Sticky Fingers: Box Set Collection 2: 36 More Deliciously Twisted Short Stories (Sticky Fingers: The Complete Box Set Collection)

by JT Lawrence

  “There is no way I’m taking him back to that godforsaken pet salon,” I said. “They’re lucky I haven’t had them shut down.”

  “We can shave him,” said Grant. “We’ll just use my electric thingie.”

  I thought of the vacuum cleaner, the lightning bolts in the microwave, and my beautiful copper kettle, scorched and—reluctantly—consigned to the bin. “Not a chance,” I said, shaking my head.

  Shampooch was not an option, but there was no way I was going to let Grant anywhere near the poor schnauzer with his shaver. I wasn’t going to let Comet get any more traumatised than he already was. He looked at me and whined.

  “We need a dog whisperer,” I said, and Grant threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  "A dog whisperer?" He was laughing so hard his eyes began to stream.

  I wasn’t deterred. “A canine psychologist,” I said. “I’ll Google for recommendations.”

  “Are you being serious?” Grant asked, wiping his tears away. “You know that dogs can’t actually talk, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, typing “dog whisperer” into my phone.

  Two days later, we were sitting in the Dog Psychologist’s office. When the receptionist called us, we entered a comfortable looking lounge littered with old tennis balls and chewy rubber bones that squeaked as you tripped over them, as Grant did when he crossed the threshold.

  Doctor Lebrassi was an eccentric looking man. He had Einstein hair and round black-rimmed glasses. I let Comet out of his carrier, and he seemed instantly at home, chasing down a yellow ball. The psychologist shook our hands with both of his, then clapped to start the session.

  He called Comet over and scrubbed his chin with gentle fingers. “What a beautiful dog you are,” he said, looking into his sweet eyes. “What a lovely boy.”

  “He used to be beautiful,” I said. “Before that pet salon got hold of him.”

  The doctor didn’t take his eyes off Comet. He kept stroking him as he examined his patchy coat.

  “But that was weeks ago,” said Grant. “And he just keeps losing hair.”

  The doctor took a few more moments to examine Comet, looking at his gums, teeth, and massaging his coat, looking for any abnormalities, then he gave him a treat from his jacket pocket and told him to play.

  “There is good news,” Lebrassi said, adjusting his glasses. He spoke in an accent that seemed slightly Italian, but I wasn’t sure.

  “What’s the bad news?” Grant wanted to know.

  “He has experienced a trauma,” said the dog psychologist.

  I ground my teeth. Those bloody dog groomers.“It was at the doggie parlour,“ I said. I wanted to kill them.

  Doctor Lebrassi shook his head. "No. It is a deep wound — not a bad day at a doggie parlour. Something else has happened to him, something truly traumatic. His body is manifesting the stress, hence the hair fall.”

  “Oh,” I said, and Grant looked at me. We knew exactly what it was. A lump rose in my throat, so Grant had to continue.

  “Comet’s sister died a few months ago. They were best friends. They were always together.”

  At least it was a peaceful death, we told ourselves. No accident, no shock, just a slow descent as her health deteriorated, and we had her put to sleep. We had laid down her favourite blanket on the cold steel table at the vet and placed her shuddering body there. We tucked her favourite teddy under her front leg—the way she liked it—and sobbed in each others’ arms as the drugs took effect and her breathing slowed and then stopped. The loss had been devastating for all of us. Comet had searched every nook of the house for days and howled into the night for his best friend, which had just made us cry more.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Lebrassi gave us a tender smile. “Comet will recover in time, and so will you.” He slapped his knees. “That’s the good news.” He leaned down to pick up a rope from the carpet and threw it for Comet to fetch. The schnauzer did so and brought it back, wagging his tail like a puppy.

  I blinked back the tears.

  “So what do we do?” asked Grant.

  “I prescribe plenty of play,” said the doctor, “plenty of cuddling, and plenty of treats.” He brought out another dog biscuit from his pocket and gave it to Comet, ruffling the fur he had left sprouting unevenly on his head.

  “And his hair will grow back?” I asked, finally able to talk past the tears.

  “Definitely,” said Lebrassi, looking pleased.

  "Do you recommend any kind of medicated shampoo or anything like that?" I asked. "You know, to speed it up?"

  The psychologist walked to his desk and scribbled on a piece of paper. “This oil may help,” he smiled. “But you’re going to have to go back to that doggie parlour to get it.”

  In the car on the way home, I told Grant there was no way that I was going back to Shampooch for the prescribed oil. Even thinking about walking in there made my cheeks burn.

  “You should go,” he said. “To apologise.”

  “I know,” I said, “but I’m not going to.”

  He dropped Comet and I off at home and set off for the pet salon.

  “Grant!” I called, as he started up the car again. He wound down his window. “Ask them how to use it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

  “And listen to what they say,” I said, but he had already closed the window and was accelerating down the driveway.

  When he arrived back you’d swear he was carrying an Ironman trophy, so broad was the grin on his face.

  “I got it!” he said—rather unnecessarily, I thought—as he was brandishing the box so proudly. I bit back a snide comment and instead smiled and thanked him. We covered Comet head to tail in the stuff, taking care to rub the oil in gently but thoroughly. It was a small bottle, and we used the whole thing. I didn’t want to miss a spot. It wasn’t easy, though, because the oil smelled absolutely disgusting.

  “Ugh,” I said, covering my mouth and nose with the crook of my arm, and Grant had an appalled look on his face. We took turns to take breaks outside for fresh air. We finished the job, trying not to heave, and it was a relief to peel off our gloves and bin them and send Comet outside, to the back lawn, for a run.

  “I’ve never smelled anything so revolting in my life,” I said, holding my chest. “What do they put in that stuff?”

  “Dead skunks,” joked Grant. “Public toilet deodorisers. And essence of upchuck.”

  “Don’t,” I said, pretending to retch. “I’ll be sick.”

  “Jokes aside,” said Grant. “It’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelt.”

  “Ugh,” I said again, in agreement. “When can we wash it out?”

  Grant looked at his watch. “Not yet.”

  “What are we going to do?” I asked, and Grant frowned at me.

  “We can’t leave him out there, and we can’t bring him inside.”

  After a stiff drink, we decided to cover all the furniture in old towels and blankets. We let Comet in, and went out to dinner. When we came back, the house reeked to high heaven. Just by opening the front door we were hit by a wall of stench so bad we both gasped and covered our noses.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I said, grasping my stomach. I instantly regretted the mussels in garlic cream sauce I’d eaten at the restaurant. Poor Comet lay on the covered couch, looking dismayed at the putrid odour he was emitting.

  “Can we wash it off now?” I asked. Grant said he’d check, and ran to the kitchen, where the product’s packaging was. When he returned, he nodded. “Yep,” he said. “Yep. We can wash it off.”

  I ran a deep bath in the guest ensuite and loaded the schnauzer with dog shampoo while Grant collected all the towels and put them in the washing machine. We had to wash Comet four times before he smelled—almost—normal again.

  “This oil better bloody work,” I said as I dried him off. I desperately wanted Comet’s hair to grow back, but I wasn’t sure I could go through with this rigmarole agai
n. I cleaned up, fed him, and tucked him up into his basket with Nova’s teddy.

  “I know you miss Nova,” I said to him, stroking his head. “We all do. She was a wonderful dog. But it won’t always hurt this much. We'll all feel better soon and your hair will grow back."

  Comet looked at me in that way only dogs can, and I felt my heart swell with affection for him. “Good night,” I whispered, kissing his head. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  They’d have to be extremely unfortunate bedbugs, I thought, to go anywhere near him.

  When I found Grant sitting outside on the patio—the house still reeked, despite the towels churning in the washing machine—I knew by the way he looked at me and bit his lip that he was about to confess something.

  "What is it?" I asked. Before waiting for an answer, I walked to the kitchen and fished the packaging of the medicated oil out of the bin. I turned it around and looked at the instructions.

  “Graaaant!” I yelled.

  There was only one line, and it was easy to understand.

  Add 2 - 3 drops of oil to dog’s food, once a day.

  9

  Witches Get Stitches

  This short story takes place before ‘Blood Magic’, which is a completed six-book urban fantasy series.

  The main character is Jacquelyn Denna Knight, who grows up to be a wizard detective who solves paranormal cases (and slays vampires in her spare time).

  I was standing on our front lawn, having just returned from the neighbour’s birthday party next door. I could still taste the Oros juice and the Cheese Curls, the popcorn and cake. I was wearing yellow shorts and a My Little Pony T-shirt. I hesitated as if I somehow knew what awaited me—a dreamlike deja vu. I didn't want to step forward, but something forced me. Soon I saw my strawberry glitter jelly sandals swinging out before me as I walked towards the front door.

  Something was different. Something felt wrong. I knew it before I entered the house. That was the first time I smelled that scent. The smell that fills me with dread and dangerous thoughts.

  Crimson copper.

  I called for my parents and looked in the kitchen for them, in the garden, in the study, but they didn’t answer. Their bedroom door was closed. I knocked on it.

  “Mom?” I said. “Dad?”

  Still no answer.

  I stood there for a while, not sure what to do. Perhaps they were sleeping? I tried the handle, but the door was locked.

  “Mom?”

  Starting to get worried, I dropped my party pack on the carpet and wrapped my fingers around the doorknob. The metallic blood smell was much stronger now, and I knew for sure something was wrong. I had never melted a lock before. Mom and Dad had told me that I was only to do it in an emergency. I wasn’t sure if it was an emergency, but it felt like one.

  “Ignem exquiris,” I said. The heat from my spell softened the metal of the lock just enough for me to force the door open, and what I saw made my mouth stretch into a scream.

  “No!” I shouted, sitting up in my bed, my heart sprinting. Half asleep, I prepared to defend myself from the imminent threat that had haunted me every day since my parents were killed. I snatched my mother’s antique silver wand from my bedside table. My dorm was dark and cold, and my breath came out as white vapour. It gradually dawned on me that it had been a dream; a memory that would never leave me in peace. I’d often have nightmares when I was nervous about something, so it all made sense.

  I had been practising archery every day for a year. That day was the National Magical School Championship. It was a big day for me, and the whole school would be watching. I would be representing The Copperfield Institute, the most accomplished magical school on the continent. I breathed deeply to slow my mad heart, trying to calm down. I ran my fingers through my hair, but … it was gone

  “What the faex?" I looked down at my pillow and saw a nest of my hair. There was barely any left on my head.

  I heard giggling in the hostel passage. I shot out of bed; fear morphing quickly to anger. The adrenaline jetting through my body allowed me to practically fly through the air, into the dormitory opposite mine, where I found three giggling witches. At least they had the grace to look alarmed when they saw me.

  Isadora Crowe—spiteful, smug Izzy—looked at the sharp silver scissors in her hand and muttered something under her breath. There was the faint sound of a finger-click, and the scissors vanished.

  “You,” I sneered. “You filius canis!”

  Filius canis means ‘son of a bitch’. I probably could have thought of a more appropriate curse word for the witch, but my fury seemed to be sending little electric impulses into my brain.

  “You,” Izzy said, her voice sharp with contempt. “Wizard.”

  The silver wand was growing warm, and I felt the power rising in my chest.

  My name is Jacquelyn Denna Knight, and I turn my pain into magic.

  “Fiat Fulgur!” I yelled, and a bolt of white lightning surged within me, bypassing my heart and shooting out of my hand, hurtling through the wand and into the wall, just missing the shrieking witch. It exploded a hole in the panel and sent a billowing cloud of golden, glittering smoke into the air. The witches looked horrified.

  “You could have killed her!” shouted Selena.

  “It would have been good riddance,” I said. Of course, I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to scare them. I needed them to stop with their stupid pranks and witches’ tricks. I’d had enough, and I wanted them to know it. I wasn't some meek orphan who'd roll over and play dead. I had fought for survival, and I would fight them, too.

  “You’re so weird,” said Lilith, but I ignored her. I’d rather be a weird wizard than a bland little yay-saying witch.

  Besides, I’d heard it all before:

  You’re weird.

  Girls aren’t supposed to be wizards.

  Street urchin!

  Nobody wants you.

  You don’t belong here.

  “You put superglue in my tooth-whitening paste last week,” I said to Crowe.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t. I didn’t!”

  My instinct told me it was her, and it was not often wrong. But I needed proof. I stared at her, my stomach roiling with fury. Without meaning to, angry magic flowed out of my fingers, waiting for my command. I had none. My hands sparked blue as I tried to calm down. It felt as if my magic was trying to jump out of my skin.

  Ventum exquiris, I heard myself think, without meaning to. Soon a wind whipped up inside the room, sending objects flying around us in a whirlwind of juvenile magic.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Crowe, cowering to protect herself from being hit by the flying objects. “Stop it. Stop it!”

  But my anger would not abate. The hurricane got stronger. Light flowed from my palms and joined the sweeping wind, till the gust was shot through with blue. Soon the cupboard doors flew open, and the chest of drawers smashed into the wall opposite. The contents went flying around the room, including a packet of condoms, a box of cigarettes, and a half-empty tube of superglue.

  “Impedio!” I shouted, and the objects froze in the air around us. They clutched their chests in a melodramatic way as I plucked the superglue from between us and showed it to Crowe. Annoyed, she set her jaw and glared at me.

  “Fine,” she said, through gritted teeth. “It was me.”

  “And?”

  “And I won’t do it again.” Her eyes flickered with hostility.

  I felt I had made my point. I dropped the tube of glue, and as it fell, the other suspended objects fell, too, raining down on the shaken witches.

  I turned to stride back to my dorm but came face-to-face with Ms. Hook, the strictest house mistress at the Copperfield Institute. Just my luck.

  “Ms. Knight,” she said, arms folded. “That’s an interesting haircut.”

  My hands flew up to my short hair. “Er,” I said. We weren’t allowed to use magic around the hostel, but it would mostly be overlooked if it was inoffensive. But
using magic against a fellow student was a whole different quiver of arrows.

  “You’ll have detention this afternoon,” she announced, looking down her crooked nose at me.

  "No!" I shouted. "It's the national championship today! And I didn't even do anything wrong. I was just sticking up for myself—"

  “Swearing,” she said.

  “It was in Latin!”

  "Nonetheless: Swearing; spell-slinging; scrimmaging. You're lucky I'm not grounding you for the rest of the term."

  "If I can compete in the championship today," I pleaded, "you can ground me for the rest of the year."

  Ms. Hook looked at me with her cold eyes, as if trying to decide. I rearranged my face into the most contrite expression I could manage.

  "No," she said. She turned on her heel and marched off. I had never been very good at acting.

  I hated Izzy Crowe and her rotten teenage coven; despised them so much I felt I had a flame inside my stomach. I knew if I lost my temper again, there would be severe consequences. The school bell rang, signalling our first class would start in two minutes, but I couldn't face sitting at a desk with all that anger simmering inside me. Instead, I went to the bathroom and whipped out my wand. Channelling my feelings into the silver spellstick, I gathered my thoughts and said, under my breath, "Fervens.”

  I had learnt the spell from my Latin lessons with old Bent Neck. Do you know how they say Latin is a dead language? Professor Bendek was a living example of how dead things can be dragged into the twenty-first century. We would have called him a coffin-dodger, but it appeared that he had hardly dodged said coffin; he had one foot squarely in there, and the other hovering indecisively above it, like a cat at an open door.

  I felt my powers streaming through my body, and it felt good. I used my anger at Izzy, my heartbreak over my parents, and my sadness at never fitting in. I had lost the place I had ever truly belonged—my parents were both wizards, and I had a happy childhood—but that was all taken away from me. The spell got stronger, and the flame at the tip of the wand turned from a gentle fire into a hissing blue blade of a blowtorch. I used the fever torch to burn letters into the back of the door, the scented smoke swirling up to the ceiling.