Standing in the tiny back room of the witch’s spellshop, I’m feeling mildly claustrophobic, what with the shelves piled with unsteady stacks of cards, bottles, herbs, unidentifiable boxes, some leaking, and a plethora of candles. The competing scents are giving me a headache.
Scarlett huddles on the only chair, her torn t-shirt pulled down to show the long cut on her shoulder. Her wee beast is sitting next to her on the counter, pointedly grooming her filthy fur, making it clear how much she’s been inconvenienced.
“It looks like the bleeding’s stopped, that’s good,” the witch says, glaring at me as she opens a very well-stocked first aid kit. “That cut on your hand looks worse than it is, you won’t need stitches. The shoulder, though…”
She snaps on latex gloves, cleaning Scarlett’s wound with a deft touch. “I’m gonna be really careful, okay?”
Her face is filthy and all that long burgundy hair is ratted into something that looks like a badger’s den, even so, Scarlett is beautiful, blue eyes soft and warm as she looks at her friend. “I know. Thanks.”
The witch gives her a shot of Lidocaine and directs her gaze at me, eyes narrowed, as she waits for the wound to get numb enough to stitch.
“So, I’m guessing this is Pyro McAsshole?”
I consider if it’s time to go.
No.
Something’s keeping me here. Something compelled me after dragging this poor lass out of the fire and bringing her with me. I’m not leaving, just yet.
“How do you know about the fire?” Scarlett asks, wincing only slightly as the witch puts in the first stitch.
“Please. This dumb shit set up a bonfire so big you could see it from space.” Another careful, tidy stitch. “Then the pair of you come stumbling into my shop smelling like you just crawled out of hell? It doesn’t take much to put two and two together.”
She gives me another menacing glance before returning her attention to Scarlett’s arm. “Please tell me he torched the office building and not the cannabis warehouses. Do you know how much of that shit I buy for my tinctures?”
“You’re in luck then,” Scarlett says bitterly, “just the offices. Given that the Wicked Stepmother ruined the building with that hideous remodel, it’s not like we’re losing much.”
The witch grins, and her entire face transforms into something rapturous. “Oh, man. Do you realize how pissed off Marlena’s going to be? This is gonna give her an aneurysm!” She throws back her head, giving a proper cackle as Scarlett joins in.
“Stop making me laugh,” Scarlett wheezes, “you’re hurting my arm.”
“Well, the good news is, your arm isn’t broken.” The witch carefully traces her long, spidery fingers over the limb in question. “I don’t need an x-ray to show that. You said you fell out of the second story?”
“We exploded out the second story window,” Scarlett corrects her. “I would have died in there if he…” she looks over her shoulder at me. “Whoeverheis hadn’t saved me.”
“Yeah, and you wouldn’t have been in that position if he didn’t set the fire,” the witch snaps. “Right, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Reeking of Brimstone?”
“More about her arm,” I deflect, “do you think it’s a sprain? Are you sure it’s not broken?”
“See the swelling here?” Her pointy fingernails trace Scarlett’s swollen arm. “I bet she dislocated her elbow when she hit the dirt and then put it back in when she rolled over. Does that sound right, honey?”
“I did not land the way he told me to,” she admits. “Though in my defense it was the first time I’ve been, you know, exploded out a window.”
Someone knocks on the front door, I can hear their plaintive whine from here. “Mistress Morgan? Why are you closed early? Did you forget my appointment?”
“You’re a dominatrix in your spare time?” I ask.
“You look like a bottom,” she sneers, “but no. Both of you keep quiet and I’ll chase Charles off.”
She parts the velvet curtains separating our area from the front of the shop, striding majesticallyto the door. As the velvet falls back in place, I murmur, “Oh, yeah. She’s a domme.”
“She is not!” Scarlett hisses, putting her finger to her lips.
The front door slams, the bell ringing cheerfully and the witch is back, pulling an ice pack out of the little fridge that is wedged next to a full-sized human skeleton and a pile of burlap sacks.
“Keep this on the swollen part,” she says, wrapping the ice pack in a little embroidered towel that reads,You say Witch like it’s a bad thing.
“Thank you for your help,” I say, helping Scarlett up. “It’s time for us to go.”
