“I remember that… but then something happened. I hurt you, butyou are apologizing for things you think I cannot know.” Ellie sighed. “Why can’t you just break the rules? I don’t see why that’s such a big…” Her words died. “You did break rules. Or I did?”
“Both.”
“What rules?” Ellie pressed. “List all of Crenshaw’s rules.”
“Not likely.” Prospero shook her head before motioning toward a shop that had neither sign nor display window. “Come with me. Be as scary as you’d like in here. Remind us both of how frightening you can be.”
Intrigued, Ellie tucked her unanswered questions away and accompanied her wife toward the blackened building a block or so away from where they’d stood. Ellie’s heart quickened at the menacing energy now radiating from Prospero.
And it clearly wasn’t just Ellie who noticed the shift. Anyone even tangentially in her path moved, as if there were an invisible cloud around Prospero that rolled out as she walked.
Ellie followed her at a slower pace, enjoying the look of her wife when she was being particularly frightening. Some people just had that menacing vibe to them. It wasn’t about size or muscle, she’d realized, but about the willingness to cross lines. Ellie had a stray thought that this was a thing that they shared, but that made little sense. She was simply a quiet librarian who sometimes made snakes in the forest to protect her home.
And threatened to confront the chief witch a few minutes ago.
That was a bluff,she tried to lie to herself.
It was not,the wicked part of Ellie’s mind argued.
Ellie stopped arguing with herself and turned her attention back to the now as Prospero spread her fingers and placed her hand on a darker section of the door. It wasn’t knocking, but Ellie was sure that it was the equivalent of that.
“Welcome to Crenshaw’s underground,” Prospero whispered. “Just so you know, I’ve only ever brought Scylla here.”
“Look at you, being all romantic,” Ellie teased.
“Not exactly,” Prospero muttered.
A moment later, the door opened.
Inside was the youngest person Ellie had seen in Crenshaw. He was sprawled atop a veritable tower of pillows. He looked like he was maybe twenty years old, but it was hard to be certain with how skeletal he was. His arms and legs reminded her of an arachnid, skinnier than they ought to be to support a body—even one that looked like dried husks. His eyes were the most unsettling part of him. The sclera wasn’t white like it ought to be. Instead, there were so many red lines that his eyes looked pink around a bright-blue pupil.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have, Prospy! A special trip to meet little ol’ me?” the boy rasped. “I’d have met your lady love sooner or later if—”
“Enough, Howie.” Prospero didn’t step in front of Ellie, like she typically did when she was feeling protective. She walked deeper into the den-like space. “I need a few things.”
“You do?” He pushed upward, so he was more or less sitting upright rather than flopped on his tower of pillows. “You never need things anymore.”
“Today, I do.”
He gave them an oily grin. “A little love potion?” He made a thrusting gesture with two extended fingers into his other hand.
Ellie gave him a dismissive look. “Howie, is it? If you think she needs a potion to satisfy a woman, you’re sadly mistaken.” She lowered her voice as if confessing a secret and added, “The best part of being with a woman is that a person never has to worry about being unsatisfied. With aman,though…” She shuddered exaggeratedly before glancing at her wife. “Can you imagine the horror?”
Prospero’s expression was unchanged. Dryly she said, “We all have our nightmares, love.”
And the spiderlike young man burst into cackles that were better suited for horror movies than anywhere else Ellie could imagine. “Your wife’s funny, Prospy.”
“I am aware of what she is.” Prospero crinkled her nose as she looked around the odd den. “You do remember our talk.”
“Sure do.” Howie slid down his mountain of funky pillows, scattering a few sequins and a tassel in the process. “Haven’t sold to anyone on your list of no-nos.” He gave an exaggerated nod. “Only a few sleepy stones to the average witches. No weapons to the Bad Guys.”
Ellie could hear the uppercase letters in that last term. “The New Economists?”
Howie side-eyed her. “They’re the Bad Guys. Heard that one of ’em got a gun from the outside.”
“How?” Ellie asked without thinking.
“Information isn’t free, Sexy.”
