Calling the Shots

I prefer my first meeting with a client to take place in my conference room with the fantastic view of both ocean and mountain. I pay an obscene amount of money for the space, and it pays me back by distracting people long enough for me to pitch them before they can tell me exactly what they want. The convolutions and permutations that cause people to desire something simply because they saw it presented a particular way, at a particular time, or in a particular place is like alchemy, and if I can prevent my clients from giving me the formula for lead, I can usually turn their products to gold.

Unfortunately, Gloriana Llewellyn (her real name; I checked) had insisted our introduction take place at a coffee shop in a rundown part of the city. I’d have passed on the invitation, but I couldn’t let such a big – and interesting – fish get away. Whether she hired me or not, meeting her would be a win in my book. For someone who had rocked the fashion and business worlds simultaneously, she was incredibly reclusive. No one outside of her staff had ever met her in person.

The scent of perfectly roasted coffee reminded me that my own complex brew system had sputtered and failed. The aroma of cinnamon and sugar made me crave whatever contained them, though I’m not usually a sweets guy. Those twin desires pulled me to the counter before I even looked around for my potential client.

“Happy Yule!” The barista had her back to me, red and white ribbons turning her curlicue braid into a candy cane. She pulled shots with glee, gestured to the lucky recipients, then approached me with a smile that would have made a younger man’s knees weak.

Oh, who am I kidding? Despite the reindeer antler headband and Christmas moose sweater, she was a knockout. I was instantly smitten. That hadn’t happened in a long time. Seemed like a gift in and of itself, albeit one she would never realize she’d given.

“What do you want today?” she asked.

For some reason, everything I truly wanted tried to escape my mouth at once, resulting in me stammering the way I had as a kid. She didn’t rush me, and her smile never wavered.

I took a breath, smiled back at her, and said “Espresso, please.” I glanced at her nametag and burst out laughing, certain her name was not really Possum.

“Find a table. I’ll bring it over to you.” Her voice was smooth and dark, the way melted chocolate felt.

I shook my head, wondering when my inner poet had escaped, and turned to find a spot that would be relatively quiet so I could go over my notes on the mysterious Ms. Llewellyn. In an age of instant fame and digital surveillance, it seemed impossible that she could have remained anonymous. It was also the best marketing gimmick imaginable.

Possum brought me coffee and the cinnamon roll I’d forgotten to order. She put a tiny candy cane on the edge of the saucer. “That’s for later, for memories and dreams.”

Her words opened a flood in my mind – all the dreams I’d set aside to climb to the top of my career, all the memories of loves who had left because my focus was elsewhere. I choked on my coffee.

Possum patted my back, soothing my turmoil.

What have you done to me? I blushed when I realized I’d spoken aloud.

She sat down across from me.

“I’m expecting someone. A business meeting.”

“I know. As for what I’ve done, I must apologize. I needed to see what sort of man you were before I decided whether your words would be worth hearing.”

I blinked owlishly. “You’re Gloriana Llewellyn.”

She inclined her head as a queen might. “Indeed. I was only playing Possum.”

I groaned at the pun, causing her to laugh – like tiny bells ringing – which made me laugh, too.

When we managed to get a hold of ourselves, she wiped the tears from her eyes and said, “I think you’ll do nicely, Mr. Farenthold.”

For the first time in ages, I wanted to be nice, as well.

Writhe

Town biddies mutter “Inappropriate!” but menfolk and curious women pay them no mind. The audience is full, drinking, smoking – bans circumvented by promises – waiting to see live that only glimpsed in pictures.

Snake dancing fell out of favor, ages gone, but myth cannot be fully erased. And there is always the draw of burlesque. People trade much to view shimmying flesh, embrace carnal desire and fantasy of touching the forbidden.

Weaving through tables, iridescent serpents sliding over pebbled skin, I find my target. Such a pretty boy, it saddens me to ruin him, but we are all so very hungry.

Forward

Salem. Not a nickname I cared for, but Nate had called me worse.

I opened my laptop, popped in a thumb-drive, and pulled up the scanned copy of my mother’s grimoire. The book was safely stored elsewhere, too precious to go about with a pair of reckless men intent on finding things that might kill us. Besides, that tome has a tendency to compel me to do things that would traumatize Nate. He might be an ass, but I love him.

Headlamps illuminated the road. Engine thrummed. Nate stared into the distance, pretending he didn’t know I was memorizing spells.

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Target Acquired

By Colleen Foley

I’d nearly broken my thumb on Seth’s jaw and I was pissed about him using my blood again. But silently fuming wasn’t productive.

“OK Salem, help me out. There was a webpage and a loom, some ugly-ass music, and now we’re gonna kill something. What I don’t know is where that something is. Do you? ”

His grin was merciless.

“I do. I traced the IP address of the website. We’re going to a new age shop called The Brightest Lamp, in Detroit.”

Punching him again would result only in a pair of nearly broken thumbs.

I kept driving.

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Ricochet

Pain erupted, a porcupine kiss blossoming across my jaw. Nate’s second blow didn’t land, and it took all his skill to maintain control of the car, as energy directed at me jammed into him instead.

“What the fuck was that?” he snarled.

“Self-defense. Probably best if you don’t hit me again.”

“I had good reason.”

“So did I. To disentangle you from the spell weaving, I needed a blood connection. I know you hate it, but I’ve seen you possessed before. I would fight through seven hells to prevent that from happening again.”

Mollified, he nodded. “Let’s go kill something.”

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Thick as a Brick

No sleep, fast food, and the smell of industrial cleaner Nate had employed on the previously blood-spattered dashboard had me hating the car’s interior. Classic rock tapes – the legacy of his misspent youth in constant rotation – were not helping.

“It occurs to me you’re a lot stronger now,” Nate said casually.

I twitched like a mouse mid-field with a hawk dropping fast. “Little bit, yeah.”

“Did you take my blood from the car?”

“No.”

“So the smear on your fingers was from when I was out.”

I always forget how well he can punch and drive at the same time.

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Same Old Song and Dance

by Colleen Foley

Coming back had been …turbulent, at best. The music had changed on the way down, from piano to something like a wheezy organ. It played the same phrase over and again, like a tape loop. There’d been a voice beneath it, shouting like a carnival hawker, and it had pissed me off.

I forgot to tell Seth about it when he mentioned that someone was trying to kill us.

“Oh goody, something new and different for us."

He hauled me off the floor, shrugging in resignation. “Don’t look now, Nate, but I’m beginning to think that’s our legacy. Let’s go.”

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Tug of War

Nate arched, then slumped. I glanced at the loom – a dull outline, white background – before checking his pulse. Slow but steady, like the times he’d vegetate after a bender, eyes half-closed, mouth half-open.

“Forgive my trespass,” I murmured, squeezing one of many scrapes for the barest drop of his blood, so I could see what he had.

And hear it. Not piano, cheap organ. The spell pulled at me. I pulled back. Hard. The image faded, too late for the caster.

I snapped Nate’s tether, waking him.

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Hit Between The Eyes

by Colleen Foley

I glared at Seth, then at the webpage. An image of a stone loom, glowing with blue symbols, sitting under a wooden arch was both cool and supremely disturbing. Soothing yet weird and ugly piano music began issuing from the laptop’s speakers. Seth either didn't hear or notice, but I felt it drain me like a leech, intellect and will slipping away.

"Nate, what's wrong with you?"

I figured I had half a minute before slipping into a vegetative state. I slid to my knees.

"You can't feel that? Lucky you, bro. Must be your magic. That thing's active."
Then...nothing.

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The Rout of the Season

Daniel in exquisite style –
cut coat, silk vest, breeches mama called
unseemly –
reaches out an elegant hand,
never soft,
always ready,
a blatant invitation
to dance.

Palm down, chin up –
I know what they said of me,
vowed to embrace it –
my fingers brush his
with memory and promise
as I glide,
the height of fashion,
the envy of glassy-eyed ladies,
in a decadent waltz.

Musicians tremble
as we slowly promenade
past the fine, down-slumping citizens
who failed to recognize
the cost of a social slight.

We allow the orchestra to flee,
then bar the doors
and contemplate
the remaining few.

Tit for Tat

“Exquisite,” the politician had whispered, hand trailing down my sweat-slicked flank.

I’d said the same of his cocaine, ignoring his slow slide to the floor. He’d had too much – wine, powder, me. I’d dressed, stepped over his body, and left, assured the hotel cameras were disabled.

“So,” Belial asked, “which of those poisoned him?”

I smiled at the fallen angel. “Trade secrets.”

“You’ve no honor left to cloak yourself in such conceit.”

“Want me to dial up Satan? What would that cost you? Better to just give me my promised reward.”

He paled, then began my transformation into addiction-free addict.

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Finding the Up Side

The novelty of being honest with my brother held. “Yes, I can read my mother’s grimoire.”

Nate swore a blue streak.

I contemplated breaking the rest of the news, but at a certain point, truth becomes a death wish. I couldn’t tell him an army of witches saw lines being drawn and decided to form up behind me – unless I wanted him to shoot me. Not even my magic can stop a bullet.

“You should be glad.”

He choked.

I turned the laptop to show him the loom symbol. “Turns out a spell to focus intent works with any technology.”

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Whip Smart

I settled on telling Nate the truth, or some stripe of it. “You recall me stepping on ley lines?”

“I was busy being possessed at the time, but yeah.”

“It strengthened my magic, a little too much. I couldn’t always control the surges.”

His look was as flat as psych ward monitors, recording but revealing nothing.

“I found a woman who knew my mother.” And twelve more. “It took a while, but I’m fine now.”

It was best he not know of the coven’s belief I was their prophesied savior.

“Did it involve deciphering your mother’s spellbook?”

He remembered. Damn.

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Testing the Faith

By Colleen Foley

Belief is a strange thing. I never wanted to believe in monsters. I have always needed to believe in my brother. And now I wasn’t sure I should. I was about to find out.

Seth sat at the rickety card table in what passed for the kitchenette of our hotel room, his face bathed in light from the laptop monitor and the hotel’s horrific red and green striped neon sign, blinking just outside the window.

Between all that and his shorn head, I barely recognized him. That seemed both appropriate and horrifying.

“So Salem, about that new mojo of yours.”

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Square One

Nate frowned. “Does the loom symbol mean anything to you?”

I shook my head. “There’s a motel down the road. Let’s get you settled with drugs for your head. I’ll do research.”

“So, you hunt me down like a beast with a scent, and figure everything’s back to normal?”

“I thought you’d be done sulking. It’s not like I had it any easier than you on our last…adventure.”

He glared. “Fine, but you’ll tell me how you ended up with enough mojo to deflect whatever that was on the road.”

I had twenty miles to figure out a decent lie.

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A Work In Progress

[or what Nate did on his time off]

By Colleen Foley

Kaia was not sated. But for now I was sweaty, bloody, and on my knees before her.

Her chocolate silk accent washed over me like balm, soothing welts on my back and mind.

“You, Nate, are but one thread on a loom. Every thread that interweaves with yours touches your life in some way. Your brother, your uncle, friends long dead and even people and …things you have yet to meet. Some of that tale can be seen by such a one as me. The tapestry you are weaving is dark, indeed.

She gestured to the dish of food.

“Eat.”

Slow Your Roll

By Colleen Foley

The next small town boasted only six streets, but it had a garage and a diner. The mechanic checked the dents in my bumper.

“1970 Dodge Charger. Four door! They got popular again after them Vin Diesel movies come out. Now, tell yer tale. What happened?”

Seth explained, leaving out the weirdness.

“So….you Tokyo drifted into a snow bank?”

One dirty look and two hundred dollars later, we were sitting in the Deep Dish Diner.

“Listen, Nate. Right before the crash, a small patch of frost formed on the windshield…some weird symbol. Looked like cloth on a loom”.

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Dark Son Rising

[or what Seth did on his time off]

She knelt, head down, pink hair falling to brush the cold stone floor. If asked, she would spin a tale about trying to help me or not understanding what the symbols woven into the fabric meant. She would beg me to destroy the loom as proof of her fealty.

I hadn’t given her leave to speak.

Herbs added to the dish sent smoke curling heavenward. She looked up, eyes widening at the scent.

“Now,” I said, “who am I?”

“First of Many,” she whispered.

“And?”

“I am yours to command.”

“Not yet.”

She shook. “But soon.”

“Yes. So, please me.”

Opening Gambit

Nate wrenched the door open, lunatic glint in his eye.

I held him back. “I should drive.”

“No dice.”

“Then let me clean your wound, so it doesn’t blind you.”

I knew that would do the trick. He flinched at the idea of me handling his blood. I wouldn’t keep it without asking, but he’d never trust me not to. That might have stung, once, but blood is power, especially in the hands of a witch. He’d seen my creations.

He packed a snowball, wrapped it in an old shirt – mine, of course – and climbed into the back seat, grumbling.

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Stone Cold Sober

by Colleen Foley

I staggered a bit as I followed Seth to the edge of the road.

“The lunatic who did this is so gonna die.”

“Wasn’t a person, Nate. It was a thought form, a magical creation. It was never alive, really, and it’s gone now. But we have to go.”

“What? I can’t even…wait, go where? Dude, look at my car!”

“The car will start. I promise. Look, this was a dice roll. Whoever did it hoped to catch us off guard and I screwed them on it. Someone’s out for us. We have to keep moving.”

Son of a bitch.

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