by Emery Belle
I tried to steady my breathing as my knees knocked together in time to the panicked throbbing of my heart. “Please stay stuck, please stay stuck,” I chanted to myself beneath my breath, watching as the belly wobbled dangerously in the showerhead and the little black boots kicked frantically in the air, trying and failing to find purchase.
I briefly debated making a mad dash back to the living room for my cell phone lying on the couch, then swallowed back a maniacal burst of laughter at the thought of what I would say to the 9-1-1 operator. If they didn’t think I was prank-calling, then they’d surely be sending a whole squad of psychiatrists to my door to commit me to the nearest mental hospital and throw away the key, stat.
Suddenly, with an almighty grunt and what sounded like a slew of swear words in some indecipherable language, a crack shattered the silence and a portly man with a wrinkled face, triple chin, and shoulder-length gray hair plopped into the bathtub with a look of surprise.
His cheeks reddened when he saw me staring at him, mouth agape, and he hastened to tug his lime-green sweater, which had hitched up to his chest, back down over a stomach that hung halfway down his thighs. A charming orange cap was perched on his head, and tufts of gray hair sprouted out of his ears. As he heaved himself to his feet, he suddenly caught sight of the curling iron in my hand and nearly fell over in terror, throwing shaking arms in front of his face as he cowered in the corner of the tub.
Sensing my advantage—and realizing that I was at least two heads taller than him—I snapped the curling iron in his direction, then noticed out of the corner of my eye the power cord trailing uselessly on the ground behind me. I had forgotten to plug it in.
He peeked out from between his arms, then let out a shriek of terror and stumbled backward as I snapped the curling iron at him again. “Is that a gung?” he cried, his voice shockingly high-pitched for someone so… round. “Please don’t use it on me! I haven’t come here to hurt you, I swear. I’m your guide.”
I frowned, choosing to ignore the last sentence for the time being in favor of my more pressing question. “What’s a gung?”
“You know,” he said, hesitating before removing one arm from his face and cocking his thumb and index finger into the shape of a pistol. “A gung, like the kind they use in human movies.”
Human movies? As opposed to…?
I stared at him, a fresh wave of horror washing over me as I watched him mime being shot in the chest. He flailed his arms theatrically and slumped against the tile wall of the tub, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. He seemed to have forgotten that he was, at least in his eyes, in mortal danger. It was becoming crystal clear to me that I was dealing with someone even more certifiable than I thought.
“It doesn’t matter what it is,” I said harshly, taking a menacing step toward him as he snapped back to attention and eyed my outstretched arm in fear. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my bathroom?”
“Ah, yes,” he said, straightening his cap and rummaging around in his pocket for a piece of paper wound up like a scroll. “We really should get down to the formalities, shouldn’t we? Time is of the essence if we want to depart on the morning ferry, or else we’ll have to wait until next week, and I’m certain that Lady Amabelle will have my head on her dinner platter for that.”
He shuddered and unrolled the paper, then cleared his throat importantly. He snapped his boots together at the heels as he began to read from the paper in a somber, businesslike tone.
“I, Glenn Gunrath Gulley, senior member of the Sparrow Coven, do hereby fulfill my guide duties to you, Wren Guinevere Winters, under Section 47, Item B of the International Association of Magical Beings’ Code of Conduct for welcoming new witches into the protection of the IAMB, on this, the fifteenth day of July, in the year of our Goddess Luna. It is my honor to sincerely welcome you into the coven, and into our world, from now until the end of time, whenever that may be. And you, in return, shall learn to be a productive and contributing member of society who is bound and governed by the laws of the IAMB and any of its representatives. If you agree to these terms, please say ‘Aye’ at this time.”
He stared at me expectantly.
I stared back.
“Go on,” he prompted. “Don’t be shy now.” He gave me a toothy smile.
“I—” I started to say, but before I could get out the rest of my sentence, he clapped his hands together with glee, shoved the paper back into his pocket, and launched himself at me. Before I could protest, he grabbed me by the hands and began shuffling his booted feet around in what looked like an impromptu jig, dragging me alongside him as I struggled to stay upright.
“I’ve been a guide for many centuries, my dear,” he said, his eyes shining with tears of happiness as he stopped dancing and steadied me by the shoulders, “and I’ve ushered a great many witches and wizards to their rightful home on the island, but never have I been more humbled and honored than while walking this journey with you.”
He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. “To think you’ve come from nothing, had no one your entire life, and to almost miss the deadline… We were all so worried about you, but here you are, doing better than could possibly be expected. Your future holds great things, Wren Winters. Very great things indeed. To say I’m tickled to pieces would be the understatement of the ages, but we’ll have time to celebrate more in the days to come. First, I must send an urgent message to Lord Macon before he stokes the fire and all is lost.”
He snapped his fingers, and a twittering sparrow appeared out of nowhere and began zooming merrily around his head. Plucking it out of the air, he placed it gently in the palm of his hand and said, “Send word to Lord Macon right away that Miss Winters will be arriving with me on the eight o’clock ferry. Quickly now, and don’t even think about stopping for a snack this time, or I’ll cut off your worm supply.”
The sparrow cocked its head and regarded him with intelligent eyes, then snapped its wings and was gone in a flash of light.
By this time, the curling iron was hanging limply from my hand, and despite the strange little man who had fallen—quite literally—into my life, despite the word “witch” being thrown around as though it were an everyday occurrence, despite a bird appearing out of thin air in the middle of my windowless bathroom, despite every bone in my body screaming at me that I needed to run away, as far and as fast as possible, I found myself rooted to the ground, my feet refusing to budge, the same refrain playing endlessly in my head.
To think you’ve come from nothing, had no one your entire life…
How could he possibly have known?
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Glenn said gently, nudging my chin up with the pad of his thumb and taking in my vacant stare with a worried frown. “I was born and raised on the island, and goodness knows it was a lot even for me to process at first. But you’ll come around.”
He glanced down at a gold watch chained to his belt loop and drew in a sharp breath. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I really must be going; Cornelius will be wondering if you failed to hatch, and we don’t want him giving up your seat to the undertaker…”
When I didn’t make any attempts to respond to this latest oddity, he winced and patted me on the shoulder. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep, my dear. I promise that everything will seem a little less overwhelming in the morning. Let’s see”—he tapped the end of his bulbous nose thoughtfully—“the ferry leaves at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, and we’ll need time for your registration papers… so why don’t you meet me at dock number three, say, half an hour early?”
He opened his palm to reveal a slip of paper that hadn’t been there moments before, prompting me to take it. I did automatically, still lost in a jumble of confused thoughts. “Just follow the map, it’ll take you where you need to go.”
When I still didn’t respond or give any indication that I’d heard him, he hesitated for a moment, then reached forward and gave my hand a
brief squeeze. “Goodnight, Wren Winters. I’ll see you in the morning.”
When I woke up the next day drenched in cold sweat after a fitful night of sleep spent tossing and turning into the wee hours of the morning, I was angry.
No, scratch that. I was raging like a madwoman.
Now that the fog had cleared, now that the panic had subsided, I could see the truth clearly: this was all a colossal, elaborate joke orchestrated by Jason and Clarissa to make me look like a fool. They were probably snuggled up in bed together right now, howling with laughter over the idiot ex-girlfriend/never-would-be fiancée who had brandished a stone-cold curling iron at a fat little man who had come plopping out of her showerhead. Who had believed, maybe just briefly, maybe in the furthest corners of her mind, that perhaps something strange and wondrous was happening. That perhaps what she had known all along—that she never did belong—wasn’t all in her head.
Or maybe it still was. I just didn’t know anymore.
But I did know this: they weren’t going to get away with it. I was going to get dressed, march down to the police station, and report Jason for slipping something into my drink last night and helping someone break into my apartment and making me imagine all sorts of crazy, impossible things, the kinds of things you only ever read about in fairy tales. And when he was hauled off to jail, I was going to dance behind the police car the entire way there, with bells on.
But first, I was going to go down to the docks, where he would surely be waiting, hidden, for me to continue making a fool of myself, and give him a piece of my mind. And oh, what a piece it would be. Hell hath no fury, and all that jazz.
I grabbed the slip of paper that “Glenn” had given me last night with directions to the meeting spot, snorting when I unfolded it and saw that it was blank. “So much for that,” I muttered, tossing it onto my bed and grabbing my cell phone to look up directions to the nearest police station. It was probably for the best—if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t give Jason the satisfaction, however brief, of thinking that I had fallen for his ridiculous scheme.
After downing a glass of orange juice and cramming a few bites of dry toast into my mouth, I headed back to my bedroom to grab my jacket. When I sat down on the edge of the bed to slip my feet into a pair of running shoes—I wanted to be well prepared, in case Jason tried to make a break for it—something crinkled underneath me and I scooted over to find the paper from Glenn, now crumpled and torn at the edges, stuck to the rear of my jeans.
I reached down to push it away, and as soon as my fingers brushed against its surface, a network of thin black lines began to crawl across the paper, swirling and bending into what at first looked like an abstract design. On second glance, though, I realized it was something else.
The floor plan of my house.
“Well that’s just creepy,” I muttered, examining the drawing inches from my nose to try and determine how it worked. Some kind of invisible ink activated from the heat by my fingers, no doubt. Clever. I almost had to give Jason props; up until now, I had always—lovingly, of course—considered him to be half a fry short of a Happy Meal.
Tossing the drawing onto the bed, I finished lacing up my shoes, slipped on my jacket, and ran a brush through my hair, then added a quick swipe of mascara at the last second in an attempt to offset the bags of exhaustion beneath my eyes. No need to give him the satisfaction of thinking that I had cried myself to sleep after he ran out last night, straight into the arms of another woman.
I examined myself in the mirror with a critical eye, then shrugged at my reflection and let out a long sigh. I wasn’t going to win first prize in any beauty contests, but this would have to do. As I took two steps toward the door, I stopped short when a twitch of movement on the edges of my vision caught my attention.
Frowning, I looked back down at the bed, then felt the color drain from my face as I realized that the diagram on the piece of paper had erased and was redrawing itself—except this time, no one was touching it.
The lines curled and danced across the paper, joining together to form the shape of a woman wearing a jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes, her long hair flowing down her back, a smattering of freckles on her nose in a distinctly familiar pattern, and… what was that?
I leaned down, squinting for a better look.
There, underneath her eyes, plain as day, were two miniscule, hand-drawn bags of exhaustion.
She was me. And even as a stick figure, I wasn’t looking my best. Typical.
As I watched, my stomach sinking further toward my feet with each passing second, the stick-figure version of me lifted one hand and beckoned to me with a knowing smile. Then she turned around on the paper and began walking, an elaborate drawing of my bedroom appearing around her as she made her way to the door, then down the hallway, through the living room—where the sunflowers Jason had given me last night appeared, still lying sadly on the ground next to a tiny version of the empty wine bottle—and stopped at the front door before looking at me expectantly.
And without thinking, without even really realizing that my feet were moving of their own accord, I ignored the voice in my head screaming at me to run in the opposite direction and instead slung my purse over my shoulder, turned off the bedroom light, and began to follow her.
Chapter 3
“There you are,” Glenn cried out, looking nearly limp with relief as I bent down, wheezing, and pressed my hands to my knees in an attempt to regain control of my breathing.
It had taken nearly an hour to walk to the docks, and somewhere around the halfway point, stick-figure me had launched into an all-out sprint, her hair flying behind her shoulders as cars and buildings whizzed by us, both in real life and in print. We finally neared the designated meeting place, a hidden cove in Oregon’s craggy coastline, and began scrambling over rocks and washed-up tree branches until we reached a weathered dock that stretched out into the placid gray-blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
If ever someone was going to get murdered, it would surely be here.
Other than Glenn, who today was sporting a neon-pink blazer and matching top hat, the coastline was completely deserted as far as the eye could see, save for an abandoned, graffiti-covered shack boarded up with splintering pieces of wood and a rickety canoe that was bobbing haphazardly in the gentle waves and threatening to overturn with the slightest hint of wind.
As I straightened up, still struggling to catch my breath and ignoring the searing pain in my chest, I realized that Glenn was still talking.
“…cutting it rather close, don’t you think? I’d hoped you’d be here a bit earlier so we could go over a few… preliminaries.”
He studied the gold watch still looped around the waistband of his pants and chewed his lip with a worried expression. “You haven’t been to the island yet, and I suppose those who call it home could come as a bit of a shock to someone living in the human world… fangs and fur and things of that nature. And what with the morning morgue shipment…”
He trailed off and began gnawing on the edge of his fingernail.
“Look,” I said, straightening up to my full height and squaring my shoulders in what I hoped was a semi-threatening manner, “I don’t know who you are or how much Jason is paying you to do this”—I waved my arms around the empty stretch of beach as a seagull squawked overhead and landed a few feet from us, stretching its neck hopefully in our direction in search of a few scraps of food—“but I’m not going anywhere with you. So you can just take your sparrow and your invisible ink and whatever other magic tricks you have up your sleeve and stick them where the sun don’t shine.”
I crumpled up the piece of paper and hurled it at him, crossing my arms in satisfaction as it hit the tip of his nose and fluttered to the ground.
“Oh dear.”
Glenn watched it hit the sand, and then shuffled his feet uncomfortably and tugged on the collar of his yellow shirt, peeling it away from the third layer of his chin, which wobbled dangerously as he swallowed hard and sh
ook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Wren Winters. Not possible at all.”
I stared hard at him. “What’s not possible?” I gritted out. He may be positively adorable and all, but by this point, the old man was really starting to try my patience.
He toed at the ground with his booted feet, drawing swirling patterns in the sand, before gazing up at me, his electric-green eyes blazing into mine. “Consent has been given. The bond has been sealed. The covenant shall not be broken.” He shook his head. “By saying ‘Aye’—”
“But I didn’t mean—”
“—you have accepted your rightful place as a citizen of the island and a member of the coven,” he continued, talking over my protests, “thus igniting your full powers. There can be no return from this. Well.” He frowned and cocked his head at me, though his top hat remained firmly in place. “I suppose there is one way, but I’m afraid it’s a bit primitive—”
“I’ll do it,” I said, my ears perking up. At this point, I would do just about anything to be rid of this strange little man forever, even if it meant temporarily abandoning my dignity. “Just say the words.” I gave him an encouraging smile.
“Death by a thousand stones.” He twirled his fingers uneasily through the ends of his hair and dropped his gaze back down to the sand.
I gawked at him, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, and was just starting to glance around the coastline for a weapon—I’d left in too much of a hurry to grab the curling iron—when the boarded-up window of the shack near the dock suddenly slammed upward and a man with a shock of bright red hair and pointed ears poked out his head and glared at us.
“What’s the hold-up, eh? Ferry leaves in five minutes sharp, and she”—he jabbed an accusing finger in my direction—“hasn’t even signed the ledger yet. You know the rules, Glenn. No name, no entry. Everyone else is already aboard, and the vampires are going to be in an uproar if they don’t get their weekly feed. We don’t want those tummies rumbling, now do we? Nightmare for everyone, that’ll be.” He gestured toward the empty canoe, which was tilting dangerously to the left.
