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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Following Orders

According to his lingering perusal, the politician liked my figure. I cast a baleful glare at the damned angel behind me. His master had slipped away, unnaturally. If you want the Number of the Beast, it’s on my phone, but you won’t like it when he answers.

The rich always have excellent drugs. I lured the politician to his room by making him think it was his idea – and that he’d get into my non-existent panties.

It took so little to help him overdose, I almost felt bad, but a job is a job, and I can’t quit this one.

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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.”

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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Cold and Broken

Habit had part of my brain assessing the wreck. The rest contemplated what could fling a ton of metal around like a toy. Identification was key to survival.

So was warmth. I pulled on fur-lined gloves, a wicked indulgence, and cursed my newly shorn head.

The magic was old, powerful, laced with pain. It hadn’t been personal, though. I could sense when someone was using bits of me in spells, knowledge that had come with guaranteed damnation. But that was always a given.

Nate emerged, creaking like his car. “Whatever did this is dead.”

“Yes,” I said, “it probably is.”

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What next?

by Colleen Foley

“Nate. Nate!”

I opened my eyes, caught sight of the windshield. It was shattered, the jagged edges furred with blood and snow.

“Shit. What…did we hit something?”

I tried turning the key. Nothing. Seth was already shrugging out of his seatbelt .

“No, something tried to hit us. Something not physical. And please don’t wish me into eternal damnation, but I spelled us out of its way, which is the only reason we’re not dead. Also, I’m really, really, sorry about your car. I’ll be right back.”

With that, he got out of the car and headed toward the road.

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Spinning Out

The car whipped around like a baton wielded by a meth-fueled majorette. Scenery blurred into dizzying swaths of white and gray. I cast fast and dirty, knowing even if I could get the spell off, it wouldn’t be enough.

Nate screamed his rage as the wheel tore out of his hands. His head bounced off the window, but he still scrabbled to regain control.

Spitting magic, trusting words and order to ritual memory, body jumbled and tossed, my spell ended with a cry as we slammed into a snowbank.

The interior was speckled with frost and blood. Nate wasn’t moving.

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Wheel of Fortune

 by Colleen Foley

Seth blinked twice and shot me a look that could’ve frosted the windows.

“How…does…she…know?”

“I don’t know, it was weird. She was reading tarot cards. Turned over, what was it? The six of batons. Then she spouted some poetry. Insecurity brings the storm. Cry in fear…HE is awoken.”

I sighed before continuing.

“Then she screamed, said it was your father, and passed out. Took her two bloody hours to come around . I don’t know, man, but add it to the list of freaky shit we gotta deal with.”

Like we'd summoned doom, the car swerved, spun out, struck, died.

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Old Wounds

Having exhausted theories on weather manipulation, we fell silent. Music crackled through old speakers, as if the scratchiness was required of these songs, digital technology be damned.

“This was old when our parents were young,” I complained.

“Yeah? When exactly was your dad young? We never did sort that out.” Nate’s anger could have blistered paint.

“I don’t know. You want to help me find him, so we can ask? Because last time, he ripped your chest open. Twice.”

“And you claimed you killed him.”

“Still harping on that? I buried his bloody corpse.”

“Death didn’t stick. Kaia confirmed it.”

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Set in Stone (1)

A Katherine Kavanaugh Story

Chapter 1

Friday night, the bar was full of men in business suits pretending they wanted to hang out with each other while constantly scanning the room for a woman who might be willing to bang them then take a taxi home. As if such a creature exists outside the fantasies of twenty-something douchebags. The drinks were two for one for ladies, which explained the groups of them clustered about, fully aware of the Neanderthal urges of the suits, and generally disinclined to play, but willing to get drunk on someone else’s dime. I didn’t blame them. The deck is stacked against women, for the most part. Might as well get free drinks with your inevitable harassment.

                I wasn’t looking for the same sort of deal as the button-down types, but I can’t say my motives were any better.  See, I steal stories right out of people’s mouths, twist them around a bit, stew them in a thin plot and season with salacious details. Then I pawn them off as original works of art. No one ever calls me on it, partly because there’s fuck-all they can do, but mostly because the sorts of things you tell a strange guy in a bar aren’t the kind of tales you want to repeat in front of God and everyone. Besides, it’s almost impossible to make a living as a writer, even a good one, which I’ve never claimed to be, so we’re hardly worth suing over a few pilfered memories.

                The girl I wanted sat in the corner, nursing a mixed drink that looked more serious than fruity, not toying with her straw or eating cherries, and not accepting any drinks sent to her by various men. I’m sure they were all disappointed, since this girl reeked of money without trying. Her chocolate brown sweater revealed nothing, if you didn’t recognize cashmere or the silk collar of the shirt barely peeking out. Her pearls were real and perfectly matched, but not overwhelming in size or volume. The slacks she wore were off the rack, but the shoes might as well have been dipped in gold. That didn’t stop her from wrapping her feet in the rung of the bar stool. She couldn’t quite manage a slump, though she was trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. Not easy, considering her hair shone like a damned shampoo commercial. Her make-up was precise, understated, and completely unnecessary. That sort of presentation is learned from birth. People like her had no place being in a bar like this, even though it tried so hard to be upscale. Yet there she was.

                I waited until the pretty little round girl, wearing a skirt two inches shorter than a whore would consider proper, hopped off the stool next to Rich Girl and teetered toward the bathroom on unsteady heels. I nudged the schlub in front of me and told him that plump little bird looked promising. He followed, probably because I didn't reveal that signs pointed to the tart being a mafia baby, too.  Did I mention I’m not a nice guy?

Still, you never know. They could fall in love, run away from the lives they’d envisioned, and live happily ever after, despite coming from different worlds and having nothing in common. What? It could happen. And you could win the lottery, too. Go buy a ticket. You never know.

Rich Girl didn’t look at me when I sat down, which might have hurt my feelings once upon a time, but probably not. I didn’t look at her, either. That, she found surprising. I suppressed a smile at how easily some people are caught. Good thing all I wanted was her stories. I was betting she’d have doozies, maybe even some with names worth dropping. I could branch out to tell-alls if the angle was right.

“Bourbon, neat,” I said when the bartender looked my way, “and whatever she’s having, give her another.” I still didn’t turn my head.

“I don’t…” Rich Girl protested.

“Care,” I finished for her. “I know. I don’t actually give a damn if you drink it, either.”

“Then why buy it for me?”

“Because I may be the only guy in this bar who has zero interest in fucking you, with the possible exception of that ponce in the corner. He needs a better tailor if he’s going to get one of these jokers to hop the fence – or admit to being on his team.”

                “That’s a shallow assessment,” she sniffed.

                “But accurate. Appearances are bait in a place like this, which makes me wonder why you stopped in, when you’ve made it obvious you aren’t fishing.”

                “And yet, here you are, trying to get all friendly with me while feeding me bullshit lines about how you wouldn’t have sex with me if I offered.” She took the drink I’d bought her.

                “Never said that, love.” I gave her a tiny smile. “What I said was that I don’t want to fuck you, which I don’t. Seems to me that would be a waste of time and effort on both our parts, seeing as how it wouldn’t satisfy in the least. A woman like you deserves more than that.”

                “I suppose you think you’re the one to give it to me,” she scoffed.

                “Not at all. I’m not right for you. I’m too rough – unpolished, if you will – too blunt and honest. You want someone who can give you smooth lies and smooth rides on expensive sheets and reward you with a pretty sports car at Christmastime.”

                She shook her head. “You got all that from sitting down next to me?”

                “No, I got that from observing you from across the room, which is admittedly a bit creepy but one of the hazards of my trade.” I looked over at her. “The bag is Prada, but not the latest. You’ve had it for a while and you carry it because you like it, not because you give a shit about the name. You have a diamond ring on your finger, but it’s not yours. I’m going to guess it belonged to your mum, or maybe it’s been in the family longer. You got a manicure earlier in the week, and you threw on a pedicure at the last minute.”

                “Yep, that qualifies as creepy.”

                “It’s a curse. I have an eidetic memory, and I spent way too many hours in hospital waiting rooms reading fashion magazines and staring at people who were also marking time until someone they loved died. So don’t take it personally, peach. My ability to catalog your life through sartorial choices is just a party trick.”

                She lifted her glass to me. “Then it’s a pretty damned good one. Thanks for showing it to me.” She started to gather up her things.

                “Don’t leave in a snit. I’ll stop telling you about yourself and leave you to drink away your guilt over… whatever it is.”

                “I’m going to regret asking this, but what makes you think I’m feeling guilty?”

                “Because it’s true. I can practically smell it on you. You picked this bar because you’re unlikely to run into anyone you know. They either frequent classier joints or grubbier ones, the latter being the prowling grounds of your friends from university. For some reason, you don’t want to hang out with either crowd, and that, my girl, is very interesting indeed.”

                “What difference does it make to you?”

                “Personally? None at all. But I’m going to be completely honest with you. I think you have a story you want to tell someone, and you can’t bring yourself to tell it to anyone you already know. So, why not unburden your soul to a total stranger with a slightly appealing accent and nothing better to do with the next several hours than listen to your confession?”

                “You are very strange,” she said into her glass.  I liked the way it modified her voice.

                “True.”

                “You’re lonely, too.” It was cute when they tried to play my game.

                “On occasion, but we’ve established that you don’t care, and I’m not your type.”

                She raised perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Did we, or did you  make random guesses, despite knowing nothing about me?”

                “Fair enough. Was I wrong about most of it?”

                She laughed. “Not entirely. You totally hit the mark about this place being a mistake.”

                I waited. It couldn’t be this easy to get her out of the increasingly loud bar.

                It was.

                “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, so before I drink more and start to find you charming, let’s get some dinner.”

                “Aren’t you worried about going somewhere with a strange, irritating man you don’t know?” I asked.

                She held out her hand. “Katherine Kavanaugh. And you are?”

                Buggered. I shoved that thought aside and kissed the back of her hand. “Michael Stone.”

                “Well, Michael Stone who knows everything with a glance, let’s get out of here.”

                “You sure? I could be some mad, creepy stalker.”

                She gave me a dazzling smile and patted her bag. “And I could have a nine millimeter Glock in my purse with an extra clip in case you get really frisky. You never know.”

                She slapped a fifty on the bar and led the way out, the sea of inadequate men parting before her and one poor sod trailing behind, wondering if maybe this time, I'd made a mistake.

Ignorance Is Bliss

by Colleen Foley

I wasn’t ready to be spending a lot of time with him yet, but I agreed with Seth that Jim asking for a thing was good enough reason to do it. The result was several hours of speculation about might be causing the “problem”.

We’d been driving in silence for a little while when something occurred to me. I casually slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and fingered the small ivory amulet nestled there. It was a parting gift from Kaia, and it was ice cold.

I pressed my lips together hard and kept driving.

Son of a bitch.

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