by Al K. Line
"Men are such fools," sighed Vicky.
"Agreed."
"So, you would?"
"I would. But it would be a bad idea. Why, you want to?"
"Nope. Just asking." Vicky turned and walked, dare I say sashayed, to the kitchen doorway then wiggled her bottom, glanced coyly over her shoulder, then laughed as she went to get clean.
It's so unfair. Women shouldn't have this power over us. Damn, I didn't even fancy her and yet I was left there in the kitchen feeling so frustrated I could have... Trust me, you don't want to know what I could have done.
With Vicky gone, I settled down with a coffee at the kitchen table and thought a little about what had happened. I was still in two minds about whether this was a good idea or not. Ivan was family, Vicky's anyway, and had looked after her children all night, ensured they got to school, and would get them picked up if need be. He had a business to run, was an important, powerful man, yet would drop it all to look after family.
Shouldn't we just tell him and be done with this whole sorry affair?
It went further than that though. Even taking the fact this was family out of the picture, letting him loose on the witches wasn't a good move. It would cause utter carnage and the repercussions would be felt for years. The vamps would be out of hiding as the battles raged, magic would fly, death would descend, and all would be chaos.
That wasn't good. It would make a mess of everything. Who knew what the vampires would end up doing if they had to act in unison to defeat the witches, and then the wizards? Which they surely would as word would spread and there would be no going back.
If I didn't intervene in any way? Kept quiet, didn't act, let Mabel try to defeat Ivan? If she succeeded, the vamps would go nuts anyway, wizards too, as no way would they stand for witches taking over most criminal activity. And if this so-called Queen failed, Ivan would destroy most witches for their association with her, and that would lead to its own set of problems.
No, there were two choices. Either tell Ivan or steal the cauldron and somehow ensure Mabel didn't still try to destroy Ivan. And we'd agreed to the latter. I was a man of my word, so that's what I'd do. I'd go steal a bloody cauldron of all things, and somehow find a way to stop Mabel's madness infecting the whole magical community and causing decades of misery for all of us.
What I couldn't understand was why Mabel thought she could get away with this, and what madness had possessed her. This wasn't normal behavior, but maybe the witches had felt oppressed for so long that her, and her closest followers, had simply finally had enough. Stranger, much stranger, things had certainly happened.
When Vicky returned, I went and had a shower then dressed in spare clothes I kept for such emergencies, emerging feeling clearer of head, and cleaner of body. Downstairs, I smiled at Vicky as she prepared lunch. This was such a picture of marital bliss that I panicked for a moment, thinking of her earlier offer, but then remembered it wasn't an offer, it was her sounding me out, making sure there was nothing more between us. Part of me wished there was, that we had a connection on a physical level, but it wasn't to be.
And I surprised myself, because it made me sad. For all our ups and downs, the fact she drove me nuts and talked incessantly, I loved Vicky. If we were together, we would be happy. We knew more about each other than anyone else, were best friends, already almost family. She had two children I adored, she loved George and George loved her, and we spent a lot of time together as it was.
Then it clicked. Maybe I already had more than I deserved. A true friend, a partner, kids, family dinners, playing on weekends, comfortable and relaxed in each other's company.
That's what many people search for their whole lives, and here I was already living it. I just hadn't noticed. Somehow, life had crept up on me, the sneaky sod. So as I stood in the kitchen watching Vicky make sandwiches, I understood that I was already a family man, just a rather unconventional one.
Life sure is funny.
"What you staring at, you weirdo?" asked Vicky, waving a knife around to get my attention.
"Just realized I'm a lucky man," I said gruffly.
"I could have told you that a long time ago. Get the butter."
"Yes, boss."
Time to Plan
Lunch over, and with me insisting on tidying the kitchen, as Vicky's idea of a clean kitchen is to make everything in sight clean and sparkly but hide most of the dirty stuff out of sight just to aggravate my OCD, plus she always leaves crumbs and coffee spills, claiming she doesn't see them, we got down to work.
I told Vicky all I knew of the witches' residence, or the Residence as they liked to call it, thinking it made them sound important, like an official home of the Queen or something. It was a large house on the outskirts of the city, ancient, some would say crumbling, about as witch-like as you could possibly imagine by all accounts.
As far as I knew, and I'd never been inside, only stood outside and been shouted at many times by old crones, it was all a bit backward.
Sure, some of them had taken to technology, but they were mostly interested in magic same as wizards, and anything technical was used out of necessity rather than for fun. Young ones like Selma were changing things, just like George, and she was a part of this community whether she liked it or not. Come to think of it, she'd been there several times, had even been offered a place, which came as a surprise to us all as they knew who her father was.
She'd refused, but she'd be a mine of information.
"We should call her then, see if she's around."
"Good idea." I made the call. George was on her way home after a lesson with her local teacher, so the timing couldn't have been better. It meant we could have dinner together, although Vicky would return to get the children. She called Ivan to say thanks and that she'd pick the girls up, and then we headed off.
Vicky drove so she'd have a car, and I also couldn't quite remember where mine was. Turns out it was right on the street where my city semi was!
Through the Gate of Bakaudif, into the barn, a drive home, and there we were. Back in the comfort and safety of my own home, where my kitchen sparkled, only ruined by the massacre resulting from George fixing herself lunch.
We filled George in on all that had happened, the club, Selma, the kidnapping, the mad witches, the dead ones, the cauldron, all of it.
As usual, she took it all in her stride. It wasn't as weird as other stuff we'd been through, and she knew we'd made our minds up anyway.
"But we need your intel," I said.
"That's quite an ask. What if I don't agree? What if I think you should stay out of this and let Ivan handle it? Or what if I don't want to betray the most powerful witch in the country and possibly risk my entire future?"
"Oh. Yeah, course."
George punched me playfully on the arm—her faery strength meant it really hurt—and laughed. "Just messing. What do you want to know? That Mabel character is really odd, so this doesn't surprise me. And there's been lots of talk lately, how she's losing the plot, doing wild and dangerous things. A lot of witches aren't happy, not that they'd dare do anything to show it. Mabel's powerful, and she frightens them. Even my teacher, all this way from the city, is scared of her. Good riddance. But," George held up a finger, "you better watch out. She's got serious clout, and if you kill her there will be hell to pay."
"I know. That's the problem."
"Just be warned. She can kick your ass, Dad, and I mean it."
"Warning taken and understood. So, tell us all you know about the Residence."
The Nitty Gritty
I was mostly right about my impressions of the Residence, and George filled us in on the rest.
The place was all low beamed ceilings, tiny poky rooms, ancient flagstone floors, and no place for a wizard of even average height. They were fond of brass things nailed to walls and everywhere you went were bunches of drying herbs, lots and lots of cats, and more thick curtains and misshapen cushions than was good for your sanity. Plus loads of witche
s, of course.
They had rooms each, or shared with a few of their friends, there was a massive communal kitchen where pots bubbled permanently and they vied for space to boil up one potion or another. But many spent more time in the various outbuildings, old sheds, prefabs, and large barns housing a cornucopia of esoteric or mundane equipment. From gardening tools to a full forge, smelting works, to stills for booze and potions, several Quiet Rooms, and boy did they need them, and who knew what else.
The place was disorganized, stuff everywhere, the grounds always looked wild and overgrown, but apparently were a "cottage style" perfect for growing their numerous plants. Sounded like an excuse to not mow the lawn, but whatever.
Basically, imagine how they used to live, same as wizards, in mud huts with open fires, bubbling cauldrons, lots of herbs, cats, wands, and staffs, and all that cackling, then scale it up so there are loads of them in a building that was at its peak in the seventeen hundreds. That about summed it up.
There was one exception; they weren't as backward with their tech as I'd assumed. George said there were many young witches now, more than there had ever been, and so the house had wi-fi, even hotspots out in the gardens, and they used technology openly inside the house. They had a modern kitchen along with old stoves and even open fires for the older women, but the youngsters spent a lot of time online and had updated most antiquated systems.
There was lighting that worked off sensors throughout the house, as witches were prone to being absentminded, same as wizards, so never switched off anything they turned on. They had cable TV, everyone had an app to control the temperature in their room, although most never used it, and there were a lot of TVs. They also had a state-of-the-art security system, covering the entire property, the outbuildings that held important stuff, and the artifact room.
George had never been inside the important rooms, only invited into the house to take a look around and see if she wanted to continue her training there, and then a few more times on witch business and to pick things up for her teacher. Seems Mabel was generous to a fault with lending out artifacts to whoever wanted them, and the fully trained witches, those she knew and trusted, were allowed to come and go as they pleased from the artifact room, taking whatever they wished as long as everything was logged in and out properly.
George had been told all about the room containing artifacts, and it sounded awesome, just as I knew it would be. Witches have been around as long as wizards, and imagine if we'd had a central hoard for all the various artifacts, one person that oversaw it all. It would be amazing, but very frustrating too. Wizards had no such organization, wouldn't dream of living in such a way, but witches were different, more community minded, and had suffered more injustice over the years so preferred to keep most valuable items secured under their watchful eye.
Nobody had ever stolen from them. Now and then things went missing, but it was always one of their own who took it. Nobody would dream of actually breaking in. Apart from The Hat. Tee-hee.
For a moment, I contemplated giving George the Teleron and asking her to jump right to the door to the room and see if she could get in, but dismissed it immediately as too dangerous for her. No, I had to do this, and I had to know exactly what I was letting myself in for.
How much time did we have? Not long according to Selma and her gaggle of mad old bints. However, this could not be rushed. One mistake and it would all be over. Mabel would know we were on to her, and then the war would be upon us all.
With a big thank you to George, I said I was going for a lie down, and, for the first time ever, Vicky asked if she could come too.
"What, for a lie down? Course, there's plenty of spare rooms."
"No, with you," she mumbled, blushing sweetly as she glanced at George who smiled and went to clean up her mess. Meaning, smear butter about the counter and brush crumbs onto the tiles.
"We talked about this. I told you what I'd do given half the chance, even though I know it isn't a good idea. And you don't want this either."
"I don't mean S E X, I mean—"
"I can spell, you know," said George, grinning like an idiot.
"Fine, I may as well say it. I just want a cuddle. There, happy now?" Vicky crossed her arms over her chest and sulked.
George and I exchanged a glance. I shrugged, but then realized what an idiot I was.
I held out my hand, said, "Come on," and led Vicky up to my bedroom.
It wasn't a repeat of the last time we were in a room with a bed, this was something different and altogether more intimate.
"I'm sorry," I said, as I sat on the bed and patted it.
"What for?" Vicky sat beside me.
"For not thinking about how upsetting it can be sometimes. For not thinking about how stressful it is, and that you're very worried for your brother and aren't sure what the right thing to do is."
"It's not just that, Arthur."
"I know, honey. I know exactly what it is. It's everything, right?" Vicky nodded.
I scooted up to the pillows and Vicky joined me. We got under the covers, clothes still on, then wriggled up close.
Vicky turned her back to me and I cuddled her tight while her tiny body shook as she cried into my pillow.
Sometimes this life is fucking cruel, and the only thing that makes it better is a cuddle. It's not one particular thing that can send you over the edge, it's the little things that pile up until it seems like life is just too damn hard to deal with.
So I cuddled Vicky, and never said a word about needing a cuddle of my own, because, let's face it, I wasn't handling life well and sometimes I felt so sad and overwhelmed I wanted to die.
But she needed me, so I kept quiet, and did the only thing I could to make it all better.
Back and Forth
We awoke when my Mickey Mouse alarm clock struck quarter to three. I sat bolt upright, panicking, then sank back down and sighed with a rare feeling of blissful happiness. Such is the wonder of a mini-death, that most blessed and rare of things, an afternoon snooze rather than an afternoon lie-awake-in-bed-and-get-annoyed.
Vicky and I smiled coyly at each other, then snapped out of it and bickered about who should plump up the pillows and make the bed. Not arguing that we each wanted the other to do it, mind you. I wanted it to look neat and nice so no way was Vicky allowed to "tidy it up a bit."
Back on the usual track, me getting annoyed by her, her knowing I was right and awed by my stupendousness, we went downstairs.
George was in the kitchen, seemingly unable to fill her stomach. Where did she put it all? She had a figure any woman would be proud of. Must have hollow legs.
"Before you start," she said, "I don't want to hear anything about it."
"About what?" I asked.
"About you two getting it on upstairs. So gross. You're too old for that kind of thing."
"You're never too old," I assured her. "Never. And it wasn't like that. We cuddled."
George rolled her eyes. "Is that what the oldies call it? Ugh." George shook.
"Arthur was very sweet. He—"
"Lalalalala." George covered her ears and sang. Didn't blame her.
Vicky and I exchanged a smile then we told George what the plan for the day was and she said she'd be here.
So, I took Vicky to the barn, saw her through to the city, then returned and did chores. No point trying to formulate a proper plan until this evening. I needed Vicky's expertise to ensure I knew what I was getting myself involved in.
Hours later, with the kitchen properly clean, the floor mopped, the carpets vacuumed, the chickens and pigs cleaned out, even my boots had a polish, I set about making dinner as I waited for the home invasion to begin.
Neither of us had realized it was Friday, so Vicky was bringing the girls for the weekend so George could look after them and they could hang with her while she ran her business. The weekends were always a busy time, with her clients coming to ride the horses she stabled or to have lessons. The twins often hung
around for the weekend these days, helping George, playing, riding, and devising cunning plans to disrupt my home and destroy what little sanity I foolishly clung to.
I guess I enjoyed it, but I am a glutton for punishment.
At five o'clock, I once again returned to the city, walked them through the gate, reminding them yet again how important it was to keep holding hands or they'd all be torn to bits and stay that way, the twins rolling their eyes at something that had long ago lost its fascination, magical portals now seemingly about as interesting as homework. And then I drove everyone back to the house while I was regaled with tales of mean girls and how it was so unfair that boys were allowed to ride skateboards and girls weren't.
"I don't know what kind of school you go to, but if you want to ride a skateboard then ride one. Who said girls can't?"
"The boys," they chorused.
"Trust me, boys don't know anything."
Vicky punched me on the arm. "Ow!"
"I don't want them riding skateboards," she hissed.
"It's the principle. They can do it if they want."
"You don't have to buy them, teach them how to ride, then take them to the hospital when they hurt themselves."
"That's why I said it was a good idea."
Vicky punched me again.
Home Invasion
Dinner was nice, mainly because I cooked it. I loved George more than my hat, and she excelled at many things, but cooking was not one of them. She could burn a boiled egg and once set fire to a pan of boiling water—even wizards have a hard job doing that and no, she didn't use magic, just ineptitude. I made lasagna, and I had the weirdest feeling while I was trying to peel open the foil covering the garlic bread and repeatedly burning my fingers.
As the girls chattered non-stop, all four of them, and I dished up, I got a peculiar sense of deja-vu, but not the one where it feels like you've done the exact same thing in the past, but the one where you feel like you are reliving something yet to happen. I'm sure there's a word for it, but I don't know what it is. As though you're performing a variation on a task you'll repeat in the future in a slightly different way, maybe for different people, maybe even a different place, but with the same feeling inside.
