent to replace him—believed she would never be anything but victorious. She hovered her stick over Dixxon.

  The witch’s deep purple cloak masked what could only be darkness and hatred beneath it. Her hood covered her head in shadow. Only her purple eyes glowed through. “And there you are,” she said. “What a sweet surprise. Here I was, thinking I’d be mopping up mangy mutts for sport all evening. Sister without mercy, makes my job much easier, doesn’t it? What with who you’ll be. Who you would’ve been, I should say.

  “Goes to show, one can’t rely on prophecy, now can ya?” She looked up at the moon. “Your cat let you out? This close to a Blue Moon?” She looked back down at Dixxon, still unconscious on the floor of the forest clearing. “His second mistake to regret at my hands.” She raised up her long stick. “Though it be the dawn of the white—”

  The growl almost gave her enough time, and she swung her left arm toward the sound, but in a flash of pitch black fur, the fangs and claws were on her. And her body hurled backward and she shot a bolt of light into the sky—CRACK! But the growling crocdog chomped at her stick and jerked and pulled her arm.

  Crack-crack-crack!—the bolts of light fired wild, knocking down trees and bursting branches into flames.

  The crocdog growled and jerked harder until the witch’s stick fell. Then as quickly as he was on her, the big crocdog let go. Then he spun and snatched Dixxon’s body up by the back of her cloak and ran into the night, dragging her with him.

  And the dark witch stood up and pointed toward her fallen stick. It shot into her now-bleeding hand. She looked toward where the crocdog had vanished. “Good luck getting that taste out of your mouth. As for you, young miss”—she looked up at the sinking moon again, and then she tucked her stick under her cloak—“you’ll keep for a few more days.”

  The crocdog ran through the Frasch Forest with all the energy he had left. So many of his pack had been slain by the dark witch. That’s what she had to have been—a dark witch of the old world order. One who killed for power and sport without concern for the new rules of magic.

  But she’d been fighting one of her own, or one of her kind at least. And witches didn’t do that anymore, or so he’d been taught by his pack alpha. For the last fifteen years, witches—dark and light, black or white—fought to stay safe from the humans, as all magical creatures did. The burn-crazy murdering humans. . . He’d seen their work firsthand.

  When he cleared the forest, the crocdog stuck to the edge of Prien Lake. He could smell where this little witch lived—the path she’d taken to get into the forest. But who was she? He hadn’t had time to get a good look at her. He’d watched in amazement when she charged into the clearing at the black witch. His own mate had been saved because of it. And he knew he should be with her, but he was here, carrying this . . . young white witch out of the forest and to safety.

  But why had this one attacked her own kind? It was none of her affair—a witch fight in the middle of the forest. She certainly wasn’t there to save crocdogs.

  No witches would stand between a crocdog and his maker. At least none the crocdog had ever seen or heard of before. But this one. . . Most seasoned witches would know to stay clear of a fight like that. This one was clearly naive.

  And he ran beneath the moon, along the shores of the lake, past the croaking, following his nose all the way to the run-down stinking shack. He slowed and eased closer to it until he couldn’t stand the stench. Then he gently dropped the young witch and trotted off into the darkness a few yards.

  He turned and snorted, drooled and huffed air out of his mouth a couple of times, trying to shake the bitter foul smell and taste of the dark witch’s blood. But the acidy effects just wouldn’t let up, and he let out a frustrated howl, “Ow-owooooooo!”

  He knew the sound would bring this one’s guardians out to fetch her, and he didn’t know why, but he stood there to make sure she was safe. He snorted a few more times and then stared at the shack.

  There was certainly more to the run-down and stench-ridden cabin than met the eye—despite the musky smell of skunk, he could smell the magic in it—but how much was there?

  Cat and Broom heard the howl at the entrance to the mansion at the same time. But Cat was up and running toward the front doors before Broom realized what it meant.

  “Move,” Cat yelled at him, “you whiskered biscuit! Before one of them eats her.”

  Broom whisked as fast as he could after Cat. “I don’t think that’s what that meant.” He spoke a little crocdog along with his cajun creole. “I think he brought her ba—”

  “Obviously he’s brought her back!” Cat screamed behind him, “But from what? . . . Petit enfant, petite misère; grand enfant, grande misère,” he muttered under his breath. He had a habit of voicing his displeasure in old creole cajun quips.

  “Right you are, sir,” said Broom. “She’s definitely not a little girl anymore, is she?”

  “Surrounded by masters of the obvious,” Cat muttered.

  When they got to the front doors, Mangy was slow in opening them.

  Cat hissed at him. “This century, if you don’t mind, you relic. While we’re still young enough to tolerate your creaking corpse.”

  When the doors finally moaned open, Cat and Broom raced down the front steps, straight through the skunk stench, barely paying attention to the front door’s main defense against intruders.

  Cat muttered more to himself than at Broom, “So help me, if you don’t do it, one day I’ll burn that rickety old wreck down.” He could see Dixxon lying on the ground. “The Blue Moon on Sunday,” he shouted, “I should’ve never let her—” Barely at Dixxon’s side, he saw the crocdog’s burning red eyes, peering at them from just inside the darkness. “What have you done to her, you mangy mongrel? If you’ve—” His tail twitched and his green eyes glowed. “I’ll wand you to a witch’s Wednesday, I will.”

  When Broom finally caught up, he said, “Sir, I don’t think he would have dragged her back here if he was the one what hurt her.”

  They stared at the crocdog’s glowing eyes. The realization that Broom was probably right didn’t give either of them comfort. Something had happened to Dixxon, something bad.

  “Get her inside,” said Cat. “I’ll deal with this mutt.”

  Broom reached down, worked his way under Dixxon’s waist and floated her, slumped over his shoulders like saddlebags, up the steps and into the house, just like the old days.

  When she was younger, he and Dixxon flew the Frasch Forest together. Most nights they twisted and spun and dove and climbed like a wild little witch and her wicked broom would. All that changed when he and Cat figured out who she was—what she was. The fun ended, and Cat’s fretting and Broom’s fear began.

  Broom carried Dixxon through the front doors. “Inside with you now, chérie. Broom gonna get you all cozy by a fire.”

  When Cat was satisfied that Broom had Dixxon safely up the front steps, he spun back toward the crocdog, whipped his tail to a bright white star and—“Now, listen here, you howling. . .” But the eyes were gone . . . and so was whatever filthy shapeshifting canine they belonged to. And the tip of Cat’s tail went back to a bright white patch. “Go back to your filthy pack then, you horse-eating hound from Hell.”

  The front doors made a particularly ominous creaking and groaning noise when they were about to close tight.

  Cat spun, raced back up the front steps, barely noticing the stench of skunk as he passed. He squeezed through the gap just as Mangy banged and boomed them shut. “Mind the tail, you moron.”

  Mangy opened the front doors slightly and then boomed them shut again for good measure. Then he flipped all of the wooden planks on the staircase to their flat metal side. A virtual ice rink for any human trying to climb them, not to mention a cat-clawed magical feline.

  Cat leapt up on the ba
nister, on top of the wood plank railing. It was easier for him to race up to the second floor on it anyway. His claws dug in deep and ran. “You may be in charge of this house,” he said, “but I’m responsible for her.”

  Then the big grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs bonged and rang out four o’clock in the morning, reminding them all that the dawn, and Dixxon’s school day, was a mere two hours away.

  Broom was just whisking Dixxon into her room when Cat leapt off the top rail, onto the second floor. He stopped and turned around to give Mangy one last piece of his mind. “And get your ‘big ben’ friend down there under control!” he shouted. “I well aware of what time it is, and I’m handling it.”

  None of them wanted an absence from school. They all knew that might bring an unwelcome visit from the headmaster. In fact, Dixxon had never once been late, much less absent. Part of hiding a witch among humans was to blend her in with the rest of the disgusting town children, and absences from mandatory education were not “blending in.”

  Mangy shook the huge candle-laden chandelier above the foyer. The flames flickered, causing shadows to flit up the staircase. And wax spilled over the edges of the candles and slashed onto the foyer floor. Mangy moaned at the hot wax.

  “Serves you right,” Cat scoffed. “And you think I don’t know what this means? Of course it was a black witch.”

  The chandelier shook again, more violently this time.

  “What am I going to do about it?” Cat shouted down at Mangy. “What do you think I’m going to do? Just go back to standing watch. Now that that crocdog knows she’s here, who knows what he’ll do? Fine guardian you are! Give us a little warning next time, won’t you?” He turned to go into Dixxon’s room, but cast one more reprimand over his shoulder for good measure. “What’s next? Townspeople with torches in the kitchen? You’re slipping, old man, and we can’t afford that this close to Sunday.”

  Then he flicked the white tip of his tail and scooted into Dixxon’s room before Mangy could defend himself.

  Cat and Broom were happy to leave the dirty crocdog where he belonged—safely back in his disgusting swamp. But Cat was furious with himself for letting Dixxon out the door in the first place. And yelling at Mangy wasn’t making the situation any better.

  It was one thing to attend school in broad daylight—at least Dixxon had some protection there—but this? Letting her into the night, so close to a Blue Moon? That was outright dereliction of duty and he had no one to blame but himself. “Get her in her chair,” he told Broom. Cat had a plan.

  Broom hefted Dixxon into her chair and gently tilted her head up against the back of it. She was barely sitting before Cat continued screeching orders at him. “Stoke the fire back up. And for the white witch’s sake, make it hot! For the eight lives of—”

  Broom just stared at him, confused. “But you said I was making them boomers too hot.”

  “Argh!” said Cat, “you simple-minded sweeper, just do as I say.”

  Broom shrugged and waved another log from the woodpile. “No need to get snippy,” he muttered. He floated the log to the fireplace. “Too much fire, not enough fire. . . Never know which’n he want or when he want it.” Once he dropped the log onto the flames, he turned to Cat and bowed slightly. “As you ordered.”

  When Broom stood back up, Cat closed his eyes and shrugged a little. “Yes, yes, I’m aware.”

  Broom smiled at him. “A crotchety cuss in your second life, sir. Might wanna see someone in town about that. Hope a third one is better.”

  Cat opened his eyes back up, collecting himself. Then he hopped up on Dixxon’s lap, spun three times to the left, and nuzzled down like he’d been napping for hours. He looked at Broom with one open eye. “Now’s not the time, my worn-out wooden friend. Come on then, get over there. She’ll be waking up soon. So help me if I ever lay eyes on the black witch who. . .” Dixxon had been wanded, and not gently. Yet being who she was. . . It was probably the only thing that saved her.

  “Ohhhh,” said Broom. He touched the side of his nose. “Right you are, sir.” Then he winked, leaned himself next to the fireplace pokers, and closed his eyes.

  I feel my forehead and—“Oww,” I groan. “Baxxster?” He’s in my lap and. . . Where am. . .? I look around. Everything’s fuzzy. When my vision clears up—My chair, and the fire. There’s Broom.

  Cat wakes up like he does every morning—a yawn and an arched back, tail so straight he could put an eye out with the tip. He unwinds himself, and he’s looking a little groggy.

  But something. . . Someone was killing crocdogs in the swamp.

  “Bloody hell, indeed,” Cat says to Broom. “What did you put in that tea, you whisking warlock? My tail won’t straighten out for a week.” Then he looks up at me. “Killing crocdogs? Well, at least it isn’t visions of burning witches. Dead crocdogs sounds like a vision come true, if you ask me.”

  I shoo him off my lap. “Baxxster, not all crocdogs are like that.”

  “How would you even know?” Cat says.

  I ignore him and glance over at the fireplace. Broom is snoozing by the fire pokers, like he always does after some strong overnight tea. “Anyway, this was a witch fight.” I’m sure it was real. “And she was killing crocdogs, and I . . . I don’t know why I did it—”

  Cat looks at me with that look he has. “Did what, miss?” he says. Then he glances over at Broom. “Come on then, you wicked switch, snap out of it already. Plastered on your own tea? A fine midnight tender, you are.”

  Broom stands up, groaning and cracking a little. “Chérie? What’s all this crocdog talk, then?” He stretches his arms and looks at the woodpile. He’s been ignoring Cat’s “no boomers” rule again—my room’s sweltering hot.

  I’m sure there were dead crocdoggies all over the forest floor. “There were two witches fighting and one of them was. . .” I think that’s what they were doing.

  “Witches?” Broom says.

  “In my clearing. They were fighting each other. The crocdogs were. . . They were killing—”

  “Clearing?” Cat stiffens in my lap. “In the forest?” He hops down and walks over to the fire. He stares into it for a couple of seconds. “And now you’ve got her seeing witch fights . . . and dead crocdogs, no less.” He turns toward Broom. “I’ve warned you about the midnight mystics, too.” He looks back at the fire. “Do you listen to anything I say?”

  “I just do what. . .” Broom says, and then he pauses. If his head feels like mine, I’m surprised he can even talk. “Just thought chérie could use a little rest after her . . . uh . . . visions last night.”

  But something’s not right with this. “Now wait just a minute, you two scamps,” I say. They both look at me like they have no idea what I’m going to say. For Cat, that’s certainly not normal. “We were having our tea”—I point to the sitting area next to the fire—“right there. And I told you I was going for a walk—”

  “A walk?” says Cat. His head’s cocked sideways again, digging into my thoughts. “I certainly wouldn’t allow that, given. . .”

  “Yes,” I say, “and when I was by the lake, I heard howling. Then I went into the Frasch and then. . .” I look around the room, and then at myself. And I am in my chair. . . This is the last thing I remember before. . . Now they’re both silent, paying attention completely. Not normal. Well, at least for Cat, anyway. “There were black witches.”

  “Yes, young miss,” says Cat, “there were black witches once. Now they’re all with us and everyone’s more ‘gray’ than white or black. And we certainly aren’t going around killing each other. Hah”—he looks tentatively at Broom and motions his head toward me—“imagine, black witches . . . killing each other.”

  “I don’t know if they were. . .” I say. “One of them could’ve been a white witch . . . or a warlock, for that matter, because I didn’t get a good look at either. . .” My head hurts so badly I’m having trouble recalling it all.

  “I’m sorry, chérie,” Broom says. �
��I thought it might help you sleep.” He turns to the fire, like he’s going to wand in another log. “Keep a chill off. Calm you a spell . . . with a spell.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” says Cat. Then he hops back into my lap, puts his face right up in front of mine, and stares into my eyes. “She’s got some sort of—you did what?”

  His voice startles me, and I jerk my head back.

  Cat’s down in a flash and next to Broom. He gives him a swipe and a scratch on his handle.

  Broom jerks away a little, and then says, “What? I thought it would calm her—”

  “Nightlock?” says Cat. “Are you serious? Now you’re potioning and spelling? I ask for security and I get a pyromaniac amateur potioner.”

  Broom shrugs and sniffs a little. “She’s got some in the pantry cupboard.”

  I had no idea he knew where I kept my pinches and specks.

  Now Cat’s looking at me. “What on Bile Island are you doing with nightlock?”

  “Don’t do that?” I say.

  “What?”

  This is a game Cat’s played on me before. “I know what you’re up to.”

  “What’s he up to?” says Broom. He puts his hands on his hips and looks at Cat. “What you up to, sir?”

  “Don’t you play dumb, mister swisher,” I say. “I was in the Frasch last night and there were witches fighting each other, killing crocdogs too. And you both know it.”

  Cat clears his throat and walks slowly forward. He licks a paw before he speaks, “As much as I’d like to agree with your ‘playing dumb’ assessment of our mister swisher here. . . And it certainly was not a smart decision to lace our tea with nightlock, you were most certainly potioned and passed out with us . . . right here in your room. Regardless, I’ve warned you a thousand times about going into the Fra—”