Page 86 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

I glance down the now empty street. Letting my magic flow through my body, I relax as the witch smoke swirls around me. The darkened street and the silent houses lining it blur and disappear, and when the smoke disappears, I’m standing in a parlour. Oil portraits of the man in question hang from every wall. A pair of thick golden candlesticks rest atop the mantelpiece above the fire, and between them is an ornate gold cross decorated with jewels.

Every surface is decorated with golden trinkets. Heavy and expensive velvet drapes hang from the windows, and plush chairs and sofas are covered with expensive silks.

Such gaudy opulence.

I curl my lips in disgust. Raising my hand towards the fireplace, I watch in satisfaction as the neatly arranged logs burst into flames, filling the distasteful room with warmth and light. As I sweep my arm across the room, the chairs, sofa, and small tables are shoved out of the way, piling up noisily at each end of the room. I don’t even bother to try and conceal what I’m doing. I want him to come down here to investigate; it’ll save me the time it takes to go looking for him and drag him to his fate. I’d rather he just walked straight into it.

Flicking my hand absently causes the thick Persian rug to skid across the floor and pile on top of the furniture, leaving a good-sized space of bare floorboards in the centre of the room.

A moment later, the door to the parlour is flung open and the man in question appears, wild-eyed and furious as he takes in first the mess of his furniture and belongings and then me. I draw my hood back and stare at him unflinchingly.

“Who the hell are you?” he roars. “How did you get in my house? If one of the no-good servants let you in, I’ll have their hide bloodied for it. Do you know who I am?”

“I know exactly who you are”—I smile coldly—“Bishop Fairchild.”

His eyes narrow. “I’ll see you before the magistrate for this, and don’t think you’ll get off lightly because you’re a woman. I’ll make sure you are punished severely.”

“That’s enough.” I make a pinching motion with my fingers.

His lips snap shut and several jagged, uneven stitches appear, piercing through his skin to hold his mouth closed. Eyes widened in panic, he reaches up with his hands to feel the thick twine, his fingertips coming away damp with his own blood, which oozes from the wounds.

“Sit.”

He thuds to his knees on the ground, as if an unseen hand has forced him down.

He’s a large man, tall and thick, with a protruding belly and fleshy jowls. Patches of unpleasant, yellow, oily scales cover his scalp beneath sparse greasy strands of hair.

A life of cruelty and excess etched is clearly on his skin. His nose is an ugly purple colour, and his cheeks are ruddy with broken veins. Blinking, his beady black eyes dart around the room nervously.

“That’s better,” I remark, and take a step back. “I’m not quite ready yet.”

Ignoring the muffled sounds coming from behind his damaged mouth, I withdraw The Book of Lala Khal from my bag.

“You know what to do,” I whisper to it. Holding it open on my flat palms, I watch as the pages fan and then stop abruptly. Glancing at the incantation on the page, I smile. “Perfect.”

The book always knows exactly what I want or need with barely a word spoken aloud. Sometimes I wonder at the connection between us. Sometimes it feels like it’s a part of me, like we’re one, and other times it seems to fight me. Still, right now it matters not. I have what I need; I may as well get started.

Taking a deep breath, I begin speaking the words on the page. I doubt the disgusting priest can understand, but I know this tongue as if born to it. After all, I listened to the servants speaking it for the first several years of my life.

Suddenly, the floor erupts in flames. Bishop Fairchild is screaming behind his sewn lips, but it’s really nothing more than a muffled yell. I wait patiently, and as the flames bank down, a perfect pentacle is revealed, burned into his polished floor.

I glance over to him as he stares at the pentagram at the heart of the circle. I’m certain he’d cross himself if he could free his arms from my restraints.

Hypocrite.

Setting the open book on the ground in front of me, I withdraw a knife with a wickedly curved blade from the pocket of my gown and glide its sharp edge across my palm. But I don’t even flinch at the sting. I’m used to pain.

Holding my hand palm up as the blood pools in my cupped hand, I turn my attention back to the pathetic bishop, trembling on the floor in his sweat-stained nightshirt.

“Any last words before we get started?”

He glares at me. Even though he’s clearly scared, his expression still retains an air of defiance. Stepping closer, I use my knife to slit the stitches so he can once again part his lips, then move back to where I had been.

“Witch!” he snarls, bloodied spittle flying from his mouth and hitting the floor. “I’ll see you hang.”

“No, you won’t,” I say calmly. “I have all the power here, and you… You will not live to see the dawn.”

“Why are you doing this? I am a man of god.”