Lee Martindale is a short story slinger whose work has appeared in such anthologies as Turn The Other Chick, Catopolis, A Time To . . . , Outside The Box, Arcane Whispers, Lowport, three volumes of the Sword & Sorceress series, three of the Bubbas Of The Apocalypse anthologies, and three chapbook collections from Yard Dog Press. She also edited the ground-breaking Such A Pretty Face. When not slinging fiction, Lee is a Named Bard, Lifetime Active Member of SFWA, a fencing member of the SFWA Musketeers, and a member of the SCA. She and her husband George live in Plano, TX, where she keeps friends and fans in the loop at http://www.HarpHaven.net.
All Nimue Reynolds wanted to do was wash her hands.
The pamphlet shoved into them by a total stranger sporting an arrogant, "you obviously need this" smirk had felt— She wanted to say "slimy," but that was probably a psychological reaction to the subject matter: yet another new weight loss clinic. Psychological or not, she wanted to wash her hands.
Finding the requisite facilities was not the easiest of feats in Stonebend Mall. For starters, the place had been designed by a trendy wunderkind with an unhealthy admiration of Escher and a tendency to channel Sarah Winchester. Getting from any Point A to any Point B required a switchback to Point F and the good fortune not to get turned around along the way. Or temporarily blinded by shafts of late-spring North Texas sunlight focused to near-laser quality by artfully-faceted glass. Acres of the stuff, soaring multiple stories above the corridors. So far, in what Nimue considered a miracle, all of that glass had managed to avoid being introduced to another late-spring North Texas staple, softball-sized hail.
Further complication lay in the apparent notion that the sensibilities of genteel shoppers should be spared reminders of mundane things like bodily functions. Signs pointing the way to public restrooms were tiny, tastefully well-hidden, and rendered in a font that was probably and appropriately called Obscura Elegante. A good thing, she thought as she entered a camouflaged corridor supposedly leading to her destination, that she wasn't seeking the restrooms on more urgent business.
It didn't take long for Nimue to begin thinking she'd taken an unmarked entrance into Faerie, the direct result of another example of architectural whimsy. The grand concept called for the mall to "emerge ethereally" from the side of a hill, ignoring completely the reality that the building site had, not all that long ago, been flat-as-a-pool-table prairie. But a hill was demanded, and a hill was built—or rather piled—on a supporting structure of pre-fab concrete boxes that provided stability and, just incidentally, cut down on the amount of fill dirt needed.
Then someone got the idea to turn the boxes into utility space. The narrow concrete tunnels were painted a uniform, depressing blue-grey and designated as maintenance and access corridors.
The result was a subterranean maze that would have delighted the heart of King Minos and prompted Nimue to wish she'd brought breadcrumbs to drop behind her. Six times, at each of six intersections, she stopped and tried to decipher letters and numbers stenciled in black on the corners—coordinates, apparently, with no discernable pattern or logic. Next she listened for any sound that might give her some clue as to what might lay beyond the pre-fab and, more importantly, in which direction. But there was no hint of din from the food court, no echo of commerce from a shop, no telltale sound of passersby from a concourse. There was, oddly enough, no sound at all.
Arriving at the seventh intersection on her accidental journey, she repeated the process. This time, blessed be, there was a tenuous reward. From somewhere along the tunnel to the left came the faintest wisp of vibration, the barest suggestion of sound. That it resembled girlish giggles . . . well, Nimue didn't care. It was a direction, an indication that she hadn't slipped through a portal into an otherwise-uninhabited limbo. In the absence of something more substantive, she made for it.
She'd gone only a few steps when she noticed a tingling at the back of her neck. A tingling that spread slowly across her scalp, then danced down her arms, growing stronger with each step toward a partially open door on the left wall of the tunnel. She'd encountered several such doors, all securely locked. Not only was this one open, from it came the sound of chanting.
Take Texas upscale suburban schoolgirl slang and type it into a language translation program set to output Texas high school first-year Latin. Hand the resulting text to three adolescent females with voices that could peel paint, and instruct them to read it in unison. Ragged delivery, abysmal syntax, truly horrible pronunciation, and yet it was working. All known arcane logic aside, there was power being raised. Nimue could feel it: raw magick scraping against her senses in waves.
What she didn't feel was the slightest hint of protective circle or the barest glimmer of shielding. For a moment, Nimue lightly mourned the passing of "survival of the fittest" as a teaching tool for the young. Then she did what she knew she couldn't avoid. She slipped through the door and into the space beyond.
For the most part, it was dark, the result of electricity to the space being shut off and a temporary plywood partition being thrown up to hide the evidence of commercial failure from shoppers walking by. It was also overly-warm, the air-conditioning having been likewise disconnected. The air itself was stale, dusty, and becoming increasingly smoky; apparently the smoke detectors had been disconnected, as well.
What little light there was came from—oh please—black candles stuck on top of plaster pedestals and pillars that had been spray-painted a tacky gold and arranged in rough approximation of a circle. In the center was a plated metal—Nimue hoped it was metal and not spray-painted plastic—champagne bucket "cauldron," from which smoke, oily and reeking of various noxious and potent herbs burning on charcoal briquets, rose. Walls and floor had been generously decorated with symbols from no identifiable source other than syndicated reruns of Charmed.
Whatever shop had once occupied the space had apparently gone out of business quickly and quite some time ago. Nimue suspected it had been a clothing store for trendy teenaged girls, not unlike the three she spied standing together facing the "cauldron" and a flimsy folding metal music stand. Long blond hair, rail-thin bodies, varied-in-only-minor-details clothing. The woman marveled at the amount of effort it must have taken to give them the appearance of having all come out of the same cookie cutter.
Oh, joy. I'm dealing with the Brittany Brigade.
Yet another round of quasi-Latin chant dissolved into yet another bout of giggling. "This isn't working," remarked Brittany #1 when the twittering had died down. "It's just too hard. We need to try something else."
"Like what?" the two others asked in unison.
"I don't know," the first replied, frustration pushing her already high-pitched voice into an even higher, more grating range. "Maybe there's something else in here we can use. I downloaded a bunch of stuff from that website I found last night: WomanPowerRevenge.com." She started leafing through pages of computer print-outs while her companions, looking bored, glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. "Here's one that doesn't look as hard. I say a line, and you guys say it after me like a—what did Ms. Batterson call it?—Greek chorus." She seemed a little surprised, and very pleased, that she'd actually remembered something from World Literature class. "Just repeat everything I say, okay?"
"Fine," Brittany #2 snapped. "Only let's get this over with, okay? I've got a ton of homework, and I haven't updated my FaceSpace page in days."
"Me, too," Brittany #3 chimed in.
"I've got homework, too," Brittany #1 shot back, a touch of petulance in her voice, "but this is about something bigger than homework. This is about sisterhood, and goddess power, and . . . and . . ."
"And being really ticked off about losing to a no-style nerd like Marsha Castlebury. So read, already!"
Brittany #1 opened her mouth as if to continue the argument, then turned back toward the music stand. She took a deep breath and drew herself up into a posture someone had once told her conveyed "dignified authority." Another deep breath, and then she closed her eyes and intoned solemnly, "Goddess Hecate, hear our plea." She waited expectantly, and when she heard nothing, repeated the phrase more forcefully. A few, silent beats later, she opened her eyes and glared. "Come on! It's not like I'm speaking French or something. Get with it, willya?"
She closed her eyes and tried it again. This time, her efforts were rewarded with a feeble echo in two halting voices. "Better, but this time at least try to put some will behind it, okay?" The fourth attempt and the response to it were far more to her liking.
There was, apparently, a target for the day's work, if the number of times the name "Brad" came up was any indication. And he had, apparently, fallen significantly out of favor with the teen trio, if the frequency and vehemence with which the word "vengeance," and variations on the theme, were assayed.
"Goddess Hecate, heed your servants."
"Goddess Hecate, heed your servants."
"Mighty Hecate, work our revenge."
"Mighty Hecate, work our revenge."
"Terrible Hecate, accept this sacrifice and do our bidding!"
This, thought Nimue, would be a fairly easy fix. Short-circuit whatever the girls were trying to do, and slip away without them knowing she'd been there. Let them go home thinking they'd failed or—even better—that their attempts were all just so much nonsense. She was preparing a psychic wrench to lob into the middle of the adolescent works when the yowl of a very young, very put-upon feline changed her plans.
Drat! Just . . . drat! Oh, well . . . on to Plan B. Nimue stepped out of the shadows. "Good day, ladies."
Had Nimue materialized out of thin air to a fanfare of thunder, sparklers and red smoke, it could hardly have caused more of a shock to the three. Brittany #3 squealed. Brittany #2 gaped, then whispered, "Ohmygod, we've summoned Hecate." It took Brittany #1 three tries to stammer out, "Who—who are you?"
"The adult supervision you so obviously need," Nimue replied, doing a leisurely scan of the surroundings, the set-up, and the girls, and letting exaggerated-for-the-level-of-the-audience amused disdain play on her face. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to burn charcoal in a room without sufficient ventilation? It's a wonder you haven't keeled over from carbon monoxide poisoning."
"Is that why I have a headache? I've got this really bad hea—"
"Amber, shut up," Brittany #1 snapped.
Brittany #3 now had a name.
"Why don't we start with who this Brad person is, and what crime he committed that was so unspeakable you three would risk getting permanently banned from the mall to bring down all this righteous wrath on him?"
Amber glanced sideway before replying. "Brad is Carol's boyfriend."
"He was Carol's boyfriend," Brittany #2 corrected. "Except that he broke up with her today, right after school. Right before the junior prom. We're making him sorry he did that."
"Really sorry."
"I see. Hell having no fury, etc," Nimue chuckled. "And what did you have in mind as a suitable punishment?"
"We're putting a curse on him."
"A really bad curse."
"Yeah. We're witches."
"Witches," Nimue echoed as she crossed her arms. "A curse," she continued, pointedly looking around again. "Interesting. And you," she paused and leveled her gaze on the girl in the center, "must be Carol."
"Yeah . . . ah . . . how did you know that?"
Nimue cocked her head to one side. "You're the one holding a letter-opener in one hand and a kitten in the other. Cute kitten, by the way. This . . . curse . . . calls for the blood of a black cat, does it?"
"Well . . . no," stammered the sole unnamed Brittany. "But Carol said it would make it more powerful and . . ."
She was interrupted by Carol hissing "Shut up, Shelley!"
That drew not a chuckle, but a full-blown laugh from the older woman.
Carol might not know what to make of the unexpected turn of events, but she knew she didn't like being laughed at. She drew herself up and did her best to look menacing. "Look, lady, this isn't any of your business, so why don't you just waddle your fat ass back to wherever you came from and leave us alone."
Nimue raised one eyebrow and smiled. "You're going to have to better than that, kid. Derogatory references to the size of my backside haven't gotten a rise out of me since I was about your age."
The girls exchanged another round of confused looks. Not having a target dissolve into tears over being called "fat" was a new experience for them. It took them a couple of beats to find another weapon. "Okay, then," Carol continued, doing a rough—very rough—attempt at being threatening. "You're as stupid as you are fat. I already told you we're witches. We're powerful! Go away or we'll do something really bad to you."
Nimue chuckled again. "Something bad?" She raised her right hand and her fingers began to move, weaving intricate signs in the air. The foul-smelling smoke billowing out of the champagne bucket reversed direction and was sucked rapidly back whence it came. To the accompaniment of dropping teenaged jaws, the bucket rose slowly until it hovered several feet in the air. Then it upended itself and slammed to the floor. Silence followed, finally broken by a young voice reverently murmuring, "Wow."
"So," Nimue continued conversationally. "What exactly did you have planned for Brad?"
Still staring at the upended "cauldron," Shelley mumbled, "We're going to make his thing fall off."
"Ambitious. And you, Carol, are willing to offer sacrifice for this piece of work?"
Carol, looking a trifle dazed, pulled her eyes up and blinked. "Well, yeah. It's my kitten."
"Hecate's favors come a little pricier than one scrawny—what is it, eight-weeks-old?—kitten. Let's see . . ." Nimue regarded the trio for a moment. "As the price for unmanning Brad, The Dark Lady would undoubtedly demand the unwomaning of you. And given Her traditional personality . . . the messier and more painful, the better." She began to chant, softly and steadily, Gaelic phrases that layered one upon the other and shimmered around the three girls like ice crystals.
The kitten, still hanging by its scruff from Carol's hand, began to glow and change, becoming larger and heavier until Carol, staring at it in shock, let it go. It landed lightly on the floor, where it continued to grow—lengthening, stretching—until what crouched on the floor was a black panther in all its fully-mature, sleek and lethal glory. It rose, its shoulders nearly waist-high to the girls. One by one, it regarded each one of them as if trying to decide which would make the tastier first course.
The cat leveled glowing yellow eyes on Carol before opening its mouth and giving her an unobstructed view of flesh-rending fangs. A low growl vibrated the air. One front paw sketched a languid arch toward the girl, unsheathing claws that looked even more wicked than the fangs, before the creature melted into a boneless stretch. The end of the stretch brought it one long step closer to its prey.
Nimue's voice slid gently through the terror. "Did you really believe what it said on those Become A Witch For Fun And Profit websites? That you could do what you want, have what you want, at no cost to you beyond a ton of spam in your email?"
Carol took a step back. The big cat answered it with one of its own, eyes narrowing.
"Magick always has a price, youngling."
Another step backward by the girl, another step forward by the cat.
"Pay it willingly, pay it unwillingly, it matters not which. You will pay it."
Halfway through the next step backwards, Carol's back bumped into the wall behind her. Eyes and mouth both wider with fright, she whimpered.
"Say you now, child," said Nimue in a voice that suddenly rang off the concrete and swirled around the girls like ritual robes, "if the price for the magick thou seekest to wield shall be paid and the deed it buys shall be done. Say you now!"
"Please!" Amber all but screamed. "We didn't know. We didn't mean it. Make it go away! Please make it stop!"
Nimue deliberately ignored everything but Carol. "Your spell, Carol. Your call. Yes or no?"
As if to prompt an answer, the panther again rumbled low in its throat. It crouched, settling back legs beneath it in preparation to spring. Carol threw her arms in front of her face, sobbing and babbling incoherently. As rubbery legs gave way and she slid down the wall, one word made it through intelligibly. "No."
Nimue smiled to herself and uttered a short gutteral phrase. From one eyeblink to the next, the panther was gone and the kitten was back. Crossing to it, Nimue bent down and picked it up, cuddling it for a moment before tucking it safely into the deep pocket of her jacket. Amber and Shelley both rushed to where Carol slumped, her back still to the wall.
Nimue gave them some time to recover before saying, "You three know I should call the cops, don't you? Or at least mall security?"
"Yes, ma'am," they replied in perfect unison.
"I'm going to do neither, if . . ." she let it hang for the space of three heartbeats, "you agree to the following conditions. First, that you clean up this mess."
"Clean up. Yes, ma'am."
No one moved until Nimue raised one eyebrow. "I meant now."
"Oh!"
The older woman watched as they scrambled to comply like a trio of hyperactive Merry Maids. When blowing out the last candle plunged the room into total darkness, Nimue conjured pale blue light among the exposed conduits and pipes in the ceiling. So intent were the three on completing the first condition that none of them commented on it. They hardly seemed to notice. Eventually, every piece of paper, every pedestal and pillar, and every candle had been piled in the center of the room with the champagne bucket.
The spray-painted symbols on walls and floor were another matter, vigorous effort with various potions from their purses—nail polish remover, styling gel, pre-moistened toner towlettes, age-defying moisturizers—notwithstanding. Shelley turned frightened eyes toward Nimue. "They won't come off," she whispered.
"I'll take care of it." Raising her arms to shoulder-height, she began turning slowly around in place. Pseudo-arcane graffiti evaporated from every surface, as did the pile of props on the floor.
Once more, three young voices uttered, reverently and in perfect unison, "Wow."
"Well done, ladies. Now, the second condition for my not turning you over to the authorities is this: that you each, individually, swear that you will never, ever, try to do anything like this again. Who wants to go first?"
Amber, by virtue of being shoved forward by her companions, volunteered. The glare she shot at the two changed to a look of apprehension as she found Nimue looking at her intently. "Will . . . will this involve blood?" she asked, voice shaking.
"No blood. Just your word. Now, what's your full name?"
The girl looked puzzled. "Amber Aimes."
"Your full name."
The girl looked even more puzzled. "Oh! Amber Katherine Aimes."
"Very good. Hold out your right hand, palm up, and listen very, very carefully." Nimue placed her own right hand over Amber's until the two palms almost touched. "Do you, Amber Katherine Aimes, before this company seen and unseen, pledge solemn oath by name and word, life and power, that you will not, from this hour to the ending of your days, seek the use of magick in bringing to harm any living being, regardless of provocation?"
"I . . . yeah . . . I . . . do?"
Nimue leaned forward and whispered, "As is my will, so mote it be."
Amber nodded and squared her thin shoulders. "As is my will, so mote it be."
As the last syllable sounded, brilliant silver light flashed from between the palms of the outstretched hands. "Awesome," breathed Amber.
Shelley found herself pushed into being next, and the process played out again, up to and including the flash of light. Then it was Carol's turn. "How will you know if we break our promise?"
Nimue said nothing for a long moment as her eyes caught those of the girls, each in turn. "Not 'promise.' Oath. And I'll know."
They all swallowed hard. They believed her . . . oh, indeed, they believed her.
"Now for the third condition. You will show me how you got in here."
Nimue followed as the girls went out the back door of the defunct shop, turned left into the tunnel, went less than twenty-five feet to the end, and exited the building through an unmarked service door. And, blessed be, she wouldn't have to hike to the other side of the mall to get to her car; they'd come out near the same entrance she'd come in originally. She could almost read her "Something Wiccan This Way Comes" bumper sticker from where she stood.
She turned and found the girls waiting for her to speak. "Thank you, ladies. There's one last condition. You will each go straight home, and spend the next few days thinking about how close you came to making a very big mistake."
"Yes, ma'am," they all replied before starting to leave.
They'd gone a few steps when Carol turned. "What about my kitten?"
Nimue gently patted her pocket. "He's found a new home. But I do have one more question for you. Why Hecate?"
The three girls looked at each other. "We learned it from a really powerful witch who called on Hecate all the time to do really amazing stuff. You know . . . Willow. On Buffy."
I should have known, Nimue thought. Then she remembered one of her favorite lines: "Any girl with a period and a spice rack . . ."