Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  La Bete snarled at Chianne, and then loped over to Bane. He circled, growling. “You constantly challenge me. I warned you to stay away from her, but again you save her from the consequences of her actions. What am I to do with your defiance?”

  Bane hung his head. “I’ll accept any decision you feel just,” he said. He couldn’t go on howling and prowling the Frasch Forest every night, hoping to find Dixxon on a walk. The pack would never stand for it.

  He’d slipped out every night since the hog grass incident to go to the girl’s clearing and howl in hopes she’d appear. But Chianne reprimanded and nipped and clawed at him every time he came back. Now she was mad enough to want him dead over it.

  Bane couldn’t blame her for hating the little witch—Dixxon’s wand had been seconds from killing Chianne when Bane pounced on her. He knew better than to let any of the rest of them get hold of the little witch while she was unconscious. If he had, Dixxon would already be dead. So he grabbed her and raced into the night carrying her.

  But there were more important magic and mystic things at stake than the fate of Bane’s mismanaged pack. La Bete certainly wasn’t prepared for what the Blue Moon would bring. Bane wondered if he could handle what the mansion’s mouse chaser had said was coming.

  “Banishment,” La Bete said. It was the only course of action that wouldn’t have unintended consequences. “From this day forward you shall have no pack to drag down with you, except the lonely forest and the creatures in it.”

  Bane knew it was really the harshest punishment that his alpha could hand down. Short of outright killing, banishment to the swamp was the closest thing to a death sentence La Bete had to work with. But no crocdog had survived long on their own, especially in the Frasch.

  For Chianne, disrespected and abandoned by her bawling-for-a-mortal mate, it wasn’t enough. “Banished?” she howled. Then she growled at the entire pack. “He’ll just go yelping back to daddy.” She raced at La Bete and stopped just short of pouncing on him. “Bile Island, I knew you didn’t have it in you! You’re letting her get away with murder.” Then she trotted off with her tail flicking back at him. “Hope I’m not next.” It was one thing to howl and bark, another completely to be prepared to back it up with a fight. But being who she was, Chianne couldn’t resist one last nip. “Varg help me, I’m surrounded by pissing pups.”

  Bane didn’t waste any time debating the decision. He bolted from the knoll before any member of the pack could think up a worse punishment. He disappeared into the Frasch Forest blackness, howling at the nearly full moon, headed for the little witch’s clearing. It was the place where her scent was the strongest.

  Before the Great Purge, Bane had been happy. His father, Varg, the only true Alpha to have been born in this lifetime, and his mother, Amia, a great white wolf herself, were still together.

  There’d been twenty packs in the Frasch Forest back then, all with allegiance pledged to Varg. The many wolves of the Frasch Forest were powerful and revered.

  Then the first night of the Great Purge came. Bane remembered it well. He’d been running with his father, heading back from hunting, when they saw the huge purple bolt blast the clearing above their den.

  And when they entered the clearing, Amia had howled and then slumped down onto the mossy forest floor, motionless and bleeding. Varg gave chase to the black witch who’d struck Amia down, leaving the young Bane to howl in pain over his mother’s morphed-back-to-woman body.

  When Varg returned, he smelled of black witch, and black ooze dripped from his mouth. He was devoid of emotion as he picked Amia up. The rest of the night was a blur to Bane.

  In the morning, the packs were all but destroyed, with barely a dozen wolves left of the twenty-strong packs from the night before.

  Varg spent the day preparing to send off the dead, laying bodies on rafts to set ablaze on Prien Lake. A permanent farewell.

  Amia was the last raft to be pushed from shore and set ablaze. Those wolves that were left howled at the blue moon.

  After that, Varg had the scent of the one who had killed his mate, and made it his life’s task to find and rip apart the black witch who’d destroyed his life.

  And Bane. . . He was sent to join the last remaining werewolf pack in the Frasch, to follow the command of La Bete, Varg’s second-in-command at the time.

  Bane hadn’t seen his father since that night. He only knew that Varg was part of the council, because La Bete had told him. Now, Bane knew he was only alive because La Bete couldn’t bear the wrath that would reign down on him if he killed Varg’s only offspring—the only proof that his mate, Amia, ever existed.

  — 14 —

  IT DIDN’T SEEM right, and I tried not to think about my kitchen witchies, killed by Father Felixx, but that night, Cat insisted we have tea. So we all took our places in the sitting room, warm as a white witch’s wand next to a big Broom boomer. But without Saucer and Smug, tea wasn’t the same for me. It never would be again.

  Cat didn’t seem concerned about the bolt of lightning that hit Bane. He lapped his tea, nervously glancing back and forth at Broom and Maxxine the entire time. He barely looked at me.

  Broom was in better spirits though, more like himself. He drank his tea without a “bloody hell” spoken.

  Even Maxxine appeared to be her “normal” self, if she even had one. She sipped her tea, seemingly pleased with . . . well, everything.

  I, on the other hand, had the worst headache I’d ever had. I wanted to go for my nightly walk to clear up the pounding, but looking out the window at the moon only made it worse.

  Anyway, Cat strictly forbade me from leaving the mansion. Until when, I didn’t ask, but I could tell this wasn’t his normal overprotective warning. Whatever Bane told him, or whatever attacked us on the shores of Prien Lake, Cat didn’t want me near it.

  I don’t think there were more than two sentences spoken the entire evening, but one of them was, “One day left.” I forget who said it.

  When I wake up, I’m still in the sitting room. The fire’s burning down to a crackle and an occasional snap of popped pitch. It’s warm as usual, but the mansion’s silent.

  I look across the room and Broom’s snoozing away next to the pokers.

  To my surprise—I didn’t think the woman slept—Maxxine’s mouth is barely open and her head’s leaned back in her chair. She’s sleeping, with only the occasional snort to show that she’s still alive.

  I wonder what a dark witch’s dream—visions are like?

  “Nothing good,” I almost jump out of my chair when Cat whispers from down by my feet, “I can assure you of that. Come with me.” Then he turns and leaves.

  I glance at Broom and Maxxine one more time, and then follow Cat across the foyer and into the kitchen.

  The kitchen door creaks shut behind me. I glance over at my cauldron, still slowly bubbling and puffing, swirling green and purple smoke through the air. The fire under it looks recently stoked.

  Cat’s already on the table across from Oven. “Pot,” he whispers, “I must say, you haven’t lost your touch. And Oven, thank you.”

  For some reason, I feel like I have to whisper with him, “What’s going on?”

  Cat doesn’t waste any time. “I had Pot spike the tea with nightlock, because . . . we have to talk.”

  Oven opens her door just enough. “Shoulda let me put a speck a waterlock in with it, give that black bitty something to be flapping her greedy gums about.”

  I can’t believe she’s talking about poisoning Maxxine. “I thought we were all on one. . .?” I say. “After the Purge, I mean.”

  “Purge don’t mean a pump a poison to a black witch,” Oven says. “She got dark and nasty blood in her. Can’t change that with no say so”.

  “For once,” Cat says, “I am reluctantly forced to agree with you.” He stands up and straightens out. Then he stiffens his tail and looks at the kitchen door. “If I felt like I could,” he says, “I’d sneak in there and gouge out both of her ey
es.”

  “Cat,” I say, “that’s just—”

  “Ain’t no time for that,” says Oven. “Anyways, you know what happened last time you tried pokin’ the purples out a black witch.”

  “I certainly do,” the voice says. I don’t know how I missed her before, but down at the other end of the kitchen, up on the countertop, right next to the pantry door, is a pure-as-light white cat. She walks down the countertop and hops across to the table, then sits next to Cat.

  I’m worried that my entire jaw might hit the floor when she nuzzles him and brushes her tail along his back. “Baxxster,” it’s the only thing I can think to say, “who is. . .?”

  The white cat looks at Baxxster and then at me. “I’m so sorry about all of this, darling,” she says. “Not how a girl’s wicked week should end up. Definitely not how passion potion’s supposed to work.”

  Cat stands up and puffs out his chest. “Dixxon,” he says, “might I present Misses Alexxis—”

  “Boyette,” the white cat says. “It’s taken him a couple lifetimes to get used to sayin’ it”—she walks to the edge of the table, looks up at me with beautiful green eyes, and winks—“so I help him every chance I get. And it is certainly my pleasure to finally see you again, Dixxon.”

  “Passion. . .?” I say. “See me again? Wait, Boyette?” I look past Alexxis. “Baxxster, what’s she talking. . .?”

  “Used to be White,” the little alabaster cat says, “but he insisted and Boyette is so much more . . . old-worldly, if you know what I mean.”

  Oven giggles a little and her door rattles. She stops quickly and looks at the kitchen door. “You play it close to the cauldron, little black Baxxster.”

  But Pot reminds us all who’s nightlocked in the other room. “Shhhh,” she says, “you bring that dragon out her cave, we’ll all be boilin’.”

  I have no idea what to say, but this white cat—Alexxis—seems familiar.

  Oven says, “Not tellin’ about Miss Alexxis is one thing, but come tomorrow night, little missy on her own. You late with that little bit . . . and ya know it.”

  “On my own?” I say. “For what?”

  “Oven,” Alexxis says, “you’re scaring her. There’s no need for that.”

  “She should be scared,” says Oven. “I’m scared. Christ-crazies up in here, smashin’ and burnin’ like they was pitchin’ logs at witches in the forest. Ask me, ya’ll ain’t been scared enough. You two all-powerful protectors couldn’t a saw that comin’? Takes all kinda nasty voodoo to get past you. Black witch written all over it. Fifteen years, nothing”—Oven puffs some smoke toward the kitchen door—“then Miss Maxxine Levine of the Black Lake show up and poof, whole damn place goes inferno. Tell you what I seen . . . when your Broom come rushing in here all burnin’ . . . with a arrow stuck outta his handle. . .”

  “You might have spoken up earlier,” says Cat.

  “You and Broom,” Oven says, “you never leave sight a each other. Couldn’t tell you without tellin’ ones who wanded him.” She looks at the pantry door. “Come outta that closet like. . . Someone fixed him up—wanded that chunk a wood back to perfect like a pixie wands posies. And miss purple potioner out there, she ain’t no protector nohow, Baxxster. You know that.” She looks at me. “Little missy here in a heap a trouble still and ya’ll runnin’ short on time.”

  “So what’s that mean?” Alexxis asks. “Why is she here?”

  I’m beyond lost, and this is getting me no closer to doing right by the only one who wasn’t keeping me in the dark. “Excuse me,” I say to all of them, “but I’m right here . . . and Magnolia’s not. So . . . why don’t you back up and tell me why my birthday isn’t what I thought it was. And why you’ve seen fit to spell half the house to sleep. What’s that mean?”

  Cat slowly turns and looks at the kitchen door. “It means”—he nods his head a few times and then stops and looks at me—“Miss Maxxine Levine of the Black Lake is here to kill you.”

  “Kill me?” I say. “Why would the council. . .? What did I ever do to them? I’m nobody.”

  “Actually. . .” Cat’s back on the table, next to Alexxis, and I think I caught him nuzzling her this time. Here I thought he was all boil and bubble. This is a side to him I never knew existed. “Well, in point of fact, you have done something to them. Something that the Black Witch tried to prevent a long time ago.”

  “The Black Witch?” I say. My eyebrows are up now. And the hair on my neck is prickling me something awful. “The . . . Black Witch? But you said none of that Bile Island hoodoo was—”

  Baxxster closes his eyes and nods. “I know what I said. However, she”—he points a paw at the kitchen door—“and her sister . . . are very real.”

  “Sister?” says Alexxis.

  Cat hops down off the table, scampers to the door, creaks it open carefully, peeks out, and then bounces back and jumps back up next to Alexxis.

  “Is she still. . .?” Oven asks.

  “Snoozing,” says Baxxster, “but not for much. . .” He turns to Pot. “How much did you put in hers?”

  Pot’s never been one for exact measurements. She’s more of a “pinch a this and a speck a that” potioner. She shrugs and says, “Oh, a certain amount.”

  “Bile Island,” Baxxster mumbles.

  Bile Island and the Cauldron Council. . . I’m more afraid knowing they exist than worrying about pixie tales of what they’d do to wicked little witches who didn’t listen to their mansion cats. I move over closer to Oven. “She’s The Black Witch’s . . . sister?”

  “I did a little snooping in the library,” Baxxster says, “while you were out chasing frogs and crocdogs in the forest.” He looks at Alexxis. “We’ll get to that little stunt later.”

  “It’s just a little passion potion, sugah,” Alexxis says. “How was I to know it’d conjure up a mangy crocdog?”

  How would she know about. . .?

  Baxxster frowns at her. “Well, yes, like I said. . . For now, things are much worse than I feared”—he tilts his head at Alexxis and then looks at me—“and, Dixxon, if you leave this house, she has all the power and authority she needs to kill you on sight. Inside this mansion, thank the Great White Witch for small spells, she’s powerless.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” I say. “Why would anyone want to kill me? Other than Bane’s pack, I guess?” And that sends my mind racing back to the forest. “But they deserved that. And I would’ve given it to them too if—”

  “Dixxon,” says Alexxis, “you’ve got to let go of him for right now. I’ll explain all a that later, but the reason you want to go after those morphing mutts . . . doesn’t really exist.”

  “And,” Baxxster says, “the reason Roxxanne Levine wants you dead . . . is that you weren’t ever supposed to be born in the first place.”

  “Born?” I say. Time for my little mansion master to start coughing up some furballs of truth. “You said witches were sprung forth by magic from the Great Cauldron of Conjuring.” I know it was a lie, but he’s going to have to start explaining himself, because I’m done being treated like a wicked little witch who can’t handle the truth. “So, what little white witch lies are you telling me today?”

  “That’s what you told her?” Oven says. “About her parents? I wouldn’t tell a five-year-old that hoodoo.”

  Alexxis giggles, but stops herself quickly. “I’m sorry, Baxxster, but no wonder she’s running around so pixie-posey about all this. You had a witches-and-warlocks talk, and you told her she simply ‘appeared’ one day? Well, we don’t have time for you to do this your ‘Baxxster the butler’ way.” She turns and looks at me with a serious expression. “Dixxon, you might want to sit down for this.”

  “He’s just going to let them kill him?” I say. “He . . . he can’t do that. I won’t let him.”

  I don’t know which part of it’s worse, the part about Maxxine being sent here to kill me for some unsaintly reason, or Bane saving me and being condemned to death for
it.

  Alexxis walks over to the edge of the table and stares up at me with her big green eyes. “It’s the only thing I could think of at the time.”

  “At what time?” I ask. “What did you. . .?”

  “We made a deal,” Alexxis says. “Your life for mine . . . and his.”

  “A deal?” I say. “Deal with whom?”

  “La Bete saves face with his pack. . .” Alexxis says.

  I look at her funny, because I have no idea who. . . “La Bete?”

  “Bane’s alpha,” says Alexxis. “Miserable sort of incompetent whelp, but Varg put him in charge of the mutts, so he decides who lives . . . and who . . . doesn’t.”

  I hang my head. I can feel the anger building inside me. When I look up, I’m speaking to all of them—Baxxster, Alexxis, Oven, Pot, and anyone left hovering in the cupboards, “As soon as all of you stop weak-wanding me around, I’m going back into the forest to—he and Chianne killed Magnolia. Took her down right in front of me.” The guilt’s grinding me up like troll bones.

  “I know you’re angry, dear,” says Alexxis. “But death . . . isn’t what you’ve been”—she looks at Baxxster—“led to believe. Least not for us mansion cats.”

  “You have to tell her,” says Oven. “She deserve that much. She’ll handle it. She gotta handle worse to come.”

  I want to run out the kitchen door and go find Bane, but there’s another part of me that knows something’s missing from this. What’s everyone so afraid to tell me?

  “We never meant for it to turn out this way,” Alexxis says. She looks over at Baxxster. “Did we?”

  “Certainly not,” he says. “However, we swore an oath to protect you, and it was my feeling that the less you concerned yourself with it the easier that would be. So . . . I instructed everyone in this house. . .”

  “To lie to me?” I look at Oven and then at Pot. He’s telling the truth. “About what? What could possibly be worth lying to me . . . all these years?”