“The old…” he said in a clear, sonorous baritone, drawing the words out… then, when he finally ended the word, he paused before diving right in with gusto. “…gray mare just ain’t what she used to be…”
I blinked, blinked again. What was it with demons and cheesy old songs? Did all their spellwork require it, or just the stuff demons had done in Ordinary?
He stopped. “Bad key? I took you for an alto, what with your…um…rather manly dressing style.”
“Nice stereotyping, jerk.”
He grinned, and happiness just radiated off of him. He was having a grand old time. “Soprano? Or shall I slow it down a bit? You do know the words don’t you? Should I write them down?”
I glared at him and bit at the inside of my cheek. Yes, I was trapped by a demon, and yes, I was the unwilling participant of a spell of unknown outcome. But there was something ridiculous enough about this, that I no longer feared this man, this creature.
There was enough give and take—sort of like an arm-wrestling match—that I knew once this spell was done, I was going to over-the-top this guy and seize control.
“I’ll carry the melody. Feel free to jump in with a hum, a harmony, a grace note. You are invited to add your own voice to the spell.”
I clamped my lips shut and raised one eyebrow in a “dare me” pose.
He grinned again. “Yes, well.” He shook out his hands, stretched his fingers. “Here we go again. And…”
“The old gray mare…” He turned his hands upside down so his fingers were cupping mine. My hands curled into the correct position without my will.
I knew this hand-clap game. Had played it with my sisters for years, though we sang the “Say say oh playmate” words to it. Our mother taught it to me, and I’d taught it to Myra and Jean. The only magic it had ever carried was fun and silliness.
I’d never thought it’d be a part of a demon spell.
“Just ain’t what she used to be.” He went through the claps—the cross hand-to-hand, the back hands, palms together claps.
“Ain’t what she used to be…ain’t what she used to be…”
He had a good voice, robust and happy. When our hands touched, he was gentle, so gentle even a toddler would be having fun.
Except I was not having fun. I hated that my hands were nothing but puppets on strings for him.
I was stuck doing a spelled up version of Paddy Cake over a supernatural table setting, but I was ready to pounce the first chance I got to interrupt or stop the spell.
The only problem was, words and sounds were a part of this particular spell. I didn’t want to say or do something that would cause the spell to be even worse. To cause something really bad.
Like an exploding nebula.
“The old gray mare she kicked on the whiffletree…”
He was really getting his opera on, so it was no wonder he missed the scratch of a hand at the front door, the subtle rattle of the lock.
It took everything I had not to look at the door.
“Kicked on the whiffletree…”
The door jiggled again. I heard a hard, frustrated exhale.
The demon focused on our hands, executing the last little bit in slow, slower, slowest motion.
“Many long…”
Clap
“…years…”
Clap
